The Witcher's Path: New Rays From an Ancient Sun

Chapters

Prologue: An Age of Moonlight, An Age of Sunlight
Chapter Four: Friends, Family, Schoolmates & Good Food Aplenty
Chapter One: Of Ancient Shrouds & Spectral Petals
Chapter Two: The Valley Under An Ancient Sun
Chapter Three: Kaer Solaris, The Wolven Keep of the Sun
Chapter Five: Young Blood in the Gauntlet
Chapter Six: Old Blood on the Pendulums
Chapter Seven: Concerning Baths & Venom
Chapter Eight: Brewing Up Death...
Chapter Nine:...All Through the Night
Chapter Ten: Midnight Voidkissed Negotiations
Chapter Eleven: Encounters at the Crosswinds
Chapter Twelve: Crosswinds Feasting
Chapter Thirteen: Within the Council Chambers
Chapter Fourteen: Testing Friendship's Limits
Chapter Fifteen: Seeking Relaxed Guidance
Chapter Sixteen: Time Grows Short
Chapter Seventeen: A Vigil By Moonlight
Chapter Eighteen: Bargaining With a Sorceress Supreme

Prologue: An Age of Moonlight, An Age of Sunlight

Author's Note

Forewarning: This Witcher story is a wholly personal twist on the general concept put forth in The Witcher series (primarily the games) mixed in abundance with ideas and inspirations I've found in other similarly medieval-fantasy works I love and adore, such as Dark Souls, RuneScape and others. All respect and rights to those brilliant minds which first created these ideas, I'm honored to be able to blend their ideas with mine to make something unique and original. I hope you all enjoy!

Prologue: An Age of Moonlight, An Age of Sunlight

It has been just over six and a half centuries since the Equestrians and their assorted conglomeration of Sentient refugees first arrived in our lands through the Rifts. And in that time, we the Eldar have seen more death, pain and destruction than I would have thought possible for our ancient world to experience. On this, the 655th year of the so-called ‘Age of the Sun’, I finally feel compelled to put into the official memoirs of our Order my own account of the history of the world, and my place within it. And not only of myself, but as well as some accounting of those who have been instrumental in shaping the world as it is now. Seeing as the Age of the Moon and events prior to the Arrival are fragmented and mostly lost to time, I will do my best in surmising the thousands of years in which the Eldar Races ruled these lands and the events that have led to the need for our Order to exist. Needless to say, it is no easy task to compile the histories of so many vibrant peoples, yet I will do my best all the same to bring at least some small part of our stories to the masses. Like any tale, the beginning is by far the best place to seek context for those events which transpire later and so it is with the Creation of our world I begin our history.

Though the Eldar worship many deities, each according to their own pantheon of Gods and Goddesses, there are two Goddesses in particular that are held by the eldest species amongst us to be the originators of Terra Firma, the world in which we call home. Indeed, several Eldar religions acknowledged their existence in some form while bearing varying names and degrees of importance in their respective sects; most following the theme of a set of siblings or relations on some level or another. One who embodied the brilliant fire and nurturing warmth of the Sun, and the other embracing the cool, silvery embrace of the graceful Moon. Sòl and Mani, Llew and Arianhod, Apollus and Nyx…they went by many names and guises amongst the Eldar, yet I prefer to know them by the names their firstborn creation knew them by. By the power of the Primordial Flame and the Silverlight of the Voidless Moon did Mothers Amaterasu and Tsuki form the world, and many of the forms of flora and fauna we were familiar with. Of Sentients, only one species apiece were formed by these beautiful, graceful Sisters of the Cosmos; the mighty, towering Direwolves of the ancient mountain peaks as the direct offspring of Amaterasu and the night-centric, excessively learned and cultured Kitsune Foxes beholden to Tsuki.

Their work now satisfyingly done in their eyes, they took their formal leave of the world in search of new Voids from which they might bring forth more life fit for existence as was their grand calling. Indeed, their leave of absence was all but a calculated move of growth for their budding planet as other deities too have come and gone from our world, each adding a Sentient species or two of their own and possibly other minor beings before vanishing into the Cosmos once more. Many have come and gone in the countless centuries since First Creation, some vanishing for good with nary a whisper from their Shrines and others who still yet cared for the honest labor of their Creation; answering prayers, granting strength and imparting wisdom when they could amongst their many faithful. Though Amaterasu loved her Direwolf children dearly and Her power prevailed as a permeating force in the world, She has yet to physically return to Terra Firma since Her departure. Her lunar Sister on the other hoof, ever the scholar of the whole of Creation, chose to observe our world in secret and by the time of Her second arrival, the Eldar Races as we know them today were all in existence: Valkyrie, Ӧrn, Pygmy, Dwem, Thestral, Miyako, Hippogriff, Dragon, Kobold, Kelpie, Crystalines, and, of course, Her Sister’s ever mighty Direwolves amongst others; each race firmly established in the regions of their choosing and thriving in relative harmony with one another. Upon seeing Her world in such a peaceful state, the Mother of Moonlight was said to have cried tears of pure, unadulterated joy from Her place in the heavens and deemed any further Creation of clans of Sentient life unnecessary on Her part. In fact, it would even be potentially catastrophic to the strong, yet delicate balance of power which had established itself without Her or Her Sister’s direct supervision. And so, with our world seemingly harmonious and perfect, those precious, silvery tears of a Goddess fell to the earth and scattered themselves about before coalescing into the purest, most precious of metals: Lunar Silver. This illustrious metal of unparalleled brilliance had been deeply kissed with the divine powers of Tsuki’s Night, resulting in a material capable of banishing that cold Darkness originating from the Void beyond the night. As an unintentional consequence of these divine tears, the magic fueling the thriving being of Terra Firma turned decidedly Lunar in orientation from that moment forward, beginning the Age of the Moon as scholars now call it. Though the Light of the True Sun of Amaterasu still lit our world by day, and Her love could still be felt like a quiet whisper, it was the silvery Moon which held most of the natural world in its gentle thrall. In truth, the phases of the Moon above worked in tandem with the natural ebb and flow of the Cosmic power at work in our world, with Light and Dark each rising and falling in their own time like the passage of the seasons. Balance in all things relative to their powers. This was the divine plan for us all, and to deny the Darkness cast by the Light we sought to live in, the shadows within our own hearts native to every Sentient being…well, it was simply asinine to consider. Where there was Light, Darkness would likewise be present…and there was no Light, nor Darkness softer than that which came from the Moon above our humble heads.

There is one final act of Creation performed before Tsuki took her leave of our world once more, this time seemingly for good as more than a few millennia have elapsed since that heady time. Staying true to Her foresight as to the established balance of nature in Terra Firma, there was no grand species formed that day, no populous peoples in need of housing and direction in an already established world. Instead, only one lone, solitary being was Created that day. This Daughter of the Night, this Guardian of the Eldar was formally dubbed Nox and was given control over the Lunar Magics that govern how our world lives and breathes; reigning as a royal monarch amongst monarchs and providing guidance to our many peoples. And so for millennia after did we all live in relative peace and comfort amongst one another across the scope of our gorgeous, diverse world. Cities grew, populations flourished and mighty works of art, architecture and civilization at large sprang to life across the globe. Truly no Eldar alive in that wondrous era received a pauper’s share of the prosperity to be found in the Age of the Moon. It could have continued unabated into eternity...yet, there are other forces in the vast Cosmos which enjoy nothing more than the corruption and destruction of all things beautiful and peaceful. The means by which their ends are accomplished are countless, and indeed all pantheons seem to have their varying Gods of Chaos and Goddesses of Mayhem or what have you. All whispering foul deeds into the hearts of living beings within their grasp and beckoning forth their deepest, vilest desires and passions. Their machinations are many and their victims all equally bereft of the hope and peace they may or may not have once felt. Regrettably...this is where our history begins to wane and cower under the weight of the Arrival…

As alluded to previously, it was six-and-a-half centuries ago that one Celestia and her refugees from another world first set hoof on our land in an event broadly known, in one form or another, as the ‘Arrival’. Admittedly, little is now fully remembered as to the reason for their flight from the lands from which they came. From the surviving records provided by our great Library and Archives, I am almost certain their plight concerned a global catastrophe of unimaginable proportions; a disaster the likes of which threatened to eradicate them all in a long, slow mass death. In the Arrival, great portals of foreign golden magic opened across the world seemingly at almost complete random, and from their sparkling depths came the Equestrians, led by their tall, white Queen bearing the symbol of a fiery Sun as her crest. No mere symbol but a true Cosmic force of its own, this new Sun and the power it brought is the root cause of almost all of the ills that have now become so common in our world. Ours was a thriving ecosystem long-established on the gentleness found in the Sun and Moon left behind by the First Mothers, themselves minor Cosmic entities of their own to light and empower our world. The Sun which Celestia absconded with across worlds, a Cosmic One of waning yet unfathomable power, took hold of ours before we knew it. I would be remiss if I did not mention once more that the fabric of our world was founded on Lunar Magic with gentle overtures from Amaterasu’s Sunlight. This precious equilibrium that our world so desperately required to function properly was forever shattered with the introduction of Equestrian Solar Magicks. While the gentle, loving Light of the Sun we had could live in harmony with the Moon above, this new foreign Sun, and the Queen championing its Light, sought to shine brighter than anything else in existence if they could. The balance of powers established in times of old was now irrevocably broken and its people have since been left broken, beaten and ostracized from our own ancestral homes.

To say that, originally, the Eldar were more than gracious hosts to these refugees would be stating the matter almost too lightly. These Equestrians appeared across the globe mostly in scattered groups left to fend and build a new home for themselves in an altogether unfamiliar world. While the lucky ones managed to come through alongside or near unto their illustrious Queen Celestia. A generous donation of land belonging to the Lowland Valkyrie, Direwolves and Pygmy was gifted to Celestia and her numerous subjects to dwell in while Pygmy masons, Thestral Weavers and other such experts in the fields of construction and agriculture all flocked to this new nation of Equestria to get it onto its metaphorical hooves. For decades, like an obsessive passion project, the Eldar sent our finest specialists across dozens of professions and skill-sets to their fledgling nation planted nearly in the center of the Continent. And so we built up for them great works of wood, stone, metal and earth which formed their first (and greatest) cities. Acting as a prime example, their great Capital of ‘Canterlot’, carved and built into the side of the southernmost peak of the sacred White Tooth Mountains, was almost entirely constructed and financed by the great Pygmy Clan of Adamant along with additional funding and assistance provided by the Dwemish Underkingdom of Copperbeaks. Another grand city of theirs, built almost exclusively by Eldar hooves, was that of ‘Cloudsdale’; a lofty bastion of civilization floating in the sky above a lonely mountain peak held sacred by winged Highland Valkyrie, acting as a first home for many of their winged Pegusi. Many of their Unicorns likewise sought common shelter in the grand arcane city of ‘Sire’s Hollow’, itself the pet project of my magically-attuned kin the Lowland Valkyrie and built after the fashion of our own architecture. Indeed, these and several others were amongst those mighty gifts we the Eldar freely gave to Celestia and her people eagerly and graciously. We expected, almost naively, that these strangers from another world would hold our values of peace and cooperation in the same high-esteem as we did. And for a time, the peace of the old world meandered on...but of course, as is the nature of great forces of change such as they, it was never to last. Their Arrival marked the beginning of our very own Departure from this world. And it was not to be a welcome nor peaceful affair; a cascade of knock-on effects of ever increasing intensity till all at once the world was swept up in a landslide of tumultuous events. The ripples through the fabric of our reality and the scope of the damage performed have yet to be fully realized, even after nearly seven centuries.

It began at first with requests for ever more territory in which their rapidly growing numbers needed to comfortably dwell. Whether it was cultural tradition, or merely the result of a particular species’ general mating habits, the Eldar were not particularly quick to procreate, nor in large numbers. All the while, Equestrians seemed to breed like rabbits caught in an endless heat by comparison. For every live birth amongst our own, fifty, sixty or more would be born within their borders and with every passing decade, the demand for more land to house them all became increasingly more taxing. The burden of conscience and loss of land fell on those poor Eldar living on their growing borders, who felt they had to forsake their holdings to these Equestrians as an act of good faith in order to keep the peace. As they continued to propagate however, the use of Solar Magics continued to spread alongside them as well, with what lands they held forced to adapt quickly to the harsher Sun now shining overhead. The world at large was beginning to buckle under the weight of this invasive magic and not many decades had passed since the Arrival; a reflection of how delicate the balance of powers had once been in the Age of the Moon. Signs of decay in the world as we knew it slowly began to make themselves manifest as the years dragged on from there. The deep places of the earth that had once been quiet and devoid of aught but metals and minerals, suddenly began to whisper in the Darkness in a wholly unnatural manner; a sense of foreboding eking out not seen in any form so vicious prior in our world. The skies above also reportedly began to display unusual and altogether unsettling portends, with darker nights and great expanses of foreboding clouds obscuring the Cosmos from our sight. As any self-respecting student of Alchemy may tell you, the science of equilibrium is a force of nature unto itself, and with so much Light snuffing out the Darkness inherent in our world, the world itself attempted to right this imbalance by introducing a new form of Dark. One far more wild, unbridled, and full of malice than the gentle dark face of the Moon. All in a manic attempt, blinded by unfathomable terror, to fight off the invaders and their foreign Sun.

Buried deep beneath the earth, one might say near to the very core of the planet itself in some ethereal realm bordering our own, lies an Abyss. An almost Sentient entity devoid of all Light, it marked the remnants of the Void from which our world was first called into being and remained a source of great, horrific unknowns. Sensing our world was in dire peril from outside forces beyond our comparatively meager power to combat, Terra Firma unleashed her inner evil in a blind panic almost beyond comprehension; a greater Dark born of a motherly defensive instinct to combat that Light which so burned her and her children. Great Chasms piercing the earth to its very foundations formed across the world as this Darkness was called upon in a desperate panic to right the natural world, but…like the peace between the Equestrians and the Eldar, it was never to be. Once begun, the Chasms only continued to open across the world as the Abyss saw its chance to escape its deep earthen prison and consume the world as is its wont. Although hatred could be leveled at this enigmatic, formless entity of utter Darkness for subsequent events, it was ultimately unfounded as like Creation, Destruction was likewise an act of nature and thus a part of the cycle of balance we sought to live by. Initially, the effect these Abyssal Chasms had upon the world was fairly negligible as they only opened in the deepest of caves, far from many a civilized town. However, their effect on the local fauna and flora would mark the genesis of the worldwide need for Witchers. The Feral species of the wild were slowly twisted by exposure to these Chasms, and the Abyssal energies exuded thereby, becoming ever more aggressive and physically imposing. Indeed, they began transforming into new creatures entirely and began posing a serious danger to those who came across them in the wilderness. As their numbers grew unchecked and unnoticed, and their mutations warped them further into ravenous beasts, they began to migrate closer and closer to inhabited regions of the map. Needless to say, they began posing a legitimate danger to the common citizens of all nations great and small, Eldar and Equestrian alike with little regard to race nor status.

The attacks, once they began, started in the most remote corners of civilization, in the hamlets and villages eking out a meager living off the spoils of the land. They were all alike in nature, the occasional wayward citizen of some far-flung village mysteriously vanishing in the night, or likewise suffering some form of brutal personal assault by forces unknown while isolated away from others. These brutal attacks progressed until citizens began going missing in the midst of their own homes, leaving naught but bloody viscera behind and a traumatized family who could only describe vague devilish figures stalking about the night. At first only the smallest hamlets and villages were affected. But within the span of several tense years, even the great walled towns and cities of Eldar and Equestrians alike were beginning to face monstrous attacks in their streets and homes. These beasts, mutated by the Abyss and the horrors within, varied in their levels of intelligence though were near universally found to be malicious (and indeed hungry) towards most things living. They typically paled in comparison however to those Sentient creatures summoned from worlds beyond our knowledge, acting mostly as the heavy enforcers of the Abyss’s will to dominate and consume all life. These were coined broadly as ‘Daemons’, so as to set them apart from those more mindless monsters they looked down upon with the same level of enmity we did. I would again be remiss if I neglected to say that not all monsters, or indeed Daemons, were wholly evil outright as some followed their own paths detached from the will of the Abyss, wishing only to be left in peace like we. Pulled from their homes as they were, some were simply too distraught to be held in thrall by the Abyss and so sought out their own existence in our world as reluctant tenants unable to return home. Of course, this could hardly be said of all of them as a greater many still yet sought after our demise as instructed by the Abyss. Levies in gambeson, soldiers in mail, and noble Knights in plate across all Kingdoms, cities and towns stood in stark opposition to this unnatural assault upon our world. Try as they might however, their weapons were found to be continually inefficient in wounding these creatures stalking them in the night. With tremendous strength and precision, a steel blade could pierce the hides of monsters and with enough of these blows the creature will inevitably fall. However…the trail of corpses left in the wake of subduing even one monster by such means oft numbered the same, or even greater than the number of victims felled by the beast itself. A time once existed wherein a simple group of Nekkers could walk about and kill as veritable gods whilst nigh-on uncontested, felling soldier after soldier sent after them as if they were so much meat pre-canned in steel and textiles.

There was another fatal and much more dire consequence of this outpouring of Abyssal energies across the planet. Our once towering Daughter of the Cosmos Nox, was utterly debilitated by the arrival of yet another, far more toxic foe on our shores. While Celestia and her False Sun had done enough damage to our lives on their own, all without mentioning the outpouring of violence from her subjects, the monsters and Daemons running rampant distorted the very fabric of our world. Each and every Chasm which opened was like another icy knife into Nox’s poor heart as the Abyss ate away at her very lifeforce. Given this was tied inseparably to the general health of the balance of Lunar Magic in the world at large…it was not long before it was too much for even the Daughter of a Goddess to withstand, and she fled her mortal coil. Her Soul vanished then back into the Cosmos, treading ethereal paths none but the Gods and Goddesses knew how to trod. As one, we the Eldar were forced to mourn the loss of our beloved Nox come the wintry eve of the year 47 of the Age of the Sun. The funerary rites and the accompanying periods of mourning unique to every Eldar culture lasted nearly the whole of the following year, with some like the Thestrals and mysterious Kitsune even veiling their faces in respectful sorrow for several years past that. Her death shocked us all as all Eldar nations which yet survived found our common ally stripped from us, and our guiding leader veritably murdered by foreign hooves. Negotiations between us and the Equestrians had all but entirely fallen upon her shoulders in the years prior, and now they fell to each and every nation to establish new treaties and negotiations mostly on their own. Trade deals and land grants became ever easier for Celestia to leverage against us, making full use of our fractured sense of unity that Nox had once fulfilled. Not even a half-century since the Arrival had elapsed, and the living embodiment of the balance in our world had perished to forces beyond any which we had faced before. What in the absolute coldest pits of Hel were any of us to do after the loss of our one unifying leader in this increasingly hostile world? A world which, with no need for repetition, had once been wholly ours and ours alone?

Eventually, these Abyssal forces became too much for any of us to bear over the course of the following decades which followed Nox’s tragic demise. Indeed, even the not-so-fledgling nation of Equestria was facing a threat which concerned its everyday citizenry and nobles alike. And so, it was decided that a unified, professional force of noble warriors was required in order to best combat this universal threat to us all. The first to act in this matter was, rather surprisingly to this day, none other than the growing menace itself: Equestria. The idea put forth in the fall of 51 AoS was rather straightforward, yet it required the participation of many nations and talented people to bring it to full fruition. And so, the call was put out far and wide to gather in Canterlot to discuss the problem of the Abyss, how it affected us all, and indeed how the threat it posed triumphed over our xenophobic tensions. In what is now referred to as the First Conclave of Scholars, professionals from across the world versed in tracking, hunting, trapping and fencing were called upon to assemble in one place in order to train willing volunteers. Left in the wake of their efforts was an organization once formally known as the Monster Hunters of the Free World. Or, as they are better now known, the Hunters of Old, or even more simply, the Old Hunters.

Indeed these Old Hunters were all professionals in their own respective rights, each wearing a matching uniform of armor and adhering to a code of honor that saw them perform their work for free in any nation, accepting only payments of food and lodging in exchange for their macabre services. These twisted beasts’ weakness to silver (and more potently to Lunar Silver) was graciously an early discovery in their formative years spent Hunting and researching the various monsters in the world. Natural mineral silver had imbibed some Lunar power of its own during the advent of the Age of the Moon, rendering it a tool suitable at combating the unnatural Darkness. Any sharpened implement, from a sword to a pitchfork with an extremely pointy end, could be used to harm and indeed slay a common monster, as proven by those poor Souls lost attempting to combat it in the earliest days. However, by some miracle, one of those researching the foundations of our modern-day Bestiary found themselves the esteemed guest of some lesser noble who served his court their evening feast with cutlery of polished silver. As Fate would have it, that same night a Changeling, one of the Daemon species summoned by the Abyss to our world, had infiltrated the manor. Though their misdeeds have tapered off in recent centuries as they were able to draw themselves away from the Abyss through shared force of will, Changelings in the earliest years were far more vicious. As the modest banquet commenced and the silverware was dispensed amongst those assembled, one guest in particular was noted as having an extremely adverse reaction to contact with pure silver. And then, all at once, their guise was ripped away as its true form was revealed amidst what must have been a horrified crowd; a vicious rage following which was indiscriminate and rabid. The attack was only put to a stop upon this honored guest, a notable warrior in their time, burying his silver table knife into the attacker. While the other guards assembled found even their honed steel edges bouncing off its armored carapace, the simple piece of silver cutlery had pierced through like a hot knife through butter, dropping the creature where it stood. As to the details behind its grand intent…it was theorized that it had been enticed there by the Abyss as an intentional agent of Chaos. With their unnatural ability at perfect mimicry, Changelings were (and still remain) a constant source of nagging doubt in many a mind both Equestrian and Eldar alike. However, regardless of their slow transition into a Daemon species of least concern, the Abyss’s greatest weakness had been inadvertently discovered. Soon, those wielding a silver sword became synonymous with those who fought against the encroaching Abyss and its horrific abominations.

Whilst all nations kept themselves divided by force when necessary using levied soldiers and professional Knights to fight political and other such conflicts between ‘civilized’ parties, Hunters were near-ubiquitous across all borders; theirs the right to freely ply their trade wherever it was needed in great haste. Indeed, they were the only universally beloved group to assemble between Eldar and Equestrians so far in our history together. These Hunters were highly effective at their profession for their time, with many a twisted creature’s head being presented as proof of a good Hunt to many a worried civilian in those earliest days. Beasts were slain in droves and innocent flames of life that would have otherwise been extinguished forever were saved by these brave mares, stallions and others who stood against the encroaching Darkness. Even now tales of their exploits remain the subject of intense study and occupy multiple levels of debate by scholars and Witchers alike, as it can be difficult to sift through the myths and legends for those nuggets of solid fact as could be put to official historical record. Unfortunately with no way of closing the Chasms, or indeed even knowledge of their existence in those days, the Solar Magic which caused them to erupt forth only continued to allow them spread and fester in the world unchecked. And with this expanding sickness of the world itself came ever more Abyssal incursion, alongside those numerous murderous denizens which were held in its thrall. The Old Hunters were putting up a truly brave defense, but there was more in store for them in the near future which was to turn their losing battle into a complete rout.

The first Daemons to issue forth from the Abyss towards the end of the 1st century took the Hunters, and indeed the whole world, by such surprise that many simply refused to believe the stories. Even in the wake of more and more Hunters going missing whilst in the field as the years progressed, and the brutal mutilations of corpses found mangled in the streets, fear stuffed wool deeply into peoples’ ears and minds. Terror soon gripped most of the so-called Free World and the number of innocent deaths began to skyrocket once again, like unto and even beyond the time before the Hunters ever began their gruesome work. Hunters themselves began to fall in frightening numbers as the monstrosities they faced moved, fought, thought and acted on a level previous challenges had failed to adequately prepare them for. To say the Old Hunters were terribly underprepared and under-equipped for such an escalation by the Abyss would be the understatement of all existence. Try as they might, their reflexes were simply too slow to compete and their strength to face these Daemons was lacking in the face of such overwhelming dangers. These Daemons were beings usually of potent magic unique unto them which could harness the primal energies of the Void to achieve their own varied agendas, wielding powers only the strongest Archmage or Sorceress Supreme could hope to confidently face in battle. By comparison, these Hunters were mere mortals who, while possessing formal training in swordplay, were typically not touched by magic themselves nor capable of wielding it as a weapon. Silver weapons graciously retained some of their potency against them, proving far more effective in actually dealing damage to these superior beings practically oozing with Abyssal energies. Once again, in less than half a century, something had to be done to combat this growing danger as all nations, despite their comparatively minor squabbles, once more recognized that only a truly combined response would face the challenge appropriately. The escalation of the broad situation necessitated the gloves came off and the time had come for far more exotic, magically-invasive ideas to be considered. The fight for the survival of the status quo, though combative as it was between us and the Equestrians, was comparatively the better reality to endure than being entirely consumed, body and Soul, by the Abyss. The First Conclave had been called together precisely for that very reason only thirty-one years prior, and already, the problem was rearing its ugly head more hideously than ever before.

After many months of deliberation, admittedly mostly bogged down by argumentative discussions that routinely returned to the politically-heavy topics of land and population counts, a Second Conclave of experts was eventually assembled from the group of attending nations. This Conclave of the Scholars once again brought together the brightest minds in Alchemy and studies of the Arcane from as far away as the wandering Mystics to the desert lands of the east, the twisted jungles of Quetzal to the far south, and the frigid tundra of the Crystal Dominion to the far north. At this time, the Direwolves of the White Fang Mountains graciously offered up their most sacred holy site, the Holy Mount also known as Solar Peak, as the location from which this Conclave could conduct their research and experiments. The site of Mother Amaterasu’s departure from Terra Firma, the prevailing hope at the time had been that the blessings of this holiest of sites would be of some possible benefit to the project. The original course of action taken was to combine their various research and attempt to artificially induce the ability to produce magic in previously non-magical individuals. This was seen as the ultimate elusive prize of the Conclave, a reliable method to artificially produce powerful wielders of the Arcane using those surviving Hunters as test subjects for their initial experiments. These early efforts would prove to be mostly in vain as those who did not die outright from the magically induced mutations would end up severely deformed or, be left in a vegetative state; their bodies were simply unable to create the hyper-charged neuron clusters necessary to produce an arcane Aura within themselves. This Aura, found within all those born with magical talent, is a fascinating byproduct of highly evolved cells within the body which channel ethereal energy from the Soul and transmute it into a physical power which had near-limitless possibilities. Very similar in nature to the Wild Magic permeating the natural world around us, those Eldar touched by the gift of the Arcane and were possessed of an Aura (and indeed Equestrian Unicorns likewise) had long since developed their own schools for professional study of the subject.

However, with the biological processes involved being as exceedingly advanced as they were, artificially reproducing those cells which transmute spiritual energy into ‘magic’ is simply a nigh-impossible task. But…not absolutely so. The Conclave’s greatest achievement in this new field of Alchemical-Arcane genetic study was the development of a consistent method of inducing under-developed versions of these cells in hosts which lacked them entirely. These small clusters of hyper-charged, highly-evolved neurons, while magically attuned as they would otherwise naturally be, were only mildly capable of tapping into the flow of Wild Magic. Thus, they only allowed for a limited arcane capacity in the subject being mutated. This was not to say that a natural-esque Aura was never accomplished…eventually. However, to be able to tap into the flow of magic around oneself, as well as artificially induce that ability in others under a controlled setting was a rather marvelous achievement of science, in and of itself. Indeed, multiple fields of scientific study were beneficiaries in the development of Witcher mutations, such as advancements in the fields of health, anatomy, toxicology research and much more. Regrettably at the time however, such minimal Arcane prowess in what subjects survived the process was hardly sufficient enough results to appease the lofty expectations which had been set. Both the Conclave, and those royal patrons whomst so generously sponsored the ambitious project, were rather underwhelmed when all but the simplest spells proved beyond the test-subjects’ magical abilities. Whilst the Druids, Mages, Sorceresses and other learned elite conjured mighty spells and hexes with their magical prowess, those mutated into having magical ability were performing mere parlor tricks by comparison. The excited yammer of brilliant minds collaborating as one was almost immediately changed, replaced by the bitter bickering that had nearly toppled the Conclave before it had even begun a mere few years before.

Mounting failures in the pursuit of artificial magic users caused the Conclave at last to fracture after several years of near-constant experimentation and a frustrating lack of progress. This left only a pair of Zebra Shaman, an Equestrian Mage, a Thestral Sorceress, a Crystalline Xelosani, and their surviving group of subjects as the only hope for the planet. Moral quandaries still existed regarding the ethics of the entire endeavor at multiple levels, from the experimentation upon Sentients to the implications undertaken in using science and magic to create new forms of life. Those who still remained took their small victory earlier in the field of controlled mutations and began to expand their sights beyond the impossible goal they had originally set out to accomplish. Instead of devoting their attention towards attempting to make full-fledged masters of the Arcane capable of warping the world through mighty feats of magic, they would instead focus on enhancing the physical body in other, more general ways. The prevailing logic was essentially to build upon the foundation already set by the Old Hunters and create another team of professional Hunters who could better hope to go hoof-to-claw with Daemons and monsters alike. There was no need to continue to waste lives in the pursuit of Mages and Sorceresses on demand as silver blades had not lost their efficacy on denizens of the Abyss, meaning they still could be beaten if only the one wielding it could keep pace with their opponent. Of course, there were genes aplenty out there for these researchers to attempt and extrapolate for their own ends. Attributes of other species, Feral and Sentient alike, which could prove useful in the mutation process and render a stronger, better suited individual to the arduous task required them.

Countless trials seem to have gone undocumented or otherwise have been omitted from official record, as it is unknown exactly how many elapsed before they had finally managed to induce a controlled set of mutations that improved almost all aspects of the mortal body. The first individual to truly survive these initial Trials with their mind and body wholly intact was an Earth Pony mare by the name of Cherry Blossom, or so the Archives state. Coming out the other side of her transformation capable of feats of strength, speed, stamina and resilience which far exceeded that of any normal pony put up as a control subject, she was a marvel to all who witnessed her. Indeed, what was most remarkable was her ability to conjure magic and sense the flow of magic around herself, albeit in a limited capacity comparable to a properly trained Sorceress. Every subsequent Trial gave valuable information which was used to further perfect the cocktail of mutagenic alchemical brews and transformative magics used to achieve a similar result. These brews, while perfected through the blood and death of numerous participants for the trials, never quite lost their sting and routinely took lives right up until we broadly lost our access to their use. Over time, a proper procedure was devised and established which ensured at least three-to-four participants out of ten survived the mutations and evolved into the next stage in mortal existence. (A statistic which was further improved to a further five-to-seven out of ten by the time of my own transformation some two-centuries later).

Indeed Cherry Blossom, and all others like her to follow throughout history, were members of a brand new species entirely; one entirely made by mortal hooves without the touch of a divine entity in what some still considered the ultimate sacrilege. This new breed of enhanced individuals, biologically distinct from those species we once came from, were termed Witchers almost in mocking by those versed in the Arcane. So-called for admittedly being half-formed beings of magic; fledgling Witches as it were with our limited magical talents like unto backwater peasants dabbling in elementary spellcraft. Despite disappointing all those present possessed of any real magical talent, Cherry Blossom, and those Hunters-turned-Witchers who subsequently survived, exceeded the expectations of what fencing instructors had remained at Solar Peak to ensure none fell out of practice with the blade. Those combat forms which they had been trained in as Hunters were now more effective than ever before; these Witchers rising from the remains of their old lives into that of their far stronger new ones. Tremendous increases in speed and agility allowed duels between Witchers to be done at a blinding speed to the average observer, blows and deflections occurring faster than the normal eye could follow. Streaks of silver gleaming in the Sun peppered by sparks is all most can see when two Witchers apply themselves fully to physical confrontation, exchanging flurries of blows like unto an elaborate, deadly dance. No longer was the fantasy of dodging arrows and bolts at point-blank range a mere fantasy, as every Witcher effortlessly could now do so with ease. Some were even so bold as to snatch the projectile out of the air mid-flight or elsewise safely cutting them in half with tremendous skill. Fallen trees that would take a crew of several dozen and a mighty winch to move could be flung to the side by but a few Witchers, and a lone Witcher could beat a half-dozen of the burliest stallions sent their way while blindfolded and with one hoof tied to the other. All of this and more without so much as a bruise to show for their efforts, aside from the twisted, howling bodies of their unwitting mortal opponents nursing many broken bones.

Other tremendous physical feats were now the realm of possibility for Witchers such as keen, enhanced senses to where we could detect movement in a pitch-black room and make educated guesses as to its origins using things other than sight. Subtle changes in air currents, vibrations through the ground, overwhelming aromas, the slightest noise such as the frantic beat of a heart…there were numerous ways to detect and analyze potential threats. Indeed, a whole new doctrine of study evolved from these expanded senses which dealt with coping with the sheer amount of sensory stimuli all beings were subjected to at every waking hour by the world around us. Coping with the overload and learning to filter out the mindless information in search of useful details that may or may not be of dire importance to life and limb. Training to hone the senses into a blade as sharp as a sword was no task which could be accomplished in an afternoon, or even a decade. It was like unto undergoing a second, far more intensive pubescent period such as we had all once faced in our youths, yet it prepared us for the treacherous Witchers Path we had chosen to trod. A Path no mere mortal being was expected to follow, yet one we followed to our graves.

The first hundred Witchers spent the better part of several years working neck-and-neck with a fresh batch of masters, all in order to develop an entirely new form of combat unique to Witchers. Techniques which would prove most potent against monsters and Daemons alike, taking advantage of the speed, agility and precision imbued by our mutations. The techniques developed over that period and in the centuries which followed allowed for a certain level of...shall we say, acrobatics and flair to be added to our method of combat. Incorporating techniques and moments that would have proven impractical, and indeed dangerous to those lacking such physical enhancements of strength and agility. Pirouettes, dives, rolls and flips, both vertical and horizontal, were incorporated into the various Witcher forms developed at Kaer Solaris alongside those fighting techniques as applicable from traditional schools of swordplay. Meanwhile, Mages, Sorceresses, Druids and others versed in the Arcane tested the full range of magical talent granted to us by the mutations. Granted, their tests provided far fewer and less impressive results comparative to our physical combat abilities, but the foundations of the basic spellcraft used today were laid in place through their patient efforts. After all these years of bloodied trial and bitter failure, to have such a promising specimen as Witchers to unleash upon the enemy of the living world…it was a dream come true for everyone involved. One hundred Witchers, with an unknown number of failed mutations on the books, finally stood ready to take on the world for all they were worth and prove to all who had doubted the project wrong beyond any shadow of a doubt.

All it took were a few short months of ‘demonstrations’ by these first Witchers to awe an audience of Kings, Queens and other assembled Lords and Ladies in the confines of their growing home. Before long, the royal coffers of many a Kingdom were thrown open wide to fund the newly founded Order of Witchers and pave the way for their expansion. After all, a mere hundred Witchers could only cover so much territory and kill so many monsters at any one time. The need for more professionals was at an all-time high and we were set to answer the call with so much gold flooding into the Solar Peak research lab, grand plans that had laid dormant being dusted off with a renewed vigor. The finishing touches on the fortress which would serve as the headquarters of this new Witcher Order were at last laid in place in the year 91 of the Age of the Sun. Its original name has long-since found itself warped over time as the blessed Valley surrounding the Solar Peak became home to additional Eldar aside from the original Direwolf inhabitants. Following in the loosely adhered-to tradition established using Thestral and Lowland Valkyrie naming schemes, the first Witcher fortress has come to be known by the romanticized name of ‘Kaer Solaris’. Or, in more plain terms, ‘The Mountain of Sunlight’, a most fitting name for one of the few places in the world where Amaterasu’s Sun still shone unmolested by the corrupting presence of that of Celestia’s.

Once they felt ready, the Order took the civilian populace by great surprise as the First Born plied their newfound abilities against the mortal threat that had gripped the world in fear for so long. Twirling about like great whirlwinds of blades and magic, the populace was awed and enthralled seeing the Witchers hard at work ridding Canterlot, amongst several other large Equestrian cities and the surrounding countryside, of the immediate Abyssal threat. Indeed, most of the world at-large was unawares as to the existence of the Second Conclave and their private fight against the Abyss, so when an army of mutated individuals suddenly emerged to deal with the problem…it came as quite the shock, or so I have been told. Within the span of several months, any who had doubted those remnants of the original Conclave and accused it of recklessly spending lives and coin on a feckless pursuit were utterly silenced. Instead, they raised their voices to demand members of the Order visit their own lands and liberate them just as they had central and southern Equestria. Indeed...almost as soon as it had formed it seemed, the Order was being dissolved and its members going their separate ways amicably in order to found new fortresses and create more Witchers. All who set forth from Kaer Solaris that day left with the blessings and monetary support of the various Kingdoms which had entreated them for support.

The fractured Order produced a dozen major institutions (and countless smaller, unofficial ones), the Witcher Schools as they came to be known, with each taking on the identity of a particular animal or Sentient species which defined their tactics and equipment. The Schools of the Wolf, Cat, Bear, Viper, Raven, Örn, Tiger, Manticore, Griffin, Swan, Lion and Dragon all sprang up across the known world to serve the needs of the public. All the while, they adhered to a common code of political neutrality and noble chivalry like unto the Hunters of Old in order to maintain our professional reputation. In fact our Schools became registered as part of a greater guild license signed by all partnered nations, gaining us international recognition alongside the likes of more clandestine guilds such as that of the humble smith or carpenter. Ours became a noble institution worldwide by and large, our members serving honorably across the board in the broad defense of the so-called Free World. Folks from all walks of life flocked to our Schools (official or not) in droves as many sought after the glory that came with the title of Witcher. As the Grasses which brought about our mutations were further refined as the decades drew long, the pool of potential School applicants greatly expanded. Young foals, hatchlings, cubs and other children were sometimes willingly given at birth, and other times orphans of one sort of another were taken into our ranks when the world outside would not (or could not) adopt them. Young adults naturally sought us out as well, likewise unto more aged mares and stallions for whom the mutations could bring about a renewed sense of youth.

Indeed, the growing presence of our guild came to be so universal to most Kingdoms of the known world, with Witcher's prowling the Path all about the land. By the opening years of the third century past the Arrival, most Kings, Queens and other esteemed regents had appointed a Chief Witcher as part of their council of advisors to keep them apprised of local Abyssal threats. Even so...nothing good can last forever when the weight of the bad far exceeds it. And all the while its source is never identified nor rectified in short order… That said, our Schools have churned out thousands of honorable Witchers over the centuries, all of whom have taken to the Path with great gusto in the honest defense of the innocent, this time accepting royal coin in exchange for their services like unto any other professional trade. Centuries of Witcher successes have since taken their toll however on the Abyssal threat, and those not so lucky as to share in a Witcher’s excessive longevity have passed on leaving those memories of horror in the past while the young looked ever onwards towards a brighter future. A future bought for them through the blood, sweat and deaths of countless Witchers who fought tooth, hoof, claw and fang to cleanse the Darkness. To walk the Path in those days was to be the pride of whatever Kingdom it was you happened to be in at the time. Career soldiers and levied guards alike fawned at your steps whilst the mindless populace bent ear towards your learned opinions. To interfere with a Witcher in the course of a sanctioned Hunt was to cross the seat of royal power directly in most places once upon a time…

Our Golden Age felt like it would never end. The Path always calling our name to wander the world as we saw fit, plying our profession for payments in food and good lodging as the various Kingdoms always provided for our monetary needs; many a smithy or leather tanner all-too eager to offer their own services to us to maintain our equipment whilst away from our respective Schools. Indeed these were the best centuries of my and many others’ lives and a time we all longed for the longer the years stretched on. However...our ability to kill monsters and Daemons alike had unexpected consequences of its own as we were becoming numerous, highly organized and utterly decimating the creatures we Hunted. In all due fact, the work myself, my forebears, my peers of the Third Born and all those of the Fourth and Fifth had begun to render their numbers officially endangered by analysts. The need for Witchers was on the decline with every passing decade as Daemons were vanquished and Chasms sealed shut, forcing the terrors of old further into the recesses of fading memories. Once again cities, towns and hamlets became free of monsters and the threat of Abyssal incursions was reduced to the deepest depths and wildest fens farthest from civilization. So much so…that some of us began to abandon the Path altogether in search of cheaper coin for less effort and paperwork. A world of unsavory work unbecoming of our station was introduced into one of our Schools in particular through a slow process of acclimatization.

And then, all of a sudden it seemed to myself and many others, the world had begun to turn against us for the very things that had made us special. Those mutations which had made us famous now became a metaphorical millstone of infamy and shame to be worn around our necks much like our Medallions which denoted our guild. And as for the two swords we carried, as much a symbol of our profession as our Medallions, they earned us ever more ire and mistrust amongst Equestrian citizens…and they were everywhere now. All of a sudden...we had become villains of a sort to the ‘civilized’ world we had worked so tirelessly to render safe enough to civilize to begin with. Rendered pariah and outcasts, my fellow Witchers and I continued on the Path ahead as indeed it was the only life we had ever known. We continued to wander the world in search of Abyssal threats to combat and innocent lives to save, same as we ever had. Indeed, the world at large began to start viewing our guild with growing ire and distrust as some amongst us began to favor other less-than-savory sources of income. While members from all Witcher Schools have fled the Path in search of lives of their own design, one School in particular began to tread a dark path stained not in the blood of monsters, but in the blood of fellow Sentients. Through contract assassinations, questionable bodyguard work, street enforcement and far worse endeavors, our reputation began to be soiled by unscrupulous actors that have since been made Anathema. If only it were so easy for such hated persons to fade into the pages of history, yet we were not so lucky as to be spared their continued existence. Indeed…an entire School has since been made Anathema to our guild and has gone on to dissolved itself of its own accord in willing rebellion. They have since become the foundation upon which Celestia would build her elite agents of royal enforcement in her lands, her so-called Witch Hunters for their penchant for finding and eliminating all threats to her reign which included users of foreign magic.

In the years which have followed, the centuries of death and labor which we had suffered till then was all but entirely swept away under a wave of propaganda. Propaganda which promoted an aggressive policy of ‘Equestria First and Foremost’ and saw Celestia sign into law a decree which allowed for greatly expanded controls placed on any non-Equestrian living within their ever growing borders. Come fifty-years and some change since the Cleansing, and we were now facing young, fiery Equestrians who hadn't even been born before the world was forever changed. Small-minded youths which only saw the wide-spread poverty and squalor of the lower class laboring to support the upper and thought to blame it upon others. Fed falsified tales of how Equestria’s burgeoning Empire came into being by their inherent strength of will and determination, they thought so very highly of themselves now. Despite their own lowly position in life, they were led to believe it was the presence of the Eldar which was the cause of their measly existences. Before long, the many things we had all done for them from the time of the Arrival until now meant nothing as names were erased from their records and deeds were misattributed. Equestria was in no shortage of heroes of its own, both within and without the Witcher profession, and it was not many years before the deeds of the Eldar of old were attributed to Equestrian legends in an effort to bolster their own history. Within another decade or two, lies such as those would become so-called ‘common knowledge’ amongst them and our efforts to discredit them would only grow more difficult and combative.

One question always hangs above our heads like a weighty blade, however: what would the world do once we were deemed no longer necessary? We had already begun to gain unsavory reputations akin to the beasts we slew amongst the Equestrian populace who had expanded to encompass much of the known world. Celestia's precious Witch Hunters, and those they forcibly inducted, were shifting to take over our status as monster-killing professionals, and local forces in cities and towns started carrying silver weapons for their garrison forces. Our jobs were being taken over by amateurs playing as if they were professionally-certified graduates of our esteemed Schools. It was also far from a guarantee that the tentative peace between the Eldar and they would endure for the long-term. Though the Race Wars as they were known had officially come to a close in the fourth year past the Cleansing, racial tensions ran higher than ever before. An even heavier blade of thought waited in the wings close behind that of the first…how many of us would survive the coming tide were it to rise against us once more? We had weathered the ever-growing maelstrom this far, yet the decay visible in the corners of the world stood as testament to the glory years that had long since passed us by. Nox was dead, our people slain in droves, our Kingdoms gone or reduced in splendor…and many of the famed Witcher Schools of old laid in ruins or operated in a subdued manner so as to avoid Celestia, or her people's, mighty ire. What did the mysteries of the future hold in store for those of us who still yet lived?

* * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Four: Friends, Family, Schoolmates & Good Food Aplenty

The next morning found my vision obscured by a wily curtain of silver illuminated softly by warm, golden light. Like a bad hangover, grogginess prevented the immediate recognition of my own hair being the cause of my seeming morning blindness. however, the act of rubbing my eyes with my hooves broke the veil. Once my eyes managed to focus, a quick glance at the clock hung on the wall read half-past eleven in the morning. And yet, my stomach was convinced it was sometime far past that from the way it felt shriveled up within me. With a moan of pain for the dull ache in my joints from the day before, I rolled myself out of bed, stumbling up to my hooves with yet more grunts of mild pain. Having graduated from my studies nearly six centuries before, there was no pressing need for me to be anywhere, anytime soon. Indeed, any that graduated from their School in full were no longer bound to the command of any Mentor or Instructor and were free to do as they pleased with their time. Within reason of course. However, the…indoctrination one could say we underwent on the path to graduation would ensure that the same feeling of anxious unrest which Sir Tiffy had described affected us all. Barely any of us could settle down idly for long before duty called us back to the Path like an itch that only grew more unbearable with time. I oft wondered how the Instructors were able to withstand the anxiety of remaining bound to their respective Schools for so long. Much as I adored a beautifully designed fortress of stone and wood, let alone actively dwelling in one, I struggled with the same restless energy every Winter that passed. This day was nevertheless my own to do with as I pleased. I had done rather well in bringing Relics home of such high quality, and admitted rarity given the School of the Cat had gone entirely extinct on official record. As a fair reward for my efforts, I was resolved to take my morning as slow and lazily as I wished. Perhaps even the entire duration of the day if it came down to it.

With a flick of my hoof and a thought, a fire erupted in the stone hearth across from my bed with the help of Igni; enchanted coals which gave off little smoke responding readily to the Sign with eagerness. Once I'd attained the plush comfort of the lounge chair set nearby, I let out a sigh of relief and glanced about my small room after setting a small kettle to boil on an iron hook. There had been a time many years past where I had dreamed of escaping the cramped, shared quarters of the Barracks in favor of the private bedrooms afforded the Adepts and Masters; exchanging the packed rooms of sleeping bunks and tiny personal chests for a double-wide bed and chests of drawers or a fine wardrobe. Enjoying the four cozy walls set aside in my name was twice now an exciting experience, as my original quarters at Kaer Nathair had been rendered essentially untenable after the events of the Cleansing. I and many others had lost our old rooms in the fortress... Of course, it was no big loss given the eternally lamentable state of the School in those days. Try as we might, few of us were talented masons and even fewer still opted to join us to work as serving staff due to the dismal wages offered. There was simply an eternal deficit in the School's coffers and little could be done to escape centuries' worth of running debt. The debt was hardly our fault...yet that did not stop King Birch from dumping off the bill for the School's construction.

In all honesty, I much preferred dwelling in the Master’s Tower than I had in the worn, weary halls of Kaer Nathair, a fortress that was well into the waning years of its glory come my time there as an Apprentice. That old keep had once been the pride of the Kingdom of Āider, having been commissioned and constructed by the region's finest pony masons of their day. The design was sturdy and defensible were it ever to be attacked, yet retained some elegance with its covered towers, tall flags and countless murals painted throughout the interior of the keep. Unfortunately, all this had also been done at an exceedingly great cost as well, a cost which had seen the Kingdom utterly bankrupted and contract-bound come the end. However…she was not so lucky as to have been built by Pygmy and Dwem like unto Kaer Solaris, yet perhaps not so unlucky as to have been built entirely by Witchers untrained in stonework like the School of the Bear at Kaer Aarthe. All the same, time had not been kind to our old fortress, nor especially had it been to the royal seat which had first sponsored us. Royalty, despite its wealth, was rather cheap in the earliest centuries past the Arrival, and multiple petty would-be Kings and Queens rose up as breakaway nations from Celestia's rule. Noble families, disgraced and exiled from Canterlot’s court or no, all saw prime opportunity to attempt to make something of themselves in slices of land claimed in their own ‘esteemed’ names. Like so many other minor Kingdoms of those days however, a pattern of Kings and Queens floundering their nations for one cause or another had become a prime opportunity for the burgeoning Empress. Indeed, much of the land Equestria now claimed as its own had been via absorbing so many of these little offshoot Kingdoms and Principalities into itself.

Kaer Nathair had supposedly been a rather stately castle fort upon its completion, complete with multiple concentric walls, dozens of towers and auxiliary buildings, and a majestically large keep built into the side of a mighty mountain once known as Mynydd Morhen. Unfortunately, by the time of my Apprenticeship, the School had already seen her better days long pass her by. The Bastion sat aways away on a false summit somewhat below the School and had tumbled down the mountain during a rockslide several years before the Cleansing. By the time of my Masterhood in the mid-fourth century, even the Archmaster’s private chambers suffered from a terribly leaky roof, peeling murals on every wall and the total loss of both his bedroom balconies due to ill maintenance from lack of capital. My own room and most others likewise all constantly stank of mildew from a slow drip of condensation from the clammy interior of the mountain hall. The bed I'd been bequeathed had been given to six others before me and the spiderwebbing cracks along most walls haunted my dreams with nightmares of cave-ins. Yet, despite all that, it was still a bedroom set aside in my name which was a luxury that never came cheaply in a Witcher School. The value of privacy was beyond the measure of mere coinage when around one's own School, a luxury which was earned by getting off one's arse and taking Contracts in the open world. Otherwise, the only place available to you were the rather...cozy lodging situation to be found in any Barracks as they tended to stay consistent in concept, even between cultures and sects. Cramped, narrow lodging found in the form of rows of bunks arranged in tidy lines with little in the way of privacy or personal space. There was usually a draft too as many windows were left open year-round to promote airflow amidst so many warm bodies occupying the same space at once. And to top it all off, the pace at which the daily lectures and rounds of physical training occurred simply kept the Barracks as the last place they would choose to spend their limited free time. In fact…as I sat there gazing into the orange and yellow flames, it finally dawned on me that perhaps the sleeping arrangements of every School further encouraged students to wander the Path. After all…there were only so many days of close contact with other Witchers anyone could handle and I, like a housecat, preferred to choose when and where I felt most sociable with others.

Amongst the various trophies and other mementos adorning my limited wall space, my most prized possessions tended to be those of highest sentimental value to myself. Whilst some had more monetary cost associated with them than others, that was hardly a usual factor behind my favorite pieces. Perhaps the most treasured of the lot were the simple yet finely maintained steel and silver swords I had been granted upon passing the Trial of the Sword. They were almost charmingly rudimentary in both design, as well as ornamentation, with simplistic steel crossguards, black leather wrapped hilts, and Viper Crests adorning the thick, flat pommels. Both blades had been lovingly forged with fine construction, yet they lacked any sort of meaningful ornamentation like fullers, engravings, filigree or anything other than the basic necessities of a proper longsword. It was all purely functional and meant for the task at hoof with no flair for fresh, unproven blood such as myself and all other Witchlings seeking advancement in rank. Though inferior in every respect to the mastercrafted blades I wielded today, from the quality of the steel to the overall visual appeal, the swords of my earliest days marked a moment of personal triumph for me. They acted as the first true trophies of my ever-growing collection, something all but the most jaded of Witchers possessed if they had the means and space to display such items. I had been far luckier than some other Master Vipers at Kaer Nathair as a fair few of my original personal treasures had survived the events of the Cleansing relatively intact. The roof of the keep had caved in further up the hall from my lodgings located deep within the mountain itself; part of a larger collection of tunnels and rooms which augmented the School's architecture. Others, such as Master Borri, had tragically lost all they had attained in their collections as the general collapse of parts of the keep had rendered much of the forward half inaccessible. The castle had survived enough to be somewhat functional afterwards...but by then we were wanted nowhere. The Kingdom-turned-Duchy which had housed us for so long had finally seen fit to cut us finally loose and we had naught else to go than Kaer Solaris, by whatever roads took us there.

In truth, only thirty-or-so Witchers and large smattering of Acolytes and Witchlings had been present when Celestia had struck the School with a Solar Flare some fifty-five years past. The unimaginably cataclysmic event obliterated towers and leveled whole courtyards, melting the very stone bricks of the School somewhat from the sudden yet intense flash of directed Sunlight. Any caught outdoors perished instantly, with naught but charred ash and any mastercrafted gear left in their wake to mark that they had ever existed at all. Without warning, and without remorse, my School had been laid low, with those who survived either having been deep within the mountain keep, or wholly far removed from the School for one cause or another. Students as young as sixteen had perished that day...poor, orphaned children from all walks of life which had found their way to us by one way or another. Those poor, young Souls who had been so brave as to agree to try and walk the Path with us to fight the Abyss and its legions of twisted beings. Forty-seven Vipers had been wandering the Path at that time, having been called to the far corners of the world after Contracts, or pursuing other personal vendettas as prevented them from ending amongst the number killed that day. And, in my case, I was amongst the few out amongst other Witcher Schools furthering their personal education through extra study. Not a normal use of a Witcher's time, yet hardly unheard of as plenty of our number had found the time and skill to graduate from multiple Schools.

Indeed, I was enjoying a stay with the School of the Swan at the time, taking the opportunity to study their methods of fighting as hybridizing tactics was a fine method for continuing one's education in the Witcher's craft. As the School was founded upon the fundamentals of Thestral combat preferences, Swan Witchers were the masters of long, single-edged curved sabers and unique, extremely lengthy longbows fashioned out of enchanted wood and fine silver. The best amongst their bows (and indeed all their best equipment) in particular were fashioned from a semi-living crystal that Thestrals alone knew the secrets behind. A substance which they could sing into shape with special instruments and a magic only they possessed; the result was a bow which produced its own ammunition the moment one drew the nearly invisible bowstring. Even before the Cleansing, the School of the Swan, and the Thestral species at large, were not so keen as to intermingle their secrets with any considered an outsider, leaving the institution with an almost mutually exclusive relationship with the entire species and, by extension, all Swan Witchers could safely assumed to be Thestrals. By virtue of my exceedingly pure Lowland Valkyrie blood of original stock however, I had been equally exceedingly lucky. At the time, I had been considered genetically ‘pure’ enough for them to turn a blind eye to their normally rigid (if occasionally flexible) acceptance policies…at that time that is. Lowland Valkyrie shared a distant relation to Thestrals via ancient unions between the Highland Valkyrie, and Thestrals, both as part of arranged political marriages, or the buddings of true love. The Swan was quite the fitting symbol for a Witcher School born of Thestral ideals in a lively sense of irony. After all, they, like swans, were all at once graceful, elegant, and full of an ancient, unbridled anger merely seeking for an excuse to strike out.

In truth, there was much that could be said of the ‘otherism’ at work within Thestral culture, however, the politics of such a haughty race interested me little as an outsider. I had only come there to study their approach to Witcherhood and nothing more. I felt some rather deep kinship with the bow, and they were a closer journey from Kaer Nathair than the keep of the Ravens in central Equestria. I dwelt amongst them nary a month before the Solar Flares began eradicating what Schools, cities, towns and other institutions the Empress deemed worthy to perish, and were within her reach and realm of knowledge. With the Everfree as both their homeland and their buffer against Equestrian expansion, the Thestral Dominion had escaped mostly unscathed from the Cleansing, with only those dwellings on the Forest's edge facing total destruction. A few barren, scorched clearings remained scattered at random across the Everfree as the location of their greatest cities continued to be a fiercely guarded secret, and Celestia wisely decided against wasting further energy on firing blindly into the Forest. It was by the grace of even this short waste of power that other victims survived at all, with each subsequent target being hit with ever decreasing intensity. As to what order she had decided upon when selecting her targets, not a Soul had the slightest idea… The only certainty any of us had was that the School of the Wolf, relatively within sight of Canterlot itself, had been saved especially for last as part of her power-mad rampage. One last pyre of conquest to witness the smoke of from the comfort of her very own private balcony, gazing endlessly on the world with the use of her mighty Observatory. Some would even say that the gleam of the Sun catching in the enormous lenses of her telescopes could be seen from the tallest floor of the Spire on a clear day…

Kaer Solaris, and the Valley itself at large, repelled the blow entirely by virtue of Amaterasu's lingering might which blessed the area of her Departure. Like the mighty barrier spell which enveloped the sky above my very head, Her residual power had halted Celestia's assault dead in its tracks as a mighty dome of holy fire erupted all its own in the defense of the entire Valley. Not a single adult, child, nor household pet perished in the Valley that day in spite of the pure vitriol fueling the furious assault. In fact, the most Celestia accomplished with the last of the Ember's power was to flatten the peak of every mountain of the White Fangs, providing the perfect platforms upon which were built various temples and places of isolated meditation. Atop the perfect plateau left from the peak of Kael’s Fang rose the Spire. Of all our proud defiances as a united front of Eldar against Her Excellency, this majestic structure was perhaps our greatest call for her to plough herself and her rotten Empire. At two hundred and fifty-five meters height, the majestic edifice was one colossal pillar of the finest white marble the Dwem and Direwolves could delve from the mountains’ roots. Carved as if one elegant supporting pillar of a temple, atop its summit sat a sconce of immense width and depth held aloft by four branching spindles of stone branching from the top of the tower. Within the mighty bowl of carved red porphyry, a roaring inferno spewed elaborate tongues of golden flame into the sky; a Spark taken from the gazebo in the Gardens and given the fury of a Clan of Direwolves. Here it had burned continually day and night, atop the tallest mountain of the Valley facing directly southwards towards the Equestrian Capital city for any and all to see. The tower itself, acting as a repository of the Clan’s written history and treasured artifacts, acted as the end of one extremely long path of pilgrimage. Though it technically began at the Arch of the Hunters, the road continued through and off the back end of the School itself.

Leaving my kettle to whistle for my attention when ready, I shakily got to my hooves once more and gingerly made my way to the pair of south-facing windows. From my high vantage point, the Servant’s Courtyard far below was laid out plainly before me in the afternoon sun. The shape of the curtain wall was like unto an octagon bisected widthwise, with each corner studded by further broad, squared towers like unto the northern side of the School. Here, each servant was afforded private, if somewhat cramped lodgings in the form of three-storied houses with small walled-off bedrooms on each floor in a similar arrangement to the Master’s Tower. Aside from the quaint and charming grounds of the Servant’s Courtyard, the only true purpose for any not counted as a servant to pass through would be to access the Grand Viaduct. Though the bridge connecting the Barbican to the front gate of the School was mighty, both in scale and length in its own right, it held not even a dim candle to the blazing glory of this tremendous work of granite and marble stone. With space enough for eight to walk abreast with legroom to spare, the Grand Viaduct spanned the distance between the southernmost edge of the School and Kael’s Fang some three leagues distant. At its end, it entered into the mountain itself as the path continued further up the Ten-Thousand Steps to the peak of the Spire. In addition to dedicated places of rest, fed fresh water via an aqueduct constructed directly into the bridge, two large sets of gate towers marked major destinations accessed by well-defended lifthouses which descended to the Valley floor below. The nearest of these two lifthouses descended to the small University of Tir Ná Liá built around its base; a Thestral-ran institution for the broader higher education of the masses so not all knowledge seemed hoarded by the Witchers alone. Here they taught classes on astronomy, geology, herblore, mathematics, history, geography and many more advanced subjects as were befitting noble Eldar citizens, as well as those foreign students as sought us out for an education. This fine University, despite the Cleansing, churning out the learned and the wise to continue the everlasting pursuit of knowledge. The second lifthouse had far less distance to descend as the boughs of mighty Redwoods rose even above the flagpoles atop the gate tower, marking the Thestrals’ other forest home within Equestrian borders. The majority of the Thestral tongue was simply too arduous a task to commit more than a few, simply pronounced words to memory and so, I referred to the isolated greatwood forest by its common moniker of Scarlet Boughs. Here they formed elaborate tree houses, both inside and around the colossal trees with hundreds of elegant ladders, and bridges of rope and wood connecting the various platforms together. Exactly like unto their fellows dwelling in the Everfree Forest, they outright refused entry to any not found pure of blood by their ever-increasingly harsh standards. Had I attempted my excursion to the School of the Swan within the last half-century, I would have been chased from their very gates by volleys of angry, magical arrows. All for the sheer audacity of thinking I had a right to the secret techniques of their race as an outsider; my distant Thestral heritage be damned to the outlands where I belonged.

I started slightly with a wild glance over my shoulder when a high pitched whistle pierced my wandering thoughts with an ear-wrenching noise. The kettle I had momentarily forgotten entirely about had roused me back to my senses, with no regard for the ache sudden movements caused in me. However…I could hardly remain mad when it signaled something warm and delicious was about to satiate my stomach for now. At least until I summoned the energy to descend to the Great Hall for something more fitting for a mare fresh from a fortnight on the open road. Pouring the steaming water into a tall silver tankard, a large infuser of dried apples, orange peels, cloves and nutmeg was added to steep into tea a moment later and given some time to sit. While it steeped, I set about lifting the sheets from off the side of my elevated bed frame and withdrawing one of about two-dozen bottles of various alcohols residing in hollowed-out cubbies for my personal enjoyment. This morning, I was to indulge in a little homebrew I liked to call a 'Kaer Solaris Sunrise'. Made from a very flavorful fruit tea, and some Mother’s Lacquer brandy which was produced with love proudly in the Valley itself. With a famously exquisite bouquet of sweet red grapes, ripe plums, hints of pear and an oaky aftertaste with hints of cinnamon, what set Mother’s Lacquer apart from other alcohols was its ability to retain the sweetness of freshly-squeezed fruit juice. The characteristic burn and eye-watering flavor of fermentation was still present, but more as a half-forgotten memory which was easily masked by a couple extra pinches of powdered apple extract and white sugar. The gorgeously fruity bouquet of the brandy was finely tempered by some proprietary technique into an extremely mulled note that burned pleasantly in the throat, and graced the belly like a warm hug. Diluted by the extra fruits and sugar, the sweet brew went down even smoother than a dream and the warmth from the brandy spread softly across my body like a gentle rinse of warm water. The alcoholic content was hardly enough for a Witcher’s metabolism to get tipsy over, making for a gentle drinking experience fitting for a slow and extremely relaxed morning. Had I some bread, a few apples and perhaps a bit of meat, the need to leave my quarters at all wouldn't arise until I needed to use the privy.

Tankard in hoof, I returned my ingredients and utensils to their rightful place before turning to admire my armor, enjoying my simple morning appetizer in small, satisfying sips. Worn atop a comfortable silken tabard, a lengthy hauberk of Dracnoid leather-backed scale-maille crafted of fine steel alloyed with Isildine formed the core of my defense. The bottom half of the hem, which hovered only a few inches above my hind hooves, formed a long protective skirt split into four equal sections for maximum mobility. Defending my torso was a simple cuirass of etched and fluted steel alloy, while fluted plate spaulders of multiple overlapping lames guarded my shoulders from the front and sides. A pair of large squares of leather-backed scales rode atop my collarbones and draped somewhat over the upper-halves of my spaulders as extra protection. These directly defended the anchoring leather straps of the cuirass and spaulders from harm and came with additional neck guards to compliment the high scaled collar of my hauberk. Bracers made of narrow splints of metal riveted to a backing of thick, scaled Dracnoid leather were strapped atop the sleeves of the scale hauberk, extending to just above each fetlock leaving the hooves free to flex as needed. Further protection of the forehooves was provided by long padded gloves of cured Dracnoid hide, riveted firmly along near the hoofs’ edge with spiked studs of silver-plated steel. Cuisse formed of wide overlapping bands of hardleather, riveted extensively on the exterior by plates of lightly fluted steel, were strapped atop padded trousers of exceptionally comfortable, yet sturdy silk and hemp. Further reinforcement was provided by large swaths of soft, flexible leather stuffed with yet another layer of padding, lining all areas which faced outwards towards danger. With these two defenses, further augmented by a pair of wide tassets over my hips, the sides of my flanks were graced with extra defenses from what the split skirt of the hauberk could not properly cover. The boots protecting my hind legs kept to the theme of being crafted from cured Dracnoid hide, with attached polyens of plate steel capping my hind knees and a reinforced plate under the soles; further splints of steel riveted on the boots exterior ending in fully steel-capped hooves. Atop all this was a sturdy leather harness of thick belts, hooks, buckles, fasteners and other anchor points. All worn around the shoulders and across the chest, clasped off at one large, singular point where the buckles converged at the front of the chest. A Viper Crest engraved on a wide steel disc had been welded atop this mass of buckles in a sort of rondel-approximate in order to protect the various anchor points from harm. In some regards, the harness was the most complex piece of the entire ensemble, as it acted as the anchor point for my Codex at the front, longswords and Fangs at the back, well over a dozen small bags and pouches of varying size, and a collection of throwing knives at various other key locations. A second similar harness system wrapped around my waist and thighs, with specialized retention straps on snap fasteners for several bombs, a short bandolier for vials of Oil, Venom or Potions, and the single, large bag containing a portable Alchemy kit gifted to each Witcher upon graduation.

Altogether, my armor was immensely sturdy, necessitating few repairs by grace of the steel used in its construction having been alloyed with a high concentration of Isildine. Dracnoid leather cured in an acid bath of Archgryphon venom was similarly resilient to time, damage and the elements, with hundreds of pieces tanned and formed even centuries ago still just as sturdy as when they were first crafted. Normally cured to a mostly rigid state on par with cast iron, further treatments involving yet more Alchemical processes would render it as soft and supple as doeskin, with some noticeable loss in protection. Strips of this soft, yet hardy leather were sewn down the length of the exterior of my hauberk in an effort to retain its shape and dampen the sound of scales shifting with movement. Broad portions were also likewise sewn directly in the undersides of my limbs, preventing scales from snagging and causing undue wear from friction as I moved. Indeed, anywhere there was to be excessive friction in a Witcher's armor from simple movements was wisely reinforced in this manner across multiple Schools in order to limit undue wear and tear on equipment. Of course, all these beautiful layers of flexible, redundant defense were all to the letter prescribed in the ancient diagrams drafted for and by our School in the earliest days. These had seemingly been blessed much like the other diagrams fashioned in those blissful, dangerous experimental days of old. After all, few design choices made during the Council of Archmasters by the original Armorers had changed all that much in the centuries since our guild's founding. Only adding or removing elements as best suited the changing times or suited the individual and their approach to the craft.

Indeed, each and every School had, at least at one point in time, a dedicated line of armors which acted as their official ‘uniform’ whilst in public. While this was all for the sake of solidarity and professionalism, it also had the benefit of immediate identification of the wearer’s School and their relative level of training and proficiency in the Witcher arts. All School armors progressed linearly as one moved through the ranks, starting as simple versions of the School’s chosen design lacking any heavy plate, chain or otherwise. Instead, the armor given to Apprentices in the Bastion, training only with wooden weapons against one another, was merely finely tailored padding. As they became an Acolyte or a Witchling (dependent on their Choice), blunted blades of metal began to be used and modest armor was issued out, allowing them to start taking on the true appearance of a professional. Acolytes were admittedly granted more protection with the armor they were issued compared to their fellow Witchlings still in training. They would be wandering the perilous Path far sooner than Witchlings would after all, it was only seen as fitting to provide them a fighting chance past graduation. Once all their Trials had been passed and their Medallion activated, what could be called the ‘true’ uniform of the School was finally awarded, alongside a pair of proper Witcher's longswords and a personal Codex. This armor provided rather supreme protection from blade, fang and claw, being made of quality leathers, fabrics and metals as fine as any piece crafted for a Knight of any Kingdom worth its salt. Each School’s armor had their own distinctly unique colors and design, with a vast array of smithing techniques utilized in their construction as best suited the general combat profile of the School. Chain and scale-maille, studded gambeson, brigandine, plated maille, hardleather, splints, lamellar, sheets of hammered and fluted steel…all these and more acted as suitable wells of inspiration for the original Armorers when drafting the first diagrams.

There even existed the so-called Three Doctrines of Defense which formed the metaphorical spine of all techniques taught and equipment worn whilst on the Path. Namely, these were known as the Light, Moderate and Heavy Doctrines, each of which had differing prescriptions of skills and knowledge cores best suited to each weight-class of defense. And so thusly equipped after the Doctrine of their School, a graduated Witcher or Acolyte would set out into the open world to put their years of training to the truest test of retention and competency. Another cog in our well-greased campaign against the foes lining the pages of the Bestiary…even if it felt at times the greater enemy which hovered over us was being forcefully ignored. There had been talk of striking back since even before the Cleansing, to take our march directly to Canterlot which could even be faintly seen from the Spire, it was so close. And yet…the fact remained that there were simply too few of us now who had survived to logically expect victory, not without great losses or bolstering out ranks with other forces. Our numbers had graciously stabilized since that time as the training of new students was still graciously tolerated but, it would take a tremendous fool to think that they would satisfyingly fill the loss of so many true Witchers. Indeed, making peace with Celestia, as infuriating and insulting as it had been, had ensured our continued survival and that of the Valley at large by saving its citizens the horrors of a siege. It was a rather tense and altogether unsustainable peace, but it was a peace nonetheless and it had gone on unbroken for over half a century now. Somehow…

My admiration over every atom of my gear carried me well through to the bottom of my tankard and once the last drop trickled out, I felt well enough to leave for the day. While the mandate that every Witcher wear their armor during School hours loosely applied to Masters and above, I of myself loathed being parted from it. There were formal robes (more akin to stylish gambesons) reserved for us which we could choose to wear around the School if one wished to wear something lighter during the day. I of myself only wore them occasionally for that matter, usually for an occasion such as a Feast Day when it was broadly seen as uncouth to wear so much armor around visiting guests. Apart from those brief situations, I felt most at ease when defended hoof-to-neck by my blessedly lovely armor. Regretfully however, the sound construction of my equipment failed to prevent the effects of long-distance travel as mud, dirt, dried Ichor and other fouling substances were caked all over it. It was a miracle that Vivian nor any of the rest that had experienced close contact with me failed to comment as to how horridly the smell of the road must have been on me. The mutations had rendered thermoregulation an exceedingly efficient biological process, resulting in sweat being the least contributing factor to my odor. Rather, the scents I had inadvertently accumulated along the way were to blame for the veritable miasma of stink which clung to my beloved equipment.

There existed some useful tricks which were available to us to deal with the many nuisances on the road. A personal favorite was a technique taught early in the training of Signs, making use of the hydrophobic nature of the Sign of Quen to rid oneself of undue moisture. Indeed, I could have swam the length of Mother’s Mirror and been able to render myself dry in an instant with the simple shielding Sign. Regrettably…Quen could do nothing to expel my clothes of odors, and I realized my first major errand of the day was the washhouses in the Servant’s Courtyard. Once upon a time, I had not yet earned the right to ask another to perform my laundry on my behalf and instead, had been amongst the other students rinsing and washing my equipment by hoof in the lavoir. Truly, as a Master there was the right to limited use of the serving staff for personal needs. Those somewhat outside the periphery of their normal duties, but could be freely declined or graciously tipped if they so wished. Nevertheless, I felt uncomfortable in being so petty as to ring the servants’ bell for one to come and fetch my things and take them away whilst I continued to rest and relax before them. The morning was mine to be as lackadaisical as I wished, but I was not so slothful as to emulate the Lords and Ladies I and so many others here had come to despise.

Setting my tankard down finally, I donned my gambeson robes of green with silver trim denoting the School of the Viper, and gathered up my gear to begin the relatively short journey down to the washhouses. As I had dutifully cleaned and polished them several times on the road back to Kaer Solaris, my weapons were already fit for public display by any Mentor or Instructor’s high standards. And so, with the aid of a simpler reserve harness sporting the Crest of the Wolf School, I transferred my sheathed Fangs and longswords to their respective positions on my back before stepping before the mirror for a quick once-over of my reflection. The dark charcoal grey mare softly smirking back at me was quite the treat for the eyes if I did say so myself, even in spite of the visible battle damage crisscrossing my hide from years on the Path. Even one of my tall, tufted ears was lopped-off at the tip on the left side, courtesy of one Sir Elm Bulwark during the Eighth Battle of the Bitter Fens in the waning years of the Race Wars. Sparkling violet snake-like eyes gazed back at me from the mirror amidst a frazzled mane like polished silver, something I set about quickly combing as straight as I cared to attempt. Once I felt my hair felt presentable enough for the world outside my chambers to see, I bunched it up in a ponytail behind my head with an elastic band and transferred my money purse to my belt. After rinsing out the inside of my tankard with some water from a pitcher, I opened the pane of glass on one of my windows and tossed the contents out into the mountain air as a fine mist caught in the breeze. All put away and comely, I closed the door to my quarters behind me, trusting the enchantment to lock it on its own accord as I pressed the large lever to call the lift to my floor. It descended smoothly from some upper level and was devoid of any other passengers allowing me to step aboard the lift, along with my neatly folded pile of armor floating at my side. Having had time for my nose to lose its blind spot for my own armor, I held the rather rank articles far from me as I descended further to the base floor of the Master’s Tower.

The world outside felt good on my fur as I stepped out onto the south-facing balcony servicing the other set of Instructor’s bedchambers. The warmth from the Sun overhead was lightly tempered by a cool, gentle and pervasive breeze which swept the battlements and ramparts, ensuring our flags were always displayed their colors and emblems proudly. Pure white smoke as wide as the Spire itself rose up from its enormous sconce from atop Kael’s Fang far away and above the School. Seeing it as proud as ever, I quietly hoped that the Empress was glancing through her Observatory this day to see our silent defiance burn brightly. These thoughts carried me the length of the balcony and down the stairway leading into the Great Hall. Exiting via a door near the eastern side of the Judgement Seat, I was immediately met with the raucous mirth of the noonday meal with a rowdy company of Witchers and students. Each table was seated to capacity and laden down heartily with what smelled like some kind of meaty stew and freshly baked bread, accompanied of course by a pint or two of pale lager. Only by the grace of my boozy breakfast was I able to resist the immediate urge to take my place at the Masters’ tables and engorge myself on something more than the apple and bread roll of the previous day. Instead, I rushed quickly through the Hall destined for the stairwell down to the Shrine, as the quickest path to the Servant’s Courtyard was via the Kitchens. The Shrine hall was devoid of any occupants, save for Vivian who rested daintily upon one of the couches sat between each alcove, and gave me a gentle wave as I hurried past. Sadly I wished not to subject her to the rankness of my armor once more and returned her wave and smile with one of my own.

A sheer invisible wall of potent aroma hit me as I entered through to the Kitchens to see the cooks plying their trade with excellence; the contents of three enormous caldrons of stew being transferred into more manageable clay pots for serving the tables above. The blackened tiles steered me true through the commotion of their work, though this time, instead of exiting out to the scullery, I swung south and down another marked path. This one passed through yet another doorway and into the small lift tower built into the curtain wall of the larger, upper portion of the School built atop a nearly extinct volcano. Its eruption, which helped form the Valley around us, was an ancient event which had occurred countless ages ago during the Creation itself. Or so the earliest surviving records amongst the Direwolves recounted, carved on prehistoric slabs of basalt stone. In the wake of its eruption, it left behind a diminutive, flattened peak when compared to the other mountains of the White Fang range. Thousands of meters separated us from the vein of liquid magma so far below, ensuring the School was built upon a solid foundation with room to delve even deeper somewhat without consequence. Similar to the lift in the Master’s Tower (for indeed, all lifts here functioned the same), this lift tower too came to stop at a few differing locations; namely the top of the wall above, the Servant’s Courtyard itself and a stop roughly halfway down entering into a network of underground passages. These connected various places like a secondary Barracks carved out to accommodate the influx of Witchers from the Cleansing, the Laboratorium which needed a large space of its own, and the Infirmary for all the School's medical needs. Graciously I had not needed to seek out their services in many moons by mercy of my enhanced regenerative abilities which rendered most minor injuries fairly negligible.

The lift itself descended for roughly forty-or-so meters, past its other destination at the tunnels, before coming to a rest in a lofty subterranean stone hall. Lit brightly by torch and lantern light, this acted as one of many storerooms across the School for all the Kitchen's immediate needs. Here, mammoth wooden kegs of ale lined one wall while the other was laden down with shelves all sturdily built of solid mahogany. Each bore all manner of commonly used spices in fine canvas bags while wide barrels of raw vegetables were neatly lined up beneath them for ease-of-access. As the space was dutifully occupied by further serving staff working the noonday meal, I awaited my moment to scurry across the hall without tripping one of them up. The next three halls were of a similar nature to the first, differing only in that their various barrels and casks were sealed tightly against contamination while awaiting transit into the primary storeroom for use in the Kitchens above. Past the final hall, a large double-door gate used during the transfer of fresh supplies from the carts to the storerooms was barred shut; a smaller wicket gate set into the rightmost door standing wide open for the free passage of lone individuals. The lift tower descended shallowly into the southern side of the Holy Mount and emerged into the Servant’s Courtyard via the gate built into the mountainside. Much like unto the Lower Courtyard of the School proper, the Servant’s primary living space was a quaint, but still very lovely garden lawn dotted by many trees. Indeed, much love and effort had gone into seeing to the comfort and enjoyment of the working staff and, out of respect to their quietude, the direct path to the Grand Viaduct from the School proper was seldom used by common pedestrians. The great exception of course, were the regular caravans of carts hauling fresh goods brought in from local farms in the Valley, both above and below ground. These entered in via the lifthouse located in Tir Ná Liá along a dedicated causeway known as the Merchant's Way before finding their way into the roots of the fortress. A standing portal had also been erected in the Gardens that deposited seekers of the Spire within the first gatehouse which marked the entrance to the Viaduct, all without disturbing the servants one iota.

Many fountains had been fashioned across their bailey, each spaced evenly between the modest housing units which fed their runoff down covered stone troughs embedded in the pavers like the Garden above. However, the destination was not some complex series of grow beds bearing Alchemical ingredients and other plants meant for pure visual enjoyment. Rather, it all coalesced into one large trough fed directly into the washhouses lining the western edge of the curtain wall. Here, large basins for soaping up then rinsing out articles of clothing were attended for several hours a day for the daily round of laundry. All basins were bountifully fed by a constant running supply of fresh water channeled in from outside. The wastewater from this process was then flushed out the other end, forming a small stream off the side of the Mount which descended back underground via a carved tunnel packed with sand, fine gravel and charcoal held together by a wire mesh. Changed every few months, the added materials helped filter out what water was being returned to the earth and ensured our impact on the land was minimized. Indeed, many aspects of Eldar living were explicitly the more expensive, time-consuming methods of reducing our negative impact on the natural world around us. The Valley had welcomed us all as a second home amidst the lands of the enemy and readily assimilated our ways and cultures as could be adapted to the greater populace. We loved our land and always sought to keep ourselves as blameless from the destruction of the natural world as we could be. Wastewater from the School’s indoor plumbing however…that we sent directly into the heart of the volcano as few here, particularly the magically gifted, wished to deal with the complexity and disgust of purifying excrement.

As the morning laundry had already occurred prior to the noon meal, there were only a few washing staff attending the lavoir seemingly finishing up what articles had come in late. The washrooms were somewhat open air with large sections of the supporting walls sporting gaping windows, allowing the breeze to pass through unimpeded while still providing some protection from the elements. Come the chillier months leading into winter, these were covered by waxed canvas sheets and packed with bales of dry hay for insulation; the water fed through the basins switched to runoff from the hot springs via the expansive system of stone pipes throughout the School. Padded stools and mats were provided for those who wished for comfort whilst scrubbing away at the various sheets, cloaks, capes and other such articles that passed through daily. Indeed, armors such as mine were also commonplace here so that any in attendance would be capable of handling its return to a glorious, wearable state. Fine soaps were provided locally from experts in the field of cleansing and fragrance, gracing all washed here with beautiful aromas which lasted days. Soon after my entry, a comely yellow stallion dressed in simpler white-and-red robes like unto Vivian’s stood from his work and addressed me with a warm smile of welcome.

“Welcome, welcome!” The Pegasus hummed brightly, raising a wing and gesturing to the washroom. “Dear Master Viper, what can I assist ye with this fine afternoon?”

“Not the prettiest of tasks, but one you all are better at than I am to this day.” I replied with a smile of greeting before levitating my pile of laundry in front of his gaze. “I have only recently returned from the Path and-”

“Say no more!” He beamed with a grin across his dusky chestnut face while taking my gear in his dexterous wings. “We will have you looking your absolute best in no time at all! Are you in need of any additional services, Master Witcher?”

“Nay, good fellow. Just the washing please. Materials as good as these aren’t wanting for much by way of maintenance, but I thank ye all the same. You may send a runner or a Zamak to fetch me once you are finished. There is no need to waste your efforts on hauling my gear all the way up to my chambers…none of us fancy or fashion ourselves as Lords or Ladies.”

With a dutiful nod and a smile of gratitude, he took the Half Crown coin I offered him for his services and rushed off to begin his work, calling another to assist him from the far end of the washroom. Though the structure was well designed, and handsomely decorated by colorful paints upon the plastered walls, there was little reason for me to remain nearby while they worked. After all, it was a day of rest for me and by paying for my laundry to be done, I could alleviate any guilt for using my station to exact petty favors from the serving staff. With nothing left to accomplish in the Servant’s Courtyard, I bid them farewell and exited back out into the bailey. Once in the open air, I set myself about retracing my steps back through the storerooms and up the lift back to the Kitchens. Though I had worried somewhat that I had yet again missed the noon meal, the sight of yet more clay pots of stew and wooden platters of bread destined for the Great Hall above calmed me greatly. As it took a few moments for the servant’s lift to the Hall to return unoccupied, I offered to make myself useful by bearing several platters of bread and pitchers of ale up with them. Accompanying another silent yet beaming servant onto the lift, the air around me full of levitating platters, we ascended swiftly up the blank stone shaft to a recessed entrance in the Great Hall. By this time, around half of those present had finished eating and departed back to their various tasks leaving many seats open at the Master's table for me to choose from. Chairs sporting proper back support were uncommon in Kaer Solaris as the overwhelming majority of its occupants carrying at least one of their swords upon their back, making benches and stools the preferred furniture around the School. Bearing food as I was, it brought some smirks of amusement from the Witchers I approached.

"Well I'll be…hey Violet! Since when was it legal for the serving staff to wear two blades astride one another on the back? Or has a Master Witcher ditched the Path to take up the simple life of a maid? Gods what a horrid choice that would be..."

"Ohhh my! Frejdá! What in fuck's name are you doing slinging bread? A change of occupation at your age? And what's with being home so soon, eh? Getting too old even for that now are you?"

"Hilarious…" I sighed with a happy smile as I distributed the bread platters and pitchers of ale evenly across the table. "Would it kill any of you to make yourselves useful to them on occasion? They toil daily to keep this School running like the clockwork it is. What do you do, dear Violet, to help the School and the world at large?"

The Unicorn mare as purple as her name pouted indignantly at my jest, her dark brownish-orange leather armor clashing oddly with her colors. Though time had dulled it, one could still faintly catch the Yonderland accent lightly tinging her otherwise more Equestrianized voice.

"I kick monster arse, get paid in solid coin, hoard wealth, and resent my whole cursed family. Baking bread is for somepony less interesting to do, I've got Contracts coming out of my ears and couldn't be happier!" She responded with a huff, exchanging sly winks with Topaz Skies who acted as her devious partner in crime. "What about you, eh? Doesn't look like winter outside to me so tell me, what gives Frejdá? Don't tell me you aren't even able to handle a full year on the Path anymore..."

At that, both mares broke down into fits of unbridled mirth at my personal expense as I took a seat and awaited a break in their laughter to reply, "I returned early, yes. Though it would do ye Foxes well to know that I happened upon one of the Fallen, a Cat of the Second Born by the name of Braxia. A Shroud should never be left to rest longer than it must."

"Ah…well…that changes it a wee bit, don't it?" Violet replied after they were both struck with a sudden silence. "Gods…how long has it been since a ploughin' Cat got added to the Vigil Tree? Fifty years?"

"No clue, way too long a time all the same." Topaz commented, pawing softly at the silver Fox that hung around her neck. "Well…good to see ya again, Frejdá. You look in good form, all go well on the Path?"

"Aye! I'd be out there still were it not for that blasted Shroud. Do not get the wrong impression of course, I am the least to complain over the discovery of one of the Fallen. Especially one so old as this. However…I can hardly say it has been a profitable endeavor thus far out there beyond the Valley. If the rest of the year remains as it has been thus far, I will need to parse another loan from the Treasury."

"Oh? How bad then, ya old hag?" Violet sneered teasingly.

"Hmph…southern Equestria isn't even worth the journey anymore… Six Contracts since I set out, the most one paid was some fifty Crowns and I was cheated out of two others…ugly shites called their garrisons out to fish for that lovely loophole the Empress left for everyone."

"Damn, you too? Sorry sacks of shite…how in the Hel are we not supposed to draw our weapon when suddenly sprung on by angry soldiers in plate? It takes some heaping guts of solid stone to not fuckin' whip steel out of the sheath when that shite happens…"

"Especially when we're all on a razor-thin tripwire for our response to armed Equestrians in this day and age!" Topaz added in with a solid thud of her hoof against the table. "I always expect one of those bastards to try and slip a razor between my ribs anytime I walk near…"

"I cannot say I disagree with that…however, I spent most of my time out on the High Road or in the wilderness so my contact with Equestrians was thankfully limited. Which brings something to mind, have you any word on the Trottingham delegation? I spoke with Sir Tiffy prior to retiring for bed rather early yesterday so I have had no updates on the situation since."

"What's there to say? We weren't invited to the damn search party so why should we care?" Topaz retorted with an angry snort.

"Oh common, Tope… What the bitch meant to say was that we don't know either. Tiffy just stormed into the Den barking orders at all the Masters and Grandmasters to assemble in the Barbican immediately to begin a search for Ambassador Basil. Said, 'This is not a matter for an Adept, dear Keidis.', before storming off towards Richtus with his chosen lackeys."

"I see…they have had more than a full day to search the High Road so the lack of any word from them is telling. Something has befallen them…I know better than to not trust my instincts."

"What do you think it means?" Violet asked pointedly, glancing towards the towering entrance doors to the Hall. "If an Equestrian assaults an ambassador…that could mean a possible war with Trottingham. Another war I should say, heh. Perhaps this peace between they and we is growing cumbersome for Her Royal Ass"

"I couldn't tell you, but I do not like any of it in the slightest." I grunted in reply while pulling a full pot of stew towards me rather than dishing it into a bowl. "Enough talk, let a mare eat some ploughin' food finally, damnit. I have been awaiting this for some time now."

If either of them began speaking once I had finished, my awareness of it was entirely dulled as I was overcome by the taste and aroma of the hearty beef stew. Another resulting mutation nearly universal amongst all Witchers was an adaptation into a fully omnivorous diet, regardless of whatever species they had once hailed from. The biological reasoning was purely for the expansive list of 'fuel' sources to satisfy our intense metabolisms, but I was not one to complain for the expansive cuisines I was now privy to. After weeks of salted meats, trail grains, and whatever roots, berries and fungi I could scrounge up from the wilderness, I was in true bliss to be enjoying a proper hot meal again. While I had found some success with deadfall trapping and snares, fresh wild game had been an extremely infrequent part of my diet, and so to have a taste of freshly butchered meat once more was pure bliss. Without even realizing I was washing my tongue with flavor after flavor as I hungrily devoured whatever was in reach; apples, roasted vegetables, thick stew, dense bread and cool, refreshing pale ale right from the cellars. While manners were expected by all who ate within the Great Hall (proper merrymaking reserved for the taverns), I was a Witcher famished and by the many Gods and Goddesses…I would have my fill. Before long I was beginning to feel satisfied and allowed my pace of eating to slacken to a much more reasonable pace, all the while the other two mares made snide glances at each other at my expense.

"Greedy slob, isn't she?" Violet giggled now that I had come up for air and was more aware of their voices. “Whatever would your Mentor say if he saw such a spectacle from his prized pupil?”

“Spare me thy jests, Violet…” I sighed once I had found a moment to wipe my mouth with a nearby table rag. “You were naught but a tickle in thy father’s loins while I toiled under Nozgath’s tutelage. Whatever would you know about the habits of my Mentor? A stallion with more Hunts under his belt than either of you combined, even in the grave?”

“Yeah…I’m afraid to say it, Vi but you’re shooting for murky waters with that one.” Topaz commented with a subdued laugh.

“Alright, I can take that…constructive criticism, if you wish to call it that. However, that does not detract from the obvious statement of fact: you eat like a gods-damned Feral!”

“And you can take another meaningless victory of banter, dear Princess. Congratulations on your success and etcetera and so on…now, if you would excuse me? I have only a few minutes until they truly begin clearing up the Hall, and they will be wanting this pot back I am most sure.”

“...Fine. Let’s go, Topaz.” She replied with a stiff expression of annoyance, getting to her hooves before leaning close to my ear and hissing, “Don’t you fucking call me that, alright? You know that’ll only piss me off more.”

“My dear, if you wish to take this verbal banter to the Ring then by all means make the challenge official. It will not prevent me from finishing my meal, whatever road you decide to take, so please…do me the courtesy.”

“Hmph…up yours, Princess.”

And with that, the quippy pair stalked off out the Great Hall by way of the main doors. I knew I had struck a very sore nerve and, had I not been so famished, would never have considered it as suitable fodder. The disowned and partially-disinherited daughter of the Duke of Yonderland was not one to take mention of that illustrious heritage lightly. Indeed, Violet was the sort of mare who wished to bury one past life under the accomplishments of another; one made in her own image and guided by her ambitions so that all deeds performed were under her own name and for her own glory. Her upbringing in the upper echelons of wealthy society had left their permanent mark on her however, and she was prone to mild indulgences in the finer things in life. Disinheritance or no, she had been upfront upon seeking out the Witchers that she had come bearing some measure of wealth she had absconded with whilst fleeing the Ducal Palace. As a result…she was already amongst the wealthier Witchers amongst all the Schools even before her mutations amongst the Cats in the waning days of their loyalty to the Path. There were rumors that she too had participated, at least somewhat, in their dabblings with the world of assassination Contracts prior to fleeing the Grand Caravan. However…given that she had renounced the School of the Cat and enthusiastically took up the new Crest of the Fox alongside her fellows, Kaer Solaris had granted them all a blanket amnesty for past actions. Those same rumors also mentioned repeatedly that any who fell to her blade in that time were murders of a personal nature. A…trimming of the family tree at the very fringes as she had once described it, pruning any ‘diseased’ leaves she could get away with without striking too deeply and facing their true wrath. It was a dangerous game she was willing to play with Yonderland, yet she still breathed while others of her kin have ceased to by her own hoof. Of course, my part to play in these rumors was...intentionally left vague in those rumors at utter worst, and omitted entirely from the narrative at absolute best.

Topaz was comparatively far more mundane in her origins, having been a childhood friend of Violet’s amongst the Ducal staff, the daughter of a lowly scullery maid. In her own words, she had grown to chafe under the weight of the wealth of those she and her family served as well as the mediocre existence she found herself in. Upon Violet’s (somewhat) voluntary exile, she had already come of age and so took up her meager belongings, bid her parents an eternal farewell, and chased after her lifelong friend. In her tenure as a Witcher, she had gained the recognition and renown she too had been craving. Having always lived in the shadow of her adoptive sister’s former wealth, golden Crowns, silver Halters and copper Bits earned by the sweat of her own brow now constantly jingled in her purse. Hers was a name and reputation that matched that of Violet, with many a successful Contract under both of their belts that were worthy of any member of our guild. Of course, to stand out amongst all the Schools was a challenge few truly overcame over the centuries. True legends amongst Witchers were few and far between by virtue of each of us being capable of tremendous deeds over that of the common mortal. But…that was no excuse for any to seek that level of greatness, not the least of those who, like Topaz, had come from such meager beginnings. Since those beginnings, one could have confused the pair for sisters by the powerful bond between them as they were never out of sight nor sound of the other. It was seen as unusual amongst their fellow Foxes as several married couples were, or at least had been amongst their ranks, yet none were seemingly so devoted to the other as Violet and Topaz. Truly the rumors about what sort of complicated romance was occurring between them were rampant, amongst the thousands of assorted hushed whispers in every corner of Kaer Solaris… And yet, despite it all they maintained that they were nothing more than, in their words, ‘Soulmates in battle and Sisters of the Hunt’. Whether there was any truth to it or they were simply attempting to hide a relationship that not a soul in the Valley would oppose…well, it was now a multi-decade mystery. One with seemingly no satisfying conclusion located anywhere on the horizon.

Encouraging Witchers to travel and Hunt in pairs was not universal amongst the Schools, save perhaps for those Witchers that took to each other and were wed in a manner personal to each couple. In the wake of our broad sterility, weddings and romantic pairings were not so much a matter of replenishing our ranks as it were fulfilling that basic need for lasting romantic or even platonic companionship. Indeed it varied wildly between all Schools as to the commonality of more than one Witcher treading together along the Path, with even wedded couples infrequent but not all that uncommon either. However, outside of those bound by matrimony to one another, only the Schools of the Wolf, Griffin, Dragon, Viper and Swan possessed any real familiarity with group tactics; the Wolves, Griffins and Swans having regular training drills in pairs, or even small groups in the case of the Wolves. Indeed, the School of the Wolf excelled in this field as informal ‘packs’ of close friends grew amongst their ranks during the course of their training and instruction. While most Witchers wandered the world alone, ‘twas a rare sight to see a Wolf unaccompanied by a fellow packmate or two; each a Brother or Sister in arms, and solidifying that bond via years of Hunting with one another on the Path. This wasn’t to say that such a bond did not exist, nor was impossible to achieve outside the School of the Wolf as many likewise encouraged fellowship amongst their ranks, though none quite did it like the Wolves could. Many friendships crisscrossed our number, both within members of our own Schools, as well as fellows hailing under another Crest. This being accounted for however, no Witchers could fight in such close quarters alongside one another with the skill, ferocity and coordination of a pack of Wolves. Indeed, they excelled in such matters and could handle exceedingly difficult Contracts together whilst splitting the profits gained afterwards.

Foxes, much like the School of the Cat from which they originated, were very much more inclined to wandering the lonesome road in isolation, particularly those called to dwell in the Kingdom of Trottingham. With so few allowed to dwell within their borders at one time, it was seen as a wanton waste of the Kingdom’s coffers for more than one Fox to be assigned to the same Contract at any one time. The noble House of Sheffield had acted as the technical hosts of the School of the Fox since its inception, having performed the role of primary benefactors to the entire formative organization. They had even offered to repurpose and fortify an old family manor within the capital city of Brookshire to act as the physical School itself, however…there was a catch. Due to multiple shared borders, Trottingham had to worry over their angsty Equestrian cousins becoming uncomfortable with a burgeoning Witcher army so nearby. As a result, no more than thirty-and-five Foxes were allowed to live and operate within their borders at any one given time; all other Schools being barred entirely out of a sense of extremely understandable caution. Those not selected for placement within Trottingham, such as Violet, Topaz and Tiffy, occupied Kaer Solaris amongst the rest of us while they awaited the call from King Sheffield to replenish the ranks. Indeed, it seemed that such a call was supposed to have been the intent of the expected delegation that was now three-days late. There was certainly some tension to be had over their absence…however, what was I to do about it? What were any not called upon already to do regarding their absence? I was not a Fox and had yet to be asked to join in their attempts to scour the High Road for the expected diplomats and their armed escort.

My stomach now much more satiated by delicious food, I paused in my gluttonous devouring to mull over a flagon of light cider to allow it all to settle. As earlier in my quarters, I allowed myself some time to relish in my freedom from the mandatory hours of lectures and rigorous physical exercise regimen students were bound by. In fact, I found myself curious as to what would be my next self-appointed task. Wandering the Path made for relatively easy daily planning as the road ahead was usually as simple as moving onto the next town or village nearby the High Road. Spend a day or two prodding about for any whiff of a Contract in the immediate area before moving onto the next area worth investigating. The Contract was the itinerary to beat all itineraries save for the structured schedule of an actual School, all actions dictated by the nature of the monster or Daemon under scrutiny. Returning from the Path as early as I was, it was almost unnatural to feel the warmth of a midsummer Sun while within the School as the chill cold of winter remained our call to come home. Winter changed the School little as the volcano’s heat could be channeled through expert pipework woven into every stone facet of the fortress, pumping warmth as one giant circulatory system via a series of vents. The glorious Sun above also graced us with an extra bounty of its warming rays come winter, embracing all out of doors like it were the first months of autumn allowing training like the Pendulums or the Gauntlet to proceed as normal. Outdoor classes at large were held with as much regularity as could be achieved, pending any heavy rainfall or high mountain winds. There was much to be gained from spending time amongst the beauties of nature after all and much of our lives would be spent traversing the High Road far from the nearest village. Admittedly though, the Valley was in a league unto its own with our unusual assortment of native and foreign flora which made our home so much more unique.

As part of my own normal winter routine, I would convene with old friends and spend the better part of the first month home, spending my time in-between hangovers as tales of the past year were exchanged between us. Regrettably however, most were likely countless leagues away, exploring the lesser traveled paths of the High Road far from the Valley; far from being near enough to be of any use in filling up my hours. Naturally, I could return to the Path within a matter of days once I had rested, restocked my supplies and perhaps dabbled somewhat with the Spectre Petals I had obtained. Indeed, it was not as if the High Road leading up to the Valley was laden down with so much snow that one could not possibly hope for easy passage…however, I still found myself feeling days away from being ready to return to the Path. The allure of my personal bed with its down feather stuffing, and the symphony of filling flavors provided by the Kitchens was simply too much to resist now that I had time to enjoy them again. And as if to only sweeten the deal, the glassware and equipment of the Laboratorium was not to be beat by any Alchemist within a thousand leagues. My precious Petals could truly not ask for a better place for their potential to be documented and experimented on in a controlled setting. This of course was assuming the Laboratorium was not already fully occupied by our rotating cast of Alchemists and those more Arcanely-inclined pursuing their own personal projects. Some even still yet attempted to reproduce the Grasses we had lost during the Cleansing, working in great secrecy so as to prevent another unwelcome appearance at the Arch of the Hunters. Granted, Witch Hunters had not been allowed access to the School nor the Valley since the Cleansing, when they first absconded with our mutagens and the recipes hiding their secrets. Pursuing these old secrets was the life goal of more than one who occupied Kaer Solaris…so far however to no avail as there was no shortcut to the answers our predecessors learned through decades and centuries of refinement. The First Council of Scholars had far more universal support and financing for their formative years than we had now. Not to mention the number of willing volunteers needed to carve a path of death and suffering necessary to trod if we were to obtain those mutagenic secrets once more in their fullness.

Fluffy wheat bread handily mopped up what remained of the stew in the pot, and before long, I was setting all my used cutlery and tankard in the empty pot ready to be carried off to be washed. So engorged had I become that the mere thought of physical exertion became near-nauseating, at least for the immediate future while digestion had some time to work. With slow, careful movements I pulled away from the bench and stood upright, leaving my tidy pile of used dishes where they lie so the remaining staff could remove them. My next destination was somewhat of a mystery, for though I felt compelled to engage in some kind of exercise, my stomach was unwilling to negotiate for at least an hour leaving me fewer options than normal. There was the Library of course with its countless shelves and comfortable reading nooks, the Laboratorium with a possible encounter with a snobbish Mage or Sorceress but abundant equipment, and the bathing pools beneath the School…but I did not quite yet need a bath, not until after I had exercised at least. Meanwhile, the Gardens offered fresh air, cool shade and less stringent noise policies than the Library. As soon as the thought entered my mind, the decision was already made for me and with little prompting my hooves carried me back across the Great Hall. Though slow, it saw me through the double doored passage to the sunlit outdoors with an apple or two slipping its way from the table and into one of the bags on my belt for later snacking.

Immediately the uncomfortable pressure in my abdomen felt easier to bear once I passed through the second door and into the open air. The moment the sensation took hold of my body, I was granted an easier time in striding across the stone paths connecting through the center of the cloister. Little had changed from my short sojourn the day previous, with the holy space brimming with quiet, but extremely lively activity as citizens of Redclaw and pilgrims from beyond the Valley mingled together in harmony. Much of the available seating both under the covered walkway as well as those under the open sky were thoroughly filled to capacity, while much of the standing space was likewise occupied making my search a lengthy one. In fact, space to rest was naught to be found save for those seats in the far northeastern corner near unto the Barracks and the Vigil Tree, an area naturally set apart as one for somber thoughts and quiet voices. So many were already enjoying in the bounties of our Gardens as well as in each others company. Witchers and Instructors mingled amidst serving staff, pilgrims and Fire Priests alike as though ranks still mattered, they tended to lose most meaning when pleasant conversation and people were available to enjoy with gusto. When my approach through the pleasant crowd revealed several open benches, my arse immediately sought out the closest and easiest of the lot to obtain.

In this corner of the cloister, the second of two wide recesses in the covered walkway played host to several notable features of the School; not in the least of which being a large, beautiful tree of pure white bark with leaves of gold set in its center and rising through a gap in the roofing. Forming the walls on either side were two compact lecture halls wherein the mysteries of the natural world and its manipulation via Alchemy were thoroughly parsed for knowledge by avid students. A narrow stairway leading to the curtain wall above hugged the inner face of the recess, providing a second point of access to the balcony servicing the Instructors’ bedrooms and the main walk of the fortress wall. Each lecture halls’ roof could be directly accessed from the balcony above, both cordoned off by sturdy fencing providing convenient sparring rings close to the Barracks nearby. The Barracks, a looming squared building capped at the four corners by small watchtowers, was built directly off the northeastern corner of the curtain wall as a distinct landmark that could even be spotted from farther up the Valley. From its prime position straddling near the corner of the Upper Courtyard and the Gardens, burgeoning students would have easy access to both areas to attend their meals, lectures and combat training directly from their bunkrooms. In many ways, the grand cloister which formed the Gardens housed the crossroads of many a path around the School as if an unofficial central hub of hoof traffic. The impact this level of interconnectivity had upon the area was made abundantly apparent when attempting to get from one end of the School to the other. Spending even more than thirty seconds making one's way across the Gardens under ideal conditions would be seen as inefficient, however, here…navigating one’s way around others’ conversations could consume minutes.

Sacrificing nearly five before the pair blocking my path noticed my presence, I was gracious to take a quiet seat on a carved bench in the far corner. Resting back against a stone support for the walkway's roof, I took in a deep breath of air and let it out slowly in a halfhearted attempt at alleviating the irritation within me. I was not the most comfortable when in the midst of multiple persons at once like this, and despite the tranquility, there was still plenty of noise. If it wasn't an excitable group of Witchlings, it was a boisterous Instructor conversing with their fellows, or the assorted bird songs which filled the Gardens with the music of nature. It was so very heartening to hear the commotion of so many other like-minded folks around me all enjoying the peace of the School and the Valley at large. I was at last amongst the truest kin I had who were not surviving relatives amongst the Lowland Valkyrie. Here, we were all Brothers and Sisters of the Hunt (those humble pilgrims excepted of course), and regardless of the School of our graduation, most seemed capable of swallowing such petty distinguishing differences between us and coming together in solidarity. It was deathly important to us to encourage and foster such an atmosphere as we were all we had in the world, by-and-large. Many precious lives had been ended far too soon outside the Valley...and though many of the Fallen had been recovered over time, countless more yet remained. Either the sufferer of some ignominious end in a forgotten nook of the world, or a victim of some Equestrian-backed attack. The light of the Sun overhead poured through the gap around the Tree nearby…and it was only a matter of time before the gleam of hundreds of dangling silver chains drew anyone's’ gaze its way.

The Vigil Tree was of a rare variety of alpine maple, given to the School as a memorial gift from the Örn; a wee sapling that was so lovingly tended to with the magic of the Valley. By the fifth year since its planting, it had almost fully grown to maturity with careful guidance around its narrow accommodations, providing a dazzling golden shade for that section of wall and Gardens its branches loomed over. Sensing an opportunity, Vivian had proposed using the beautiful edifice of nature as a living memorial to the Fallen by dangling their Medallions from its branches for all to see and remember. I doubted even Vivian could name each and every Witcher we honored on our tree… Each School had more than its share of Medallions dangling freely under the Sun, with the once honorable memory of the School of the Cat allowed to mingle freely amidst the rest of us in harmony. Indeed, it would be a mighty miracle to happen upon a Witcher who survived the Cleansing that had not been forced to hang the Medallion of at least one close friend. Or more if they were truly forsaken by luck and Fate. I myself had to shoulder that burden a total of seven times since relocating to Kaer Solaris. Some had been honest deaths, honorable and noble by every metric of the Witcher’s Code at the claws of some monstrosity with their trusty silver blade by their side. And others…lacked a Medallion or really any Relic that could be used as a physical object of mourning and memorial, their equipment absconded by Witch Hunters as trophies of their twisted Hunts. In lieu of their own personal Medallion, a new one was fashioned of the silvery wood from pruned branches of the Vigil Tree with it's eyes set with pure white crystal to represent their passing. And so, they too were offered the chance to mingle amidst the other Medallions of pure Lunar Silver, gleaming softer than their fellows as pale ghosts of friends who left no trace but their memory on those still living. A cruel, cruel Fate for all parties involved...

Every participant at the School had those special, favorite areas to which they would retreat in times of personal need. While the Library, Archives, Armory and The Gauntlet were all part of the network of personal retreats at various times for various emotions, this quiet corner near the Vigil Tree was far and away my most somber option. I had not come to the Tree out of the usual melancholy and remorse that brought me near, but it was rather the only quiet place I could obtain given the sacred space. And yet…it did not prevent me from gazing upon the remnants of hundreds, even thousands, of Witchers all clustered together as one cohesive whole amidst the boughs. It was an intentional choice not to provide some semblance of order to their placement upon the Tree, with no groupings based upon which School they hailed from being allowed to form. Despite our many differences, with infighting and rivalries founded upon ego, spite or simple bad intentions, we were all of the same special group; a species all our own that was intentionally manufactured to solve a problem which had only gotten worse from outside pressures beyond our control. We had formed our own collective identity and culture unique to our caste, which stood independently of other species and nationalities whilst parsing a little from each in turn. One colossal family formed around the Hunt for those monsters which lurked in the darkness beyond the Night. There was honor in remembering those who had Fallen along the way by stripping away the petty differences which grouped us into bickering tribes, and so it was that no two Schools were hung beside each other upon the Tree. In death…all who had entered its doors acting according to the Witcher's Code were equally deserving of remembrance and contemplation. Indeed…the longer I gazed, the more my mildly merry mood was tempered by that old sadness I wished to avoid meeting upon the road.

With another even heavier sigh, I settled back in my seat and closed my eyes without realizing. The heavy feasting I had just done was beginning to show its drowsy after-effects and began to consume my mind. I had no pressing concerns, and I was the safest I possibly could ever be...it was simply too easy to give into the temptation once it began taking over my eyes. My head and heart were heavy with tiredness and a woeful regret for the past, causing my eyelids to droop as if weighted down by leaden chains. Whether or not true sleep overcame me, I was beyond knowing, however I was conscious enough to be vaguely aware of the winding paths of thought carried me through the foggy twilight of half-sleep. Drifting me softly along to some unknown destination amidst the quiet of this somewhat secluded corner of the Gardens. The stone bench beneath me was far from comfortable to sit upon...but it was still yet enough to coddle me along fully into the realm of unconsciousness, and into states of dreaming. I had earned the extra rest.

**********

Chapter One: Of Ancient Shrouds & Spectral Petals

Sweet. The woodland atmosphere around me was unnaturally thick with a pungent odor that clung to every soft rush of air like an infestation of stubborn, most unwelcome lice. It was…sickly sweet even with a tinge reminiscent of fermentation, with a hint of Foxglove wafting in the background providing with me all the confirmation I needed. I had successfully wounded her, rather efficiently even, judging from how clear of a trail of Ichor she was leaving in her wake as she fled deeper into the Everfree. Though I pursued after her to continue my Hunt, I made no overly great rush of it. The Specter Blade Oil had ensured that my blade penetrated her hide and prevented, at least in large part, her ability to dissipate her form into an unassailable mist. As it stood, she undoubtedly sought the refuge of her Nest in order to rest and recover, completely unaware that it was one of the first things I had discovered during my preliminary investigation. I knew precisely where she was fleeing to and had gone to the extra effort of preparing a suitable place to wait and observe if needed ahead of time. A place with a close view, as well as a cache of prepared Witcher Potions and other supplies that could prove useful on a Hunt such as this. She would enjoy a brief respite perhaps until I closed in for the kill, in which time she was likely to regain enough of herself, and her composure to mount a suitable, final defense. In fact, I was hoping she would act thusly as she had been almost laughably easy to catch off guard with an Alluring Skull. Even today the old prescriptions as devised by my compatriots and predecessors still held much sway over monsters and Daemons alike.

Though well more than a century had lapsed since his death, I could hear the words so oft spoken by my Mentor as I pursued my quarry deeper into the gnarled boughs of the ancient forest. He would chant many things in those days, all as important as any of those mantras drilled into our minds from our books and tomes, but he went to great lengths to remind us of certain creatures in particular. ‘Remember, the Spectres of Terra Firma are not to be trifled with!’ He would always say, come the study of Spectral-category creatures. ‘Many colors and sizes do those she-devils take, but for the love of all that is sacred…Hunt not those as black as the Abyss which we strive against.’ Indeed, my Medallion too made sure to remind me of her Arcane signature with ever stronger vibrations as we approached her Nest. All the while, a second voice echoed in the back of my mind as a gentle whisper of advice: ‘Spectral Aura, NightShade-Class. Be on your guard, Witcher.’ Each Medallion, cast as one solid piece from blessed Lunar Silver, had become attuned during its creation to the ebb and flow of magic around their wearer, tugging at its chain and tapping against the chest as frantically or lazily as the situation manifested. In conjunction with this Arcane sensitivity, a sacred rite was likewise performed upon Medallions as they are being forged. As each School took up the Crest of a particular animal, a spiritual embodiment of that animal was subsequently imbued into the Medallion during its enchanted casting.

Upon the Medallion’s activation at a Witcher’s official graduation from their School, the spirit within awakens and becomes that Witcher’s personal Spirit Guardian. Acting as a second set of eyes and ears towards what the rest of our senses perhaps could not perceive, they would keep us apprised of what was sensed in the world around us. They also possessed the power to manifest parts or all of their ‘physical’ forms in order to protect us should they sense a danger we might otherwise be unable to counter. Of course, this power came at a cost as each Medallion sourced its strength directly from the lifeforce of the wearer, ebbing off the stoutness of one’s vigor. However, the costs only became life-threatening through prolonged or excessive use and each Guardian knew better than to be the cause of its Witcher’s death. Being spliced directly onto their Witcher’s life (and indeed becoming an extension of their own instincts), each Guardian could whisper words of warning to their wearers; the strongest capable of flashing whole images packed with dense information directly into the mind if needed. Only through time and experience together would a Guardian be able to grow and develop in its abilities, such as being able to identify individual monsters and Daemon from their Arcane signature alone. As to be expected of mine, it was keyed-in on the Abyssal energies emanating from our target, as well as her subterranean home. Understandably, given the nature of both the Hunt as well as her Nest, it was somewhat restless with anticipation for what lay ahead. Nevertheless, I had already significantly dulled the sharpest of her fangs, those Illusion Arts which defined Spectres as a whole and, the NightShade in particular's, ability to summon lesser monster to aid it in battle.

I was all-too keenly aware as to the danger I had taken upon myself in the pursuit of a Spectre, and had taken every precaution as prescribed to me for this beast by my expert training. All the more however, I was aware of what I stood to gain from making use of her remains...and my efforts were close to bearing fruit. All Spectres were creatures born of a single Mother, beings made of that living Darkness which oozed out of Abyssal Chasms like a festering wound. Truly though, what made them unique amongst their fellow Daemon was their method of ‘birth’, or ‘creation’ as it were. This Mother would gather up this Darkness (referred to by scholars as Ichor once used thusly) in an area where it already coalesced due to the presence of a Chasm and, using unholy rites, use it to form a daughter. Of particular note however is that a second, almost rather mundane ingredient was always necessary during this process, lest the daughter emerge as one of the members of the lowliest of their kind, a Shrieker. These lamentable beings were so named for the head-splitting shrieks and wails that issued from their fanged maws; a lament of their rather pathetic existence in comparison to their more intelligent, far more powerful sisters. This second ingredient was truly what determined what species of Spectre was formed during their creation process. Determined usually by whatever was readily available in the area of their creation, it could be a particular species of tree, a chunk of stone or metal ore, the blood of the recently slain, a polished crystal as clear as glass…the list of what could be used was extensive. However, the uniformity and common characteristics between them formed a consistent pattern which allowed my forbearers to identify at least eight distinct subspecies of Spectre. For the purposes of my Hunt however, I was only concerned with the deadliest of them all barring the Mother herself; those born purely of Ichor, a small slice of the Mother’s own Soul, and deadly plant species. Toxic flowering plants in particular were the most beloved of daughters, those lovely blooms which obscure but one of many wraths of the natural world.

These Spectres were formed with the most labor and concentration, the alphas of their kind and closest to their Mother in terms of intellect and power. While most lesser types of Specter-category monsters held a sort of corporeal form which could be damaged and destroyed at any time, NightShades were Darkness incarnate having no flesh or bone within them as we would know it. Instead they were walking shadows of Abyssal Darkness, capable of dissipating parts or all of their physical forms in order to take on new ones or simply becoming walls of unassailable black mist. Each of them were slender, towering mares with coats and manes of the darkest black, vibrantly glowing crimson eyes and one-to-two streaks of vibrant color through their manes and tails to tell them all apart. The color of the flower used in their respective creations was reflected in these highlighted bits of hair and made easy identification to the Witcher with an eye for the color of noxious herbs. All Schools dabbled rather intimately with the study of Alchemy of course, making the identification of plants near universal amongst all Witchers given the broad spectrum of uses our Potions provided us. Indeed, every School had their own specialty, some technique or particular obsession for one of the core Disciplines we Witchers all held as a common curriculum in an effort to fulfill every niche in our profession. However, few Schools, save the Manticores perhaps, studied the limits of Alchemy with the same intensity as that of a Viper. More specifically, it was our familiarity with the toxic, the acidic and the most dangerous of what our green world had to offer that could be put to efficient, deadly use. After all…what was a serpent on the Hunt without its deadly bite?

My quarry this day in particular had been formed using a flower of the Digitalis Purpurea species of deadly foxglove. There was no mistaking it as the colored streak in her hair matched like textbook; the sharp scent of her magically-charged blood muddying the atmosphere all the more signifying her guilty as charged. As to why I was making so much ado over a single Spectre? She had terrorized the nearby village of Hollyhock for one, feeding the populace nightmares whilst they slept and disrupting the harvest, all whilst coaxing them one after another to their doom. And for two…as an avid student of the craft, I had need of Alchemical reagents, reagents which only she could provide in the form of Spectre Petals. Found only on the enchanted flowers reclaimed from the remains of NightShades, the toxic compounds which could be extracted were leagues more potent than anything naturally grown. Even the great Laboratoriums, with all the resources and knowledge available to the Schools and its highly-trained staff, were unable to cultivate blooms with qualities that were on par with those harvested from Spectral remains. The Petals notwithstanding, I also stood to acquire some of their potent Ichor in its purest form, with the only better source coming directly from a Chasm itself. However, unlike Spectres, I lacked the power to coalesce raw Abyssal energies into Ichor, and knew of no conjuror of the Arcane who could. These Spectres had always been relatively few in number comparative to other Daemons, thank the Gods, but it was disconcerting to see that they, like the other monsters we Hunted, were seemingly doubling in number with every passing decade. Unlike us Witchers…they had yet to lose the ability to properly replenish their numbers so readily. Not to mention they lived eternally beyond the fear of Kingdom-spanning legal codes which bound the rest of us to our ties to ‘civility’. They had been allowed to multiply in tremendous numbers once more while our numbers slowly ebbed away against the grindstone which they formed against our efforts.

The trail of inky-black Ichor finally drew to the end of its panicked flight at the mouth of a gash in the earth, carved into the side of a rocky berm under the shade of a truly ancient oak tree thickly hung in moss. This deep into the Everfree, my pupils were forced wide open in order to make use of the paltry sunlight flickering through the thick filter of leaves and mist from above the canopy. All around me the twisted boughs creaked and rumbled in an unseen wind while the very air was laden down with a sense of foreboding and a thickening, unnatural mist; not over the fight ahead but rather the Forest around me. The Everfree, though home to what remained of the Thestral Kingdom, had grown ever wilder as the centuries of the Age of the Sun dragged on, and was far from welcoming of any that didn’t already call it their home. And as if to only drive that growing hostility home, a Spectre had made her Nest not even a league from the border of the Forest with Hollyhock, an Equestrian village well within range of her nightmarish abilities. However…there was a time and a place for hesitation, and I was not wont to squander time that the Spectre could spend healing from my earlier ambush. I had stacked the deck in my favor the moment I had managed to catch her unawares whilst feeding and deliver a mighty slash across her back. This was no time to let the pressure up, not now that she was back in familiar territory. Her territory. I had not necessarily planned to take on such a Hunt when I had met with the Chamberlain's Office prior to setting out in the early spring…yet, here I was. Hollyhock was far from a common point of Witcher's interest normally, and it had been by some miracle I stumbled across her trail at all while stocking up on supplies. Talks of whispers in the night and a dark malevolence coming from one corner of the Everfree Forest was all it took for my interest to be piqued in the matter. A few questions at the local tavern to any willing to talk had given me a place in which to begin my investigation, more tongues loosening once I mentioned I was willing to look into the matter for no charge. Having expected to encounter all manner of haunted spirits and other Spectral-category beings by virtue of the decades of violent conflict, I had already been prepared for such a chance encounter.

“Hmph...” I snorted softly to myself in amusement, retrieving the Potion satchel I had secreted near the mouth of her cave earlier in the day. “What would Knight Emerald have to say if he saw this asinine display from a NightShade? I suppose he was right…time seemed to have dulled some of their fangs if this one was this easy to track…”

From the satchel, instead of three separate Potion flasks as another Witcher might for such an occasion, I needed only one. In a technique only practiced by Viper Witchers, Neuro-Toxics were unique and extremely hazardous drafts comprised of two or more standard Witcher Potions. Though each Neuro-Tox combined the effects of each Potion used into one large dose, the efficacy and duration of each was sacrificed somewhat at the cost of a sizable increase in the body's overall toxicity level. This brew, the Emerald Boa, contained a dose of Cat to ensure perfect vision in her lair, Petri’s Philter for the amplification of my Signs and a modicum of Golden Oriole in the event she managed to infect a wound with her truly noxious blood. So many potent draughts at once was far from the typical School-recommended threshold, let alone pleasant to experience. However, like my School’s namesake, my physique was especially tempered against toxicity such as this. The mutations we had undergone had granted all Vipers a much higher resilience to most toxins, both natural and artificial, even when compared to other Witchers. Though this enhanced resilience was useful for ignoring certain dangers, our enhancements were most useful for sustaining the effects induced by imbibing Witcher Potions which, to say the least, were not your average brew. In turn, our resistance to toxins had a direct influence on the number of Potions’ effects we could endure at one time compared to the average Witcher. To say nothing of the numerous venomous creatures in the world which we had far less to fear from than the other Schools in our guild.

With my veins thumping with temporary Alchemical enhancement, I set the satchel back near where I had put it originally, and laid beside it all else I wouldn’t require for the fight ahead whilst preparing those I did. There was no guarantee as to how much space I was allowed to maneuver within her lair, and a longsword was not well known for its ease of use in confined spaces. There was little to fear however, for I was already well-prepared. From the small of my back I withdrew my silver Fangs, part of a quartet of matched, gently curved daggers kept in reserve for special situations; a tool each and every Viper proudly wore as part of our standard equipment and unique to our School alone. We all carried two Fangs, one steel and one silver as to be expected, but the trick was each’s ability to separate into two independent blades via a split down the full tang of each weapon. Hence, we were always prepared with two blades at once to engage in close combat, regardless of whether our foes bled from steel alone or required the silver of a Witcher’s touch. As was tradition, each weapon pommel bore the head or crest of the School from which one had trained and graduated. And so it was, attached to the end of each hilt I owned, the angled silver head of a Viper adorned my weapons; matching perfectly with the large Medallion which hung from around my neck and clattered softly against my breastplate. Indeed, our Medallions retained a place of pride and their status as a powerful, easily recognizable symbol of our guild. Tradition (and laws) still guided many of us who survived the Cleansing, with nostalgia for those heady days of yore still fresh on the minds of all Witchers who yet lived. In truth, there were too few left of us so-called ‘Old Ones’, those fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to have undergone the mutations sometime during the span of our Golden Age.

Of course, we were still bound to many of the laws which had governed our actions prior to the Cleansing whilst traversing the Path beyond our Schools. Going even further, we were forcefully obliged to take up the burden of additional laws crafted by Her Royal Empress meant to further marginalize all deemed non-Equestrian. In truth, it was still the law to this day that all Witchers on the Path were to wear the trappings of our School of origin at all times whilst in public. Though it made for easy identification by those in genuine need of our services, it also painted great targets upon our backs for the scorn and malice reserved for the ‘other’. I of myself rather enjoyed the comfort of my armor and felt none of the usual abrasive angst other Witchers even within my own School held for the law. My life's work had been spent almost entirely in the pursuit of the Masterhood which I now held and personal knowledge as to what a hero truly felt like in this world. And in truth...I had obtained that girlhood dream. I had seen and lived through the height of the Witcher's Golden Age and all the wonderous benefits being a hero in that time proffered us. And ever since...I had been seeking to taste of those pleasant days once more. Me...and every other damned fool of a Witcher still tarrying to life past our prime.

The weapons of a Witcher were many and varied, with each student of the trade learning at least a basic proficiency in all weapon types from swords, to bludgeons, to bows and all else we were likely to encounter on the Path. The tried and true longsword however formed the metaphorical spine of our profession, with few Schools deigning to opt for another primary bladed tool. Some, like the wild loners of the School of the Bear or the truly massive Örn, made use of even larger weapons like axes and greatswords by virtue of their inherent strength of arm. In the case of our Fangs however, the School of the Viper alone made use of a hollow receptacle built within the hilt of each dagger for the purpose of housing various concoctions as needed for our Contracts. Fed through the serpent’s mouth of the pommels whose jaw opened wide on a lockable hinge, both steel and silver alike could be further enhanced by virtue of a slow drip release down its fullers. In the case of my Hunt, I made use of a specialized toxic blend of Specter Oil infused with powdered Lunar Silver blessed at the Shrine of Kaer Solaris. These ‘Venoms’, as we so lovingly referred to them, were a matter of pride for my School and a once jealously guarded secret. Comprised of base Blade Oils which gave our blades an extra edge in combat against specific categories of monsters and Daemons, Venoms took these potent, viscous cocktails and made them truly lethal. By means of extra ingredients prepared in particular ways and special steps in the brewing process which enhanced the Oils until they became a new agent of death of their own. Given our complete transfer of operations from our original keep to that of the School of the Wolf, we had seen fit to share these secrets freely and openly amongst the other Schools likewise taking refuge there. After all, as we were all in it together, it was only prudent we shared in what we had that could make the guild more resilient as a whole and better prepared for the Path ahead.

Amongst all the baggage and equipment attached to my person, the leather flap of one satchel in particular was opened exposing several internal pockets, each of which bulged with vials of Potions, Oils, Decoctions, Venoms, and other useful liquids. The fancifully carved crystal phial of Venom was almost pitifully small when compared to the notably larger vials used for Witcher Potions, or indeed, those which housed typical Blade Oils. However, it was of little concern when even a shot-glass’ worth of such formidable Venom was far too much for what I expected of its potency. All I needed was around a third of the phial, the rest being returned to the safety of its designated place in my satchel. The majority of these Venoms were not toxic in the classical sense to a mortal being, but it ensured a kill against that which was too Dark for the natural world to handle; each blend specialized to match whatever was being Hunted. A few mere drops penetrating beneath her flesh was all that was required on my part, whereas hers was merely to succumb quickly and quietly to my blows. Everything was in place for the Hunt to begin proper and I shivered inwardly with excitement and anticipation. They were but part of an infestation unnatural to our world and I, but a humble gardener pruning the weeds from around our innocent worldly garden. As clichéd a tale as it was, it still yet retained some its sweetness after all this time...

With the viscous, dark teal fluid trickling its way down both sides of the blade, I gave the hilt of my silver Fang a slight tug and a twist allowing the two identical blades unclasp from one another. After another brief pause to ensure I was fully readied, I finally plunged headfirst into her lair. In a moment I was proven wise in imbibing some Cat as the ambient lighting from the Everfree outside was robbed instantly, replaced with a foreboding gloom that I would not be able to peer through without the aid of Alchemy. The air hung heavy and frigid around me, the humid and muggy forest air replaced by that found gracing a lonely snow-capped peak in the dead of winter. Each step of my armored boots on the rocky floor felt soft, but altogether icy cold whilst the air was filled with the soft but unmistakable sound of hissing from deep within the earth. My quarry had done well for herself in finding a budding Chasm of her own to make a Nest atop. With so much raw Bneli leaking out of the Abyss below, she could still make a rapid recovery to full strength even despite the first blow having been laced with traditional Specter Oil. Tragically, the smaller batch of Venom infused with Lunar Silver would not have coated my longsword fully nor evenly, leaving them fit only for my Fangs and an opportunity in which to best use it. Now however, finding myself in the belly of the beast as it were, there was far less chance of it going to waste; Venom ever so slowly trickling down from pinprick-sized holes in the crossguard where it met the blade. From thence it dripped directly into the fullers hammered down the length of each blade save for a small notch near the tip where Oils and Venoms had another chance to coalesce into beads before dripping off. I was satisfied in knowing the fullers would retain the Venom well, having been embedded with an enchantment which gripped to the ethanol found in all our brews like it were cold tar.

“Come out and face me!” I challenged the gloom around me, the Bneli clinging to every nook and corner and masking the stone underneath under a veil of blackness. “There is no point in delaying this any longer, Spectre! I’ve known about this Nest for days now and you've naught else to flee to…let us settle this score here and now! Or are all NightSpectre this cowardly in the darkness of their own Nests?”

It took moments for it to come but from the darkness a voice hissed in reply, “BEGONE! I have done naught to trouble thee, foul Hunter! What have any of we to do with thee? Is one blow not enough for the likes of thee? Killer? Murderer?!”

I twirled my Fangs in my magic softly, smirking in response to her frenzied reply and settling down low into a readied stance. All the while, I allowed my senses to reach out to the world around me as a bubble of awareness through her Darkness. Though seemingly chatty, this was still a NightShade and, like any wounded creature caught cornered in its burrow, she was potentially capable of more danger now than ever before. The Alluring Skull scented with a salve of foxglove, wormwood, and an infusion of chemical Arcane inhibitors had worked beautifully when she was unaware, luring her in for what she thought was a tasty morsel. But now, I would have to trust in my instincts and training to see me through. Even with her greater abilities temporarily deadened, NightShades were known for their violent and efficient method of combat; much unto a Higher Vampire or perhaps even one of the Vyrewatch, if it still existed at all. Every step forward and back was to be calculated, and every ounce of effort fully focused on staying as aloof of her fangs as I could manage. Indeed, the idea was to introduce her to my own deadly Fangs in short order, and the deadly Venom slowly trickling its way down the fullers to the notched tips.

“Murderer?” I laughed in reply whilst keeping my eyes, ears, and head in constant motion for any hint of movement. “Surely you jest, right? What right do you have to accuse me of a crime you too are guilty of? Or do the lifeless ponies of Hollyhock left in your wake merely equate to the killing of Ferals for sustenance in your eyes?”

With a rush of cold, unseen air she formed from the darkness before me like a wisp of black smoke condensing into a tall, slender Equine form. Her crimson eyes glowed softly in the murky shadows while a single, vibrantly blueish purple streak in her mane and tail held a soft luminescence of their own; isolated bits of color on otherwise jet-black fur in the darkness. Though she was able to assume her full form once more, my earlier blow had rendered her attempt imperfect. Through the sheer malleability of her body, and her utter control over it, the damage inflicted had been shifted across her body resulting in the absence of her left foreleg at the shoulder. Few creatures possessed such a useful adaptation to damage as it meant a paralyzing blow to her spine had been mitigated to an injury a skilled combatant like she could continue the fight with. The Specter Oil from earlier emanated a soft teal glow of its own from where it remained slathered across the stump of her leg, the wound looking as if I had freshly dismembered it myself. While not as strong as the Spectral Venom slathered across my Fangs, the stock-recipe Oil still had some effect on one as strong as her. She was cornered and, perhaps for the first time in her cursed existence, was encountering a foe for whom she had no planned defense against. It was rather pleasing to be a mare's first, even if it were an engagement of physical and Arcane wrestling.

“Bastard!” She hissed through clenched teeth, each one a fang as sharp as an obsidian scalpel. “You consider such worthless flesh even remotely worthy of mention? Don’t make me laugh… Truly, Vicheri…you and I possess more in common than could ever be possible amidst the likes of…them.”

“Insinuating we are somehow connected by virtue of being un-Equestrian?” I snorted back in amusement. “My dear, a Witcher is no more a Daemon than a Valkyrie is a Dragon. The actions one takes in life is what makes those comparisons possible when speaking in the metaphorical. Can a whole race be condemned so outrightly merely based off the actions of a paltry few selfish outliers? I would think not…”

“And your comrades of the…School of the Cat as you call it? What of them, eh?”

I refused to grace her with a verbal answer, instead turning immediately to flinging the Moondust Bomb I had grasped in my magic the moment I set hoof in her lair. The small, canvas wrapped sphere of tempered glass detonated midair via a carefully timed chemical fuse, all a mere pace away from where she stood before dissipating her form the moment I began to move. Magically-charged slivers of silver vaporized into a fine mist from the Alchemical reaction and filled the area with a sparkling haze, which clung to her misty form like a thick blanket of stars. This silvery coating made her almost pathetically simple to track as she attempted to outmaneuver me and sail past my shoulder towards the exit, and to safety in what seemed to be a total blind panic. Unfortunately for her, I had anticipated she would choose the coward’s route and try to flee, forcing me to fling a second, far more specialized bomb over my shoulder with all the strength and speed I could muster without causing injury. I achieved detonation not a moment too late as the powdered Dimeritium vaporized as well, adding yet another dangerous veil of mist through which our Spectre could not pass. With the inherent ability to disrupt magical auras and negate spell-casting, the rare blue-green metal was perfectly suited to create an impenetrable barrier against a being of pure magic such as she. Abyssal magic or no, much of the energy inherent was still subject to the same processes by which Dimeritium negated the Arcane in its presence. She recoiled away from the electrically charged blue-green cloud with a shriek of rage which echoed in the small cavern with such intensity I was sent reeling back, even with my ears stuffed with wool against just this. Out of instinct, I jutted my left forehoof forward while concentrating on casting Igni without having to verbally speak the word aloud in my brief moment of discombobulation.

The measure proved fortuitous as she had wisely taken the moment to strike back as a burst of white-hot flaming sparks erupted directly in her metaphorical face. It stopped her assault dead to rights, setting her misty form alight with flames which I corralled and herded towards the sparkling wall of Dimeritium in an attempt to render her powerless to cast any further magic of her own. Again she shrieked, although this time, these were wails of excruciating agony which only a cleansing force such as fire could elicit from any being capable of experiencing pain. I had flattened my ears this time against her piercing cries which ensured a more comfortable experience as I corralled her towards the trap. Meanwhile, her enflamed form whirled in on itself in an angry maelstrom while she attempted to put herself out whilst in her safest form from harm. Normally I would not have been able to use Igni against a NightSpectre in such a manner as their mist form was all but immune to physical damage, but…there were certainly benefits that had come from having to abandon my School for that of the Wolves. Benefits such as the true form of the Sign of Igni, which extended to even bringing the scorching flame to harm that which otherwise was immaterial. As a result, I was able to attack her directly using the Sign to burn with an Arcane flame capable of piercing the spectral veil. To say it was effective, and caught her entirely unawares, would be underselling just how little of a chance she stood now of emerging the victor from our little spat. The use of Igni chewed through her whole being relentlessly, sending chunks of liquid fire to drip to the floor where they continued to burn with an acrid smoke that smelt of boiled wine. Though I had been expecting some resistance, I had not anticipated her being so...pitiful when compared to the scant few other NightShades I had thus far encountered in my career. While the rest had fought, hoof, fang and whatever else they chose to form as a weaponized piece of their body...this one had seemingly grown very lazy indeed.

She was powerless…and it seemed that she too was coming to that conclusion the harder she struggled against me. Though she managed to quench the fire, her form was visibly ragged and seemed formed more of multiple wisps of tattered blackness rather than one cohesive mass. In what could have been a last brave effort she launched her cursed mass at me once more, attempting to envelop my head and suffocate me directly with her flaming, smoke-like form. Without even a thought I pirouetted away on dainty hooves and, at the same time, swung my Fangs around myself allowing what Venom had collected on their tips to fling freely about. Though not strictly an orthodox tactic as taught by my Mentor, I still had the hope that even one drop managed to pass through her as she went by allowing for a chance to poison her. Coming to a gentle stop near a wall of stone, I was granted a moment to witness her tumble across the cave floor, once again bound to her corporeal form which continued to dissolve before my very eyes. Knowing I had infected her with my custom elixir…I was inclined to drag out her demise longer than any merciful Hunter should. As she hissed and howled at me, she attempted to crawl away leaving an oozing path of raw Ichor in her wake, her body slowly falling apart as the toxins disrupted the harmony of dark magic holding her form together. Were she traditional flesh and blood, the scene would have been horrifically gruesome; a fact undermined by her form being so much shadow and smoke.

“W-what in the name of Rakshata are you?!” She cried, holding up a disintegrating leg to ward up another blow which was not to fall. “What are you?!?”

I gave my Fangs another casual flick, sending fat globs of Venom splattering directly into her formless bits, which began to curl thickly with an acrid smoke. At the same time, I knelt down nearby, close enough for her to bear witness to the Vipers’ head dangling from my neck with its emerald eyes glowing dangerously in the gloom. I wished her to die knowing in full that I was no graduate of those wandering vagrant bastards as she might have assumed.

"A rather seasoned veteran of this trade, and not a treacherous snake as ironic as it may seem given the Medallion.” I replied with a soft smirk as she continued to disintegrate before my eyes into a puddle of bubbling Ichor. “Master Witcher Frejdá Vilulf, of what remains of the School of the Viper. At your ploughin' service, o’ vile one. Please…do elaborate and tell me how I am anything like those traitorous Felines?”

By now all that was left of her were ragged pieces of what could be roughly counted as flesh…at a stretch. Half of her face now remained, with a maw of fangs and a long, forked tongue hanging limply from her ragged throat with no mandible left to hold it up. Even this was all simply floating in midair held aloft by Arcane forces, her neck and torso having already succumbed to the Venom and joined the bubbling tar-like mass that was the rest of her being. Part of me ached that no suitable phylactery had been available with which to entrap her Soul and prevent a possible future reformation, however I had to settle for the Petals and whatever else she might have on site. There were no words left to say on her part, no final angry voice to insult me one last time and compare me and my fellows to that anathema of a School. Instead…with a final hiss of pure anger she finally passed on, the last of her form sloughing off like so much sludge into the puddle beneath her. Once the viscous pile had settled, from its center bloomed a single, long plant stalk studded with mesmerizingly magenta flowers. From their deathly bells, a gentle glowing pink haze of magical pollen dusted the air around every bloom. Each petal simply hummed with raw arcane energy out of the Abyss of a sort we still struggled to classify in our Bestiaries to this day, due in large part to their rarity as well as their widely varying effects when processed. While Spectre remains of any species, save for the Shriekers, would leave behind whatever secondary ingredient was used to create them, it rarely resulted in that object being touched directly by Abyssal energy. Those items that did come away Void-Kissed however, were highly prized Alchemy ingredients for Witchers, Mages, Sorceresses and particularly well-learned students of the craft affiliated with one of the Universities.

Whatever their origin, Spectre Petals were invaluable amongst any who dabbled in Alchemy and for myself? Truly, the benefits were mostly academical as it brought forth the opportunity to attempt some truly dangerous Venoms in the future. Of course, something that had spent so much time brushed up with the Abyss was extremely toxic in more ways than one, and I began to retrieve specialized tools meant especially for the task. From my Alchemy satchel, I retrieved a sealed specimen tube rated for Void-Kissed items and a vial of specialized, highly-enchanted herbicide. The opportunity to collect any item which was Void-Kissed was not one a seasoned Witcher would be willing to pass up as each one was unique in its own way. It was theorized even by some scholars that each item touched by the Abyss was a sliver of insight into its true nature, and if enough of them could be harvested for extensive study...it was hoped something could be pieced together from whatever was learned. Once I had gathered up what Ichor I could house in spare vials, I doused the base of the plant in herbicide to help weaken its grip on the Ichor around it in preparation for extraction. Gripping it firmly in my telekinesis, a move I would not have otherwise been able to safely perform without the herbicide, I gave it my all and yanked upon the stalk without trying to harm the Petals themselves.

As the stalk was pulled free of the pile that was her corpse, and gingerly placed into the sealed container for safe transport, the darkness that had so gripped the cave receded to its point of origin at the far side. The sudden change in ambient lighting sent fiery needles of pain into my retinas until they adapted once again, allowing me to see the cave in its native form. Immediately there came to my sight countless remains of creatures large and small, Feral and Sentient alike. These relics of her past meals stood as justifiable cause for her elimination as the law still loosely prescribed. All were stripped clean of flesh with tattered, rotting clothing and bones bleached white with the marrow sucked out…save for one. Propped up against the cave wall, nearby the small inky black gash in the rock which marked the budding Chasm pushing through into the waking world, was another skeleton with visibly stocky bones. Coming closer, I was taken aback at the unmistakable sight of the physical remains of another Witcher, though as to how many years had passed since they had expired…it was hard to say. There was no mistaking the dense, Alchemically reinforced skeletal structure all Witchers received as part of our multiple rounds of mutations. Further, even more compelling evidence for this being a Witcher’s corpse was provided by the presence of a silver Medallion around their neck and a pair of sheaths lying pressed between the remains and the wall. A single, solitary longsword of exquisite quality remained in one sheath while the others’ occupant lay to their side, well within reach of its former user. Despite possible centuries since they had perished, the silver blade laying on the ground gleamed as brightly as the day it was forged while the fancifully barbed ricasso near the hilt and the jagged, C-shaped crossguard betrayed all.

“Well, well…what have we here?” I hummed softly to myself as I leaned down for a closer look. “What wayward Master have I come across this day?”

Their armor had rusted and rotted away sometime prior to my discovering them, easily putting their demise at minimum fifty years or more in the past while also proving my assumption of their rank possibly incorrect. For their weapons to have survived the ravages of time, they would have to be made of Isildine of at least half, to 3 ⁄ 4 purity and come with Lunar Silver electroplating on one of them; rather than the run-of-the-mill silver used for the blades of lesser ranks. Quality weapons such as these were exorbitant costs to the School which produced them, meaning only the best were awarded them in recognition of their service to the School and the world at large. But…if their armor was not so resilient to time as their weapons, then I was possibly dealing with a rule-breaker of old. Each piece of a Witcher’s gear, from our weapons and armor, to the harnesses and baggage we carried, scaled equally with one another as per our rank in their respective School. Furthermore, despite the leather having succumbed to age like the rest of their equipment, I could still clearly spy the gleam of various crystal phials after the design of Witcher Potions scattered around the corpse; most still full yet undoubtedly had gone bad. None of the evidence presented to me added up...until I critically examined the details, namely that of a silver Cat’s head hanging from around their neck and adorning the pommels of their swords. Only the wayward and those forgotten to the annals of history could be so bewildering in death.

“A…Cat?” I asked of no one in particular, as if expecting an answer. “I expected a…a Bear or a Griffin…or perhaps even someone as exotic as a Dragon. But…a Cat?”

It perplexed me as much as it unnerved me in all frankness. Here I had just been taking the moral high-ground against them when accosted by the Spectre and yet, here one was. They had failed to vanquish her obviously, but I was unable to recall the last time I had witnessed a Cat in an honest pursuit of the Path. For all the vitriol and hatred which brewed in my heart, here lay a testament to the ideals they too had once aspired to and attempted to embody. What had yet to be understood however was just how they had come into the possession of tools traditionally considered well above their rank. Or…perhaps they were a Master and had fallen on such hard times all that remained of their original kit were their weapons; their mastercrafted armor having fallen prey to some misfortune or another sometime before. As was the bane of all organic matter, the rate of decay due to the ravages of time and exposure made the preservation of most weapons and armor rather difficult. In reality, there were only a few materials in this world which could truly withstand all forms of decay, and as such, they fetched sums only regal treasuries could hope to afford. These materials, such as the ever elusive Isildine, were all too precious commodities that were much better served in the forging of weapons rather than suits of armor. A Witcher can forget to eat, bathe and even sleep, but a Witcher never neglected their blades. After all, they were our first line of offense and defense against that which sought to do us harm, and there were no shortage of enemies to choose from.

The chain of their Medallion slid from off their neck easily as I retrieved it and passed it into a pouch at my side for safekeeping. For a moment however, I could have sworn its yellow citrine eyes sparkled brighter than a dead Witcher’s Medallion should. However, I quickly put it from my mind in favor of wondering further after the tale behind their weapons. The blades themselves were truly mastercrafted works fashioned by one of the Cat School’s finest smiths, whomever it was in their time. This Witcher had sported two forty-inch long blades, each as light as a branch of kindling even when held aloft in ones’ magic; weight still having a great bearing as to the ease of manipulating an object through the air. For any Witcher, telekinesis was a fundamental skill and talent unlocked to all of us by virtue of the mutations allowing for Witchers from all species some equal leverage against our primary foes. As most of them were themselves Arcane in nature and brimming with Abyssal energy, truly few mortal beings could stand even a chance at fighting even one of the creatures dotting the pages of our Bestiaries. Countless droves of ill-trained soldiers, frightened peasants and numerous others had all fallen victim to these beasts over the centuries even in spite of our efforts. I could rest easy knowing I had brought one of the loftiest of their kind to the end of its days. Barring, again of course, her Soul was caught by the Mother somewhere and used to form her physical body anew.

This Witcher however…it was difficult to say immediately what had truly killed them. Him. Upon ever closer inspection, all the telltale signs of a stallion were readily visible in the shape of the skull, shoulders and hips. There were no fractured bones that I could find and truly no indication of any physical trauma at all marred his remains. The rocky terrain below me, as well as the wall surrounding the corpse, had been gouged rather deeply by something a fair time ago. There was a visible presence of silver imbedded within the grains of the stone which I peered at closer, eliminating the Spectre herself having done so. With no armor to check for battle damage and the Spectre’s last desperate attack fresh on my mind, I was tempted to conclude that he had been suffocated with far more success than she had found whilst fighting me. Perhaps he had underestimated his ability to out-maneuver a fully rested and aware NightSpectre that was far more wary of Witcher tactics. Of course, as a Cat, he also lacked a Viper's Venom which was almost wholly the reason for my assured victory in this Hunt.

“No wonder she mentioned your School so readily…” I mumbled to myself while gently moving the body in preparation for a Shroud, something all Witchers now carried one or two for, for precisely this situation. “Nor why she went for such a peculiar final attack. I’m curious as to how far you made it against her, Brother… I would like to hope that you might yet be one of those few Cats who stayed the Path.”

The corpse was as silent and unanswering as any I had encountered since first walking the Path (and even before it), but I was weak when bouts of nostalgia plunged their icy daggers of memory into my heart and mind. As humbling an experience as it was to encounter one of the Fallen whilst on the Path, I struggled to recall the last time I had ever spoken towards a Cat in such solidarity. The Shroud, embroidered in the red and black colors of the Wolf School and sewn with the various Crests of our guild adorning the hem as a border, still included the Cats amongst those we honored in their passing. However…Kaer Solaris had not interred one of their number in half a century; a mere sprinkling of 'good apples' were to be found amongst them in their waning years. Too few Feline heads dangled from the branches of the Vigil Tree, hanging amidst the hundreds of others we chose to honor in death. Who this Witcher was, their name, their deeds…I could only guess as to the answers. With no Codex in sight, I was powerless to use their own written records in my research. Perhaps the School Archives could provide something more tangible…?

Once the Shroud was firmly wound around his remains, I anchored it to my back with the help of straps and hooks followed by the sheathing of my now recombined Fang. Given a protective wrapping of wide leather bands, the sheathed pair of Master swords were too transferred to my person having to dangle somewhat awkwardly from my sides rather than occupy the space my own swords required. Regretfully there was naught else to find in the area under and around his final rest save for rotting canvas, molding leather and the rusting remains of rivets, chain and brigandine. Though many made use of those armors, the presence of the swords and Medallion allowed for the comfortable assumption that he had been proudly wearing the uniform of his School when he died. Finding no other Relics worth rescuing (and further lamenting the absence of their personal Codex), I was free to pluck the stem of the Spectre Petals at the roots as well as scoop a healthy portion of Ichor into several empty vials I had at the ready. All these materials had a place of their own as, though small to the eye, each bag and pouch attached to my person was a veritable pit for specific items unique to our craft. A large satchel for Alchemical ingredients, with sections for both fresh and dried herbs and attached pouches for small vials of various fluids, a collapsible canvas foraging bag, and a large, hard-case saddlebag containing an entire portable Alchemy station with enough equipment to make even a Journeymare Alchemist jealous. There were other bags of course meant for storing Potions, Oils, Decoctions and Venoms as well as another for our wide collection of custom Witcher Bombs amongst other useful tools too many to mention. We were all well-prepared for our travels by virtue of our Quartermasters and their personal armies of smiths, tanners, seamsters and tailors.

With all else taken care of, I finally turned my attention to the Chasm attempting to fester into the waking world via a sliver of a gash in the ground. The icy air which clung to the NightSpectre emanated from this gash as if a mighty blow from a razor had plunged deep into the heart of Terra Firma allowing Bneli to bubble its way out from below. Though truly isolated, it was difficult to refrain from wondering if someone (or many someones) were whispering to me from the depths of the Chasm. All too indistinct to catch nary a word of what these voices spoke but it did not prevent them from sending uncomfortable shivers down my spine as if lightly raked by a set of icy claws. It was still so incredibly young to the waking world making it a trifling matter to seal shut. With it encircled by the Sign of Yrden which formed a trap-circle of runes upon the ground, I simply detonated a second Dimeritium charge directly atop it and allowed the unstable particles to collapse the breach. It took but a moment for the cold to recede back into its Chasm before the gash in the earth sealed itself up right as new, leaving naught but the memory of its presence behind. Indeed, the cave became almost mildly ‘pleasant’ by Witcher standards as an empty cave was a friendly cave; bones and corpses be damned. My work now complete, I returned to the surface and collapsed the entrance using a telekinetic blast of Aard cast from my hoof once my eyes had a moment to readjust to the bright world outside.

Now cast in much better light, I was able to glance over the Medallion I had deposited in a pouch at my waist. It was of the typical design used by every School after the Council of Archmasters in 135 AoS, a broad stylized head representative of the animal from which the first Six Schools and those which followed derived their namesakes. Though that narrowed down the time of death by nearly a century, a further three centuries and some change had elapsed since that Council, and many fateful foibles performed by the School of the Cat. However…what I had once thought was a trick of the light before revealed itself to be so much more. Though faint, a feeble golden glow burned like tiny embers in the yellow citrine gems which formed the Medallion’s eyes. Somehow this wayward Spirit Guardian was barely clinging to life despite the loss of its Witcher, and I felt a sudden obligation to honor him in the best manner known to me. Once I had ensured that all weapons and equipment safely returned to my person, I set off at once with my eyes set on the path to Kaer Solaris. There was still a chance, if remote, that we could coax enough life from the Guardian to get some information, any information as to the name and history of its keeper. It was a long journey back to the keep but laden down as I was with Relics and remains, I had little recourse but to deliver them as swiftly as possible to the School. After all…it was the least I could do to atone in some small way for the vitriol I had carried for his School mere moments before discovering him.

With my Hunt officially and successfully over, the only thing that remained prior to my departure was an accounting of what had occurred. From a dedicated leather bag at my right side, I withdrew my own Codex and its accompanying fountain pen tucked away in a special sleeve sewn into the gap in the binding. The worn snakeskin protecting the hardbacked cover was trimmed at the corners by fancifully crafted steel caps while a small, flattened version of our Crest adorned its center. The eyes of both my Medallion and the Viper's Crest upon the cover flashed for a moment and the clasps binding the tome closed popped immediately open with soft pings of metal. Flipping through the pages in my magic, I passed through the Bestiary with its gorgeous engravings and the mass of folded sheets of parchment which formed the enchanted map each Codex possessed. Just behind these lay the Ledger, a section of pages dedicated to the formal documentation of the happenings of a Hunt as prescribed by law. By the grace of some foresight, the entries were clearly marked by portions of blank lines and empty bullet points meant for quick sentences and short descriptions. With our Guardians as our witnesses, we would jot down our deeds in a manner very like unto an internal document of some Baron’s court.

Indeed, our Golden Age saw our Ledgers be used as a further means of verifying Contracts performed prior to payment being rendered from a royal treasury, regardless of one's School. The Chamberlain's Office of each School would make their copy for their own records, and any associated paperwork (which varied by region and School) would have to then be filled out properly then submitted via the proper diplomatic channels. Next, a report would need to be sent to the Scouts Elite, a minor faction of its own operating in-tandem with our guild, who would then dispatch someone to verify the site of the Hunt and the details mentioned in our Ledgers. If all was all up to code, or there were multiple witnesses capable of signing writ and bearing testimony to the events on their honor, the final major step in the process was fulfilled. Following that rather exhausting pile of paper and verbal exchanges, then came a wait for an official wax seal from the Chamberlain him or herself marking the Contract as fulfilled and legitimate.

Graciously nowadays, the paperwork associated with a non-sanctioned Hunt (such as the one I had stumbled upon) was greatly reduced and such things as a Class-3c Contract form packet had been struck from the record. Through a combination of greatly reduced global staff and available capital, the system of checks and balances that had been in place previously simply had to be reformed and heavily simplified. In today's world, Contracts were sloppy, uncoordinated affairs handled at a local level and the Ledger alone would suffice in most foreseeable situations for the Chamberlain's official accountings. Other paperwork could accompany a particular Contract or two, yet the work load was all the same nowhere what it had once been when I had first started Hunting.

‘Beast of Concern: Spectre, Category: NightShade, SubCategory: Digitalis Purperea

Date of Hunt: July the 23rd, 650 AoS

Kingdom/Region: Equestria, Lower Everfree near the village of Hollyhock

Time of Day: Just after noonday

Description of Hunt: 13 dead civilians, all ‘called away’ to the Everfree Forest in their dreams. Horrible nightmares for most in Hollyhock, ‘strange creatures’ reported after dusk. Livestock and household pets went missing first, Medallion sensed Abyssal energy near Forest edge. Followed Medallion to Spectre’s Nest erected over budding Chasm. Shadowplay Ambush tactic employed at roughly ten-to-noon, Specter Oil effective in preventing full flight and partial reformation of native form. NightShade retreated to Nest, pursued within utilizing Emerald Boa NeuroTox and Spectral Venom of blessed Lunar Silver. Infected prey with Venom in an unknown but minute and still highly potent quantity; one or two drops at most on initial poisoning.

NightShade succumbed within fifteen-to-twenty seconds with no ability to retaliate, rare Spectre Petals of the Digitalis Purpurea variety obtained, unable to acquire Soul due to lacking a compatible phylactery (consult Sorceress Rosemary's assistant for further details). Unknown Cat School Witcher discovered in Nest, remains placed in Shroud with personal weapons and Medallion, set for transport to Kaer Solaris immediately, no Codex discovered. Returning from Path five-months earlier than expected arrival in winter. Hunt Concluded.’

“Very well then, old friend…” I muttered to my own Medallion, its emerald eyes flashing softly in response as the Guardian Serpent within roused to my words. “Lead us to the only home we have left to us, if you would be so kind.”

In times like these where the road was long and the destination far, a Witcher could always rely on a technique known as the Long March. It was a trancelike state wherein our minds disconnected from the plodding of our hooves beneath us whilst our Guardians kept our path on course for whatever destination we desired, guiding our bodies through our shared bond. It was no substitute for the instantaneous teleportation magic of a true Mage or Sorceress, but it was as close to a second choice as one like myself could hope for. My Medallion would warn me of danger long before it touched me and I could resume full control of my faculties in the blink of an eye. Truly…the most I would need of its navigation was to see me through the twisted boughs of the Everfree and back onto the High Road. Once upon its well-laid pavers, the path to Kaer Solaris was well known by all as it sat near the middle of Equestria itself, and played host to countless generations of pilgrims and noble warriors alike. All that was required of me to do now was simply move one hoof in front of the other, and allow my thoughts to wander down another path of their own. The possibilities unlocked as a result of my new Petals perhaps…?

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Two: The Valley Under An Ancient Sun

Once more it was a scent which roused my senses to the world around me; my Guardian likewise prodding my thoughts back to full attention. Being so close unto the Canterlot Mountains had replaced the deciduous boughs of the Everfree for lofty coniferous pillars of pine and alpine fir. It was the overwhelming scent of these which had roused me from the Long March, as their density around me only increased the farther up the foothills I trotted. The path leading to Kaer Solaris was part of the old High Road as it had once been known, part of a much larger network of professionally laid roads of well-hewn stone set forth across the Continent. Indeed, the road to the School of the Wolf was perhaps the most well-known as it had been amongst the most well-frequented paths in the days of yore. As of late…even the fabled highways fashioned by the Pygmy and Dwem masons were beginning to weather and age, with weeds and grasses pushing their way between the pavers in abundance. The High Road still crisscrossed the map, most of which was still quite usable for great distances, though long gone were the days when each and every lantern was lit along its length. I had already passed Ire’s Steeple, the decrepit tower fort Celestia had ordered built to overlook the High Road leading into the School. Though it had once been a defensible outpost atop an isolated mound of stone, the Empress had found little to fear from us for over a century. With no true threat posed as we set out and returned from the Path, the Eye had become a pitiful watchpost over the High Road; the few Equestrian soldiers posted there in perpetual warfare with their own boredom amongst the decaying wooden walls which saw few repairs. I oft wondered if they even envied us as the accommodations awaiting me far exceeded theirs in both quality and enjoyment. That also went without mentioning how many leagues of comfort stretched between they in their rotting fort, and we in our blessed Valley. Of course…that envy of the Eldar’s cozy existence had led to more than one war by this time…

Much like unto the road which lead up to it, the exterior face of the Arch of the Hunters, which marked the entrance to the Kaer Solaris Valley, had seen far better days. Fashioned of a beautiful white marble quarried under the Valley, the Arch towered far overhead and had been carved with the reliefs of our great Witcher ancestors. Though now…the delicate carvings were worn and weathered to near-nonrecognition, leaving in their wake only the memory of their former glory. The Arch itself bridged the sheer rocky cliff faces forming part of the ring of mountains which encircled the the Valley in the very rough shape of a keyhole; the mountain range running cleanly north-to-south in an unbroken chain of whitecapped peaks. Acting as the only entrance in or out of the Valley, the Arch stood at the far northwestern end in a narrow, solitary gap in the White Fang Mountains. Once it had proudly borne the carved images of the first Witchers, the First Century as they had been known, for they had numbered precisely at one-hundred strong upon the founding of the original Order. Their origins were just as varied and diverse then as ours were today, and the now-faded forms of Direwolves, Thestrals, Dragons, Ponies, Griffins, Örn and others could still be faintly seen amongst the stone reliefs. Not a one of them died in their own bed. That was the end deemed most honorable for those on the Witcher’s Path as it was to imply we had perished whilst fighting in the line of duty, with our silver sword at our side and defiance in our hearts. Indeed, the true life expectancy of a Witcher was still unknown despite over five centuries having elapsed since our first inception. Even the eldest currently living amongst us were only formally mutated and counted amongst our number towards the tail-end of the Second Born, those mutated during the second and third centuries. Even I, an earlier child of the Third Born, had only just entered into the latter half of my fourth century of life. Indeed, the oldest Witcher on record was only just shy of her 472nd year of survival before succumbing in the midst of a Vyre Clan some forty-years prior to the Cleansing. It had been an odd time of mournful celebration as the last of the First Born had finally fulfilled her destiny to fall on the Path and join her Brothers and Sisters in Death. Alas, there were fewer and fewer of us remaining who were blessed with the memory of the Arch’s pristine splendor and majesty during our Golden Age. These days, the number of Apprentices at Kaer Solaris outnumbered the number of surviving members of several Schools, which had once boasted hundreds or even thousands of fully mutated Witchers apiece.

There had been a time when the good folk of Redclaw Ridge had attempted, on more than one occasion, to touch up and restore the front face of the Arch but, there existed a set of certain…technicalities which prevented this. In the wake of the Cleansing, we were granted our freedom to continue plying our trade out in the open world but at the cost of becoming pariahs in Equestria and her holdings. As part of our…arrangement…with Empress Celestia, a great barrier had been erected around the Valley as one great dome of protection. Energized by the Power of the sacred peak upon which the School was built, the barrier prevented any unwelcome guests from accessing our Valley from both the ground and above. However, the border that was agreed to only encompassed the inward face of each peak of the White Fang Mountains as well as what remained of the peaks themselves. Indeed, we were only truly safe to move freely about within the confines of the Valley, meanwhile the Equestrian world beyond our Mountains was free to harass anyone they pleased outside of merchant caravans. Early attempts to restore the outside carvings had been met by well-armed Witch Hunters and angry peasants after only mere days had passed. The result of course was armed Witchers flooding forth from the Bastion to meet them in the just defense of our own, each and every time. Blood was naturally shed on those occasions and both sides sustained losses with Celestia herself necessitating a personal appearance before our Valley after the last occurrence to demand we respect the treaties which we had been forced to sign. There was to be no activity, aside from the active passage of Witchers on the Path and imported/exported goods for the markets, to occur in or out of the Valley. Guests were…permitted…somewhat, but no more than a mere few at a time barring the annual Tournament of Witchers. Even after the Cleansing, this lofty event drew many a curious eye, and more than few willing champions-to-be.

The barrier spell flickered and waved like a glowing sheet of wispy magenta fabric through the centerline of the passageway beneath the Arch. Some piles of ash littered the outer side of the passage having yet to be whisked away by a breeze; a testament to those brave, idiotic Souls which attempted to gain unlawful entry to our home on an infrequent basis. The barrier however provided me with no obstacle and allowed me to pass through its threshold as simply as through a veil of thin fog. Immediately upon passing through, the atmosphere on the other side felt far more inviting than the Equestrian world outside. All at once the very air itself became as warm and inviting as a gentle, motherly hug with gorgeous sunlight brightening up the passage from the world beyond. Once from out under the Arch, the whole of the Valley opened up before me with a scenic, serene vista that many an artist had felt compelled to put to canvas for centuries. While the white-capped White Fangs surrounded us with their mighty precipices, the world nestled in their basin flourished with all manner of flora and fauna both native and exotic to this region. Towering coniferous frigid pines and firs mingled amidst juniper, spruce and the likes of deciduous ash, birch, oak, yew, maple, and much more besides; all of varying homelands and of beautiful colors and morphs. Willows, mangroves, palm trees, and other water-loving species alike mingled in the sands of the Mirror’s beaches, whilst everywhere between there were bushes, shrubs, fungi and more which called this place their home. The influx of refugees of many species and nationalities had ensured our Valley incorporated some elements of their old homelands into our own as, after all, our fighting spirit lay in embracing the many forms and ways life was lived across the Continent. Now free of the uncaring world outside our Valley, the stone road beneath my hooves visually improved immediately as the pavers here were all carefully tended to and polished regularly, nary a blade of grass peeking through the mortar. Lining the path, set a few paces apart from one another, were majestically carved Direwolves of white marble and bright red jasper with elegant lanterns of polished copper dangling from their closed jaws. With the light of the Sun directly overhead, their light was dimmed, but come nightfall, their flames cast the way forward in a brilliant warm light.

As the path curved gently leftwards deeper into the wooded Valley, and after a drawn out descent, the quaint and rather thriving town of Redclaw Ridge at last began to reveal itself between the trees. Within a few moments, grey stone battlements and the orange-shingled roofs of houses began poking visibly through the treeline around me. Once they finally broke and gave way to a clearing, I gladly welcomed the dazzling sparkle of Mother's Mirror in my road-weary face. The massive, roughly concave lake basked in the bountiful Sunlight from above and formed the centerpiece of the town which was built up around it on all sides. The Valley itself was fairly spacious, with even the bottleneck in the keyhole-shaped mountains further ahead having nearly three leagues’ worth of grassy woodland separating the foothills of either side's summit. The lake itself served as the centerpiece of the lower half of the Valley, with several colossal bridges of decoratively carved stone ensuring ease of travel between either side of the bustling town across the water. Redclaw itself was one of several thriving havens for what Eldar had chosen to relocate from their ancestral homes to the safety of the School. Indeed, the Valley was simply flush with life from the depths of the lake to the depths of the mountains, to the very mountainsides themselves as Direwolves, Pygmy, Dwem and others had carved out homes for themselves amidst the peaks. With the centuries since the School’s founding, and the mountains of royal gold that had once flowed into the Valley, each and every home from the tallest building to the humblest mountain cave was comely and well crafted. A whole Dwem Underkingdom belonging to the Copperbeak Clan even dwelled deep below us and along the mountains for a great distance northwards; sharing their subterranean holdings with what was left of the once-great Imcando Pygmy Clan. Paths and stairways carved into the very stone snaked to and fro across the foothills servicing the many homes carved above me on every side; the smoke of humble hearths tumbling softly into the crisp alpine air as graceful wisps of cotton. Everywhere one looked, life was thriving and admittedly quite happy in our blessed little mountain Valley. An oasis of calm amidst the Divine Solar Empire of Empress Celesta, the first, and hopefully last, of her kind in the world.

With the mountains around us providing no shortage of fine stone of various types with which to build, we had gone to great effort by erecting a mighty wall, one which spanned from one side of the Valley to the other and was further supported by tall towers, alongside the likes of two stone barbicans standing guard to further protect the gatehouses. Indeed, it was a difficult task to spot a home, business or truly any other building within Redclaw Ridge that failed to put our many quarries to good use. The use of timber in our Valley was kept to a respectful minimum, with the continued natural beauty of our home always at the forefront of construction and design. Infrequently harvested locally in the Valley save for sacred rights, wood was deemed best left as decorative bits to adorn dwellings and businesses. Pygmy and Dwem masons alike dwelled nearby in abundance, having no shortage of fanciful designs to chisel into our stone bricks of granite, marble, basalt and limestone. However, many still yet appreciated the appearance of finely carved and varnished timber beams and supports both within and without their homes. Most of the lumber used though had to be sourced from abroad, yet it was hauled in wholesale for our own carpentry-friendly Thestrals to work into boards and planks for further use. Even the finely worked wood and stonework notwithstanding, few even left the exterior of their home as mere barren bricks of stone and mortar. Rather, Redclaw favored the Equestrian style of slathering the walls in thick white plaster derived from local limestone, upon which brightly colored paints could be used to beautify the property according to the occupant's taste and style. Unlike the thatched wattle and daub hovels of Equestria’s many impoverished peasants, we Eldar had the will and the brightness of spirit to make the most of our skills and available resources at every opportunity.

Whilst the majority of ponies would only dream of a home which stood firm against the weather, bringing relief in the summer and warmth in the winter, we had made it a living reality for us all. All things basked in the unadulterated, exalted, and enlightening Sun of Mother Amaterasu in our Valley. All dwelling untainted by the unnatural presence of Celestia’s brand of Solar Magicks which had enthralled (or ensnared) much of the Continent since the Arrival. Equestrians were facing dilemmas of housing and comfort that had been a distant memory of the Eldar, long-since solved through our combined talents. That was of course…before the Race Wars came about as the Equestrian demand for more and more land grew too great for the Eldar to bear. As to when they began...that was a matter still under active debate in the local University and rowdy taverns throughout the Valley. Equestrian demands for land were a tale as old as the Arrival itself and we had given them plenty up until the Wars began. By my own reckoning, they had begun sometime in the autumn of 581 with the First Battle of the Bitter Fens near the northern shore of Lake Varden, around which the borders of two large nations dwelled. The Grand Duchy of Yonderland on the eastern shore of the lake with its quaint capital of San Palegiorno on a large island, and the Thestral Dominion to the west. Just a ways north of the Bitter Fens, a wetlands fed by a major river which acted as a strategic point, lay the borders of the Kingdom of Misthalin who likewise had interests in the region and eyed ideals of grand expansion. Misthalin, like several other smaller Kingdoms on the eastern coast of the Continent, were all but extensions of Equestrian influence east of Canterlot. Indeed, Yonderland, Misthalin, Korend, and Asgarnia were all puppet states of Her Royal Highness via a myriad of means which saw their former rebelling Equestrian nobility return to the fold via treaty.

Towering to my left, with a plume of white smoke from the peak of its mantle, was one of four signal towers occupying the Valley as part of its multiple systems of defense. Built sequentially in a zig-zagging pattern along the mountainsides leading up to the School, each tower kept a wary eye on the High Road leading in, and events occurring throughout the Valley. Already, I could see the signal mirrors in use between them as they announced my return up the line so the gates may be opened before I even arrived. Down below, one of the high towers of the barbican closest to me flashed a mirror of its own with the rumble of the portcullis felt under my hooves while I approached the town gate. Fed by the Mirror, the massive curtain wall was further shored up by a wide, deep moat which stretched along its length from east to west connecting up with the mountains on either side. Unlike the moats found ringing walled Equestrian cities, ours continually flowed clean and clear; absolutely free of the waste and filth they freely dumped into theirs. Each semicircular barbican was in turn serviced by a hyphenated viaduct, the other bridge-half being provided by the iron-banded oaken beams of a lowered drawbridge. The interior of the barbican formed a small open-air courtyard, with small patches of lush grass and pruned bushes flanking the path on either side. Above, the walls which faced inwards were punctuated by broad crenellations cleaved neatly through the center with arrowloops; friendly guards standing ready at attention behind them. Truly these were the first friendly voices and faces I had the pleasure of experiencing in many days and I allowed myself to relax in their welcoming presence. Others likely occupied the towers nearby along the curtain wall as well as the hollow chamber inside the limited internal space provided by the walls which stood six-and-a-half meters thick.

“Hail, Frejdá!” Came their call as happy echoes amidst the walls of the inner courtyard. “We had not expected you back so soon! Came you upon significant troubles upon the Path?”

“Hail, Brothers!” I bellowed back with a smile of relief. “I had not intended to return before the autumn hail fell, but I could not dally once I found precious heirlooms Enshrouded! I have need of the Archivist post-haste!”

“Then by the Gods, make haste! We must hear of your find when there is time!”

"Oh I do not doubt the grapevine infesting the Valley will whisper rumors of it soon enough to all who've ears to listen."

We shared in a genuine, companionable laugh at the expense of the rampant rumor mill always at play in the Valley, which saw fit that no secret nor tale went unseen nor unheard. I gave the lot of them a courteous nod before continuing my trot through the gatehouse, under the second portcullis, and into Redclaw Ridge proper. Like the strong scent of pine that roused the spirit with signs of home, Redclaw itself possessed a delightful mixes aroma of its own which graced the air most pleasantly. Spiced meats and vegetables roasted atop a flame, baked breads, tarts and cakes, sweetly perfumed flowers, wood stone and finished off by that perfect, indescribable feeling of friendly, happy people going about their daily life in peace. Ours was a bright and colorful city as each family painted and adorned their home after the manner of their own design; no two families going about it in quite the same way. Orange clay shingles protected each home from the elements above, while handsome red bricks escorted the soft white smoke of hearth fires up and into the bright blue sky. It was far too tempting to give any number of food vendors more than a passing glance, but the weight of the remains and his trusty blades forbade me tarry. Rather, before any curious eyes caught sight of the Shroud on my person, I immediately followed the path leading directly to the lake where ready transport awaited. There were surely folks who wished to greet me after many months away, but they would have their time to enjoy my company in due course. Shrouds with remains which could be interred, or otherwise containing salvageable weapons and armor were classified as Category-A Relics after all. Their safe transit back to the Archivist and Reliquary alike were both of the utmost importance for the Witcher who found themselves so-charged with such a Relic, or Relics as in my situation.

The shoreline of Mother’s Mirror was dotted with groups of marble docks from which those seeking a faster means to one place to another might embark across the water. A veritable chasm of its own, the Mirror was itself a home to those Sentient aquatic species which had sought out our protection with Equestrian encroachment of their ancestral waters. They hailed from all bodies of water, from terrestrial lakes and streams, to the ocean depths of the coasts and those reaches even further beyond. By the blessing of the Valley, those who had once lived in seawater still found the freshwater of the Mirror quite to their liking. Ensuring their safe transfer between locations had been a tricky affair to say the least, involving the combined efforts of dozens of Mages and Sorceresses for a series of mass teleportations directly into the depths of the lake. However, as a result of their diligent efforts, those of us who dwelt above enjoyed the ease of utilizing small boats tugged along by a friendly, chatty Sea Serpent, Kelpie, or Mermare amongst others who dwelled in the watery depths below. A group of such aquatic Sentients were already waiting in the water, gathered around a seaside alehouse built over the water upon low stilts and offering a wide, open bartop which catered to those aquatic species dwelling below. The barmaids servicing the bobbing, laughing heads and torsos floating at their bar all wore happy smiles and conversed freely with their patrons. Indeed…there would never be a shock quite like the change in atmosphere upon entering Redclaw Ridge and feeling just how fondly everyone cared for each other here. Especially when compared to the cold, harsh world outside our Valley. Truly, there were scant few places willing to openly flaunt their diverse heritage and occupants, let alone with the same general level of contentment and pride as we could. We had all set our roots deep into this soil…well, save perhaps for those few dogged old-timers of the Schools which survived total annihilation. They had retained their right to gather and winter in the ruins of their respective keeps out of loyalty to their home. However…no reconstruction efforts of any sort were attempted lest local officials catch wind and send forth their garrisons or worse, call for the Witch Hunters from their Dens across the Continent.

“Greetings friends!” I announced as I approached the lakeside bar via their marble dock. “I am in the possession of some rather rare heirlooms, and must make it to Kaer Solaris with as much speed as can be mustered. Which of thee might I persuade into such an endeavor?”

All turned to gaze in my direction with many a pleasant smile on each and every face, the sight of which could bring a tear to even the most neurologically damaged Witcher’s eye. Immediately all claws, fins and hooves were raised high to volunteer and I was hard pressed to choose any in particular lest I somehow offend one of them. Graciously, they almost immediately turned to the Serpent, a lovely chap by the name of Scalis, who was more than willing to accommodate my needs. Though my travels had not netted me nearly quite the stack of coin I had been hoping for, I felt compelled to toss each of them a few silver Orens apiece simply for their sheer willingness to help; the barmaids themselves pocketing some coins of their own for the sake of fairness and generosity. There was simply no other feeling than that which being home amidst friendly faces could bring. At last, the threat of being spat upon or, worse yet, being the unlucky recipient of the contents of a chamberpot, was a fear I could leave behind. In honor of that fact alone…I was feeling more than a little generous in gratitude for the warm welcome I'd received. My purse was hardly weighty, nor bulging with coin-a-plenty from my travels...yet I could not help but indulge in some generosity for these kind, honest folks who had seen fit to welcome me home. Some things in life needed to be taken care of immediately and the proper return of a Shroud was most certainly one of those situations.

Attached via a long set of chains set into a harness, the boat in which I settled down into was pulled along at some distance behind Scalis so as to allow his long body proper freedom of movement. Once fully aboard we were immediately on our way, my driver slithering along the water's surface at a blistering pace as I had requested. Though I knew all their minds were awash with questions as to precisely what objects I was carrying, I simply didn’t wish to waste any more time. It was a miracle that I had the fortune of discovering them, and it was not lost on me as to how incredible an opportunity it was for his Medallion to possess even a flicker of life in it. Centuries could have passed for all I knew and yet, despite the death of its Witcher, it was still somehow yet clinging to life. I had checked almost compulsively during any pause in the Long March to eat, drink or relieve myself along the way, and still its eyes faintly glimmered. It was anyone's guess as to how much time, if any, was left for the spirit contained somewhere deep within the enchanted Lunar Silver. One could only hope it sensed the magic of the Valley and would keep itself propped up just awhile longer for us. There was so much quiet hope being weighted down upon it that I also hoped it was up to the task of shouldering such a burden. The more people I told, the more that weight would increase on it and could just as easily break its spirit as it could enliven it. A conundrum to be sure as so many would undoubtedly take an interest in it were they to learn of it. No...the wake held for this mysterious Witcher would likely prove as most people's introduction to the whole affair and that was fine enough as it was. There was simply no need to complicate anything that did not already heavily necessitate it.

The buildings, balconies, docks and great bridges built across the Mirror all passed by at a brisk pace; curious eyes glancing our way whilst other swimmers gave us a wide berth. Indeed, the speed at which we traveled was enough to whisk the wind through my mane and splash my face occasionally with a mist of cool water. As a Lowland Valkyrie, I found myself most at home under the shady cover of lofty trees far away from any frightfully watery depths, a trait shared by my distant genetic cousins the Thestrals. Indeed, both our kind found the light of the Sun directly upon our faces to be rather uncomfortable, with some even necessitating hoods and wide-brimmed hats when not under the shade of a forest canopy. However…there was no other Sun like the one shining over Kaer Solaris and the splendid Valley around it, and while it was brilliantly warm like anywhere else, it never grew to be sweltering or even mildly uncomfortable compared to walking the lands outside. In fact, I found myself most at ease while in transit even despite the few inches of wooden planks separating me from the terrifyingly deep underwater town below me. Like the diversion to purchase some food, it was far too tempting an offer to sit back and enjoy the experience for a while, however…sadly, our trip came to a swift end. The dock closest to the School neared and Scalis began to slow his pace as we approached our destination. In some ways, I found myself wishing I had arrived to the Valley come nightfall as the view of the Cosmos above were very cleansing to many an Eldar's troubled mind. The Mirror truly lived up to its name come the fall of midnight across the Valley...

“Very well, here we are my dear Witcher!” He announced proudly as we gracefully pulled up alongside the dock, allowing me to safely disembark with my cargo. “I do hope that was swift enough for you! I did not wish to swamp the boat by going any faster so I made my best compromise.”

“You did very well, Scalis.” I replied with a smile, going so far as to slip a full Crown into his scaly palm for his prompt and speedy assistance. “I pity the experience was so short in truth. I seemed to have forgotten the simple pleasure of a cool mountain lake under a blazing Sun.”

“No truer words than that!” He responded with a colossal grin on his long scaly snout. “Well, tarry no longer dear Witcher! The Bastion is surely open by now and awaiting your imminent arrival if the watchtowers are as dutiful as they should be in matters such as these.”

“Not to worry, they are fully aware of my presence in the Valley. I caught sight of the signal mirrors soon as I neared the town wall.” I reassured him before patting myself down and scanning the boat for any potentially missing items. “Make the most of your day and thank you all so very kindly for the warm welcome. It is indescribable how wondrous it is to be amidst those who hold nary a personal grudge in their heart.”

“Bah! Truly think nothing of it, my friend! There is room enough for all whom the Age of the Sun wishes would hide away from its piercing rays. There is naught to fear here amongst friends such as these! Long may the True Sun shine!”

I nodded in reply along with a wave of acknowledgement before once more setting off deeper down the Valley, knowing full-well I had greatly overpaid for his services. Redclaw Ridge still surrounded me even a full league away from where I had begun, the same rich aromas clinging to every whiff of air I breathed. Everywhere I looked there were Eldar of every size and species milling about the streets and the mountain paths above. The growling ache in my stomach prompted me to a brisk trot as I returned from the shoreline to the main thoroughfare, making my way around the edges of crowds as best I could in my pursuit of the High Road that lay beyond the city. It was hard for the eye not to be drawn to the abundant beauty on display in the streets as every window was adorned with flower boxes or herb planters while colorful tassels of ribbons or decorative flags were strung between the buildings. Flower petals almost always seemed to perpetually fall in the city streets, keeping the dutiful sweepers and other cleaners busy and well-paid for their work. This close to the Bastion however, the strong scent of ale, mead, cider and spirit permeated the air as well, given the abundance of taverns and breweries established in the Upper Quarter. Gods only knew the tidy profits in gold and silver they all made from an abundant and happy population… Regardless, there were no shortage of fine establishments available on the southern edge of the Mirror for one to imbibe their favorite kinds of alcohol from light-to-heavy beers produced locally, to liver-punching vodka and sweet potent mead straight out of Keldagrim and Mahakam. Even they who enjoyed a liberally-poured glass of wine could whet their tongues from wineries both local and abroad, those produced by Thestrals and Yonderland were of particularly high quality. Such quality (and the costs for importing said quality) were reflected in the price charged per-glass or by the bottle, yet those who tended to partake in these foreign imports were already of a wealthier disposition.

Once free of the distractions of the city and past the second wall, the High Road immediately resumed its path up the Valley. Ahead, the journey continued on to the small fortress ringed with rounded towers sitting at the base of the ascending path leading up to the School. The Bastion formed an integral part of any Witcher School, as they facilitated the training grounds used to train those Apprentices who had volunteered themselves as Witchers-to-be. Though all School Bastions varied in shape and design, Kaer Solaris’ stood out amidst the rest for being built on the grandest scale being larger than the personal fortresses of more than one Duke or Baron. Had I been more intent upon long-distance travel in my long-distant youth, and in the possession of some means of seeing Kaer Solaris, there was a strong basis for the idea that I might have been a Wolf in another life. The School of the Viper had trained me exceptionally well despite all its many woes (which all came down to a sheer lack of coin), and yet I still wondered if I'd have gotten better grades under the School of the Wolf. My time in the Viper's Bastion had been deadly informative, with dozens of life-changing insights and skills learned during those long four years spent amidst its decaying stonework. I had come to the Vipers with some prior combat and physical training like unto many other young and middling adults who willingly offered themselves up to the Witchers and their way of life. The School of the Viper was never particularly large or important on the world stage compared to our relatives amidst the other Schools, yet we still did our best to make our mark on the guild as a whole. Despite our lack of capital to simply even maintain the majority of our fortress, let alone her outer Bastion, we had been amongst the Six Foundations; the original Witcher Schools as developed upon the amicable dissolution of the original Order of Witchers. We counted several of the First Born amongst our number, though most had seemingly perished or elsewise vanished by the time of my Apprenticeship. And yet...for all these lamentable setbacks compared to that of other Schools, I would not once ever consider changing the course I had taken with my life. My four years spent in the quasi-derelict Viper's Bastion had elicited such joy within me as I applied myself, heart and Soul, to the secrets of swordplay. At the same time, I had fought tooth and hoof to pursue the best physical shape I had ever attained in my up-till-then, relatively short life. That Bastion had been my first true crucible and trial by fire...and it had forever changed me.

Even had it been maintained to its original perfection, that crumbling old edifice held not even a lit match to the majestic architecture that was the Wolven Bastion. Indeed, it was extra-special in that the Wolves remained the gracious host of the annual Witcher's Tournament which had gone on (save for the year of the Cleansing) consecutively for each and every year since the Tournament’s founding over five centuries ago. This friendly weeklong event witnessed warriors of all stripes, both mutated and not, compete against one another in contests of strength, speed, agility and general combat prowess. In spite of what one might think given the events of fifty-five years past, it remained a massive, yearly event which brought many guests from far and wide to our Valley. Indeed, despite the widespread enmity held for Witchers, and by extension all Eldar, all hate was usually able to be contained for the duration of one mere week out of the year. Great warriors and diamonds-in-the-rough could be found participating in the events, whilst military scholars, historians and other academics could be spotted in the grandstands built off the walls above. Those outside the Witcher profession, yet who still held some place for the deadly arts in their life, were always keen to observe us and our range of techniques in a more controlled setting. Fine food, drink, dance and song likewise accompanied the event day-and-night, with the citizens of Redclaw even participating in the whole affair in order to make some fine coin of their own. And all that pomp and spectacle was for what exactly? Well, the chance to win prizes of gold, jewels, rare artwork, tomes, diagrams, mastercrafted weapons, armor, and many other items any warrior worth their salt would kill to possess. Other useful items were awarded in addition to purses of money; Pygmy whetstones, Thestral repair kits, and even ingots of rare metals, or reams of tanned-and-cured monster and Daemon hides. The Witcher's Tournament was a major reason as to why the Wolves' Bastion was so much larger and grander than those of most other Schools. In fact, the inner face of the Bastion’s curtain wall was entirely barren of any defensive crenellations as our other defensive structures typically possessed. Instead, we could make use of an elaborate system of wooden supports fitted into channels in the stone and sturdy, elegant platforms to form large seating areas for up to thousands of spectators. When not in use of course, these were replaced by rather spacious hoardings which gave the guards on duty some quality shelter from the elements when not occupying one of the towers lining the wall. Though the possibility of a foreign attack had fallen from an incredibly pressing concern to that of nagging worry in recent years, the abundant layers of defenses throughout the Valley were hardly a new occurrence. In fact, most had already been long-since constructed by the time I was beginning my first days as a Master Witcher in the early years of the fifth century. The only Post-Cleansing defenses constructed were a second town wall capping off the southern end of Redclaw Ridge in a similar manner to the one guarding the north side; spanning the width of the Valley and dotted by dozens of towers all billowing flags and tassels of many lovely colors in the mountain breeze.

From every tower set directly into the curtain wall of the Bastion, a secondary freestanding tower was set perpendicular to it some twenty meters or so away. Each auxiliary tower was connected by a high stone bridge to a corresponding tower along the curtain wall, giving the Bastion an odd studded look from above. The training of foals. and those younger than full adulthood, had significantly declined since the fifth century thanks in large part to our general falling-out with the majority of the world. There had indeed been a century or two where folks would beg us to take in their older children and train them in our ways. Whether they did it to instill in their unruly Souls some discipline and honor, to see one of their blood rise to the title of a hero, or to simply remove an extra mouth from an already hungry table...their reasons had all varied from one to the next. Such a thing was now no longer quite the case as it had once been, yet we were the occasional recipient of more than one orphaned child robbed of their parents from one calamity or another. As such, a basic education was provided by kind Souls in Redclaw Ridge, with many children being adopted by local families while still quite young. At the same time, light combat training would be introduced into their daily physical activities once they came to the age of six-to-eight years, as it was prudent for all to be capable of at least basic self-defense no matter their age in such a dangerous world as ours. If they so chose to continue on with their training, and wished invest more of themselves into its pursuit come the age of sixteen, they would be allowed to become a Hopeful and continue their studies within one of the dedicated towers of the Bastion. Most who made it that far in their young journey towards Witcherhood would find that their place in the Bastion as a full Apprentice would be all-but-assured through their dedication and youthful vigor alone. If their time as a Hopeful was deemed a proper success story, then in two years they could easily hope to come down from the towers to train alongside the other adults come their eighteenth year alive. Those who failed to graduate the Trial of the Sword, come the end of their fourth year in the Bastion, would be asked to prove the integrity of their resolve to the School or kindly leave with their bunk neatly made and all equipment returned.

From the rounded roofs of the sixteen towers, tall flags proudly flapped in the mountain breeze bearing the colors and Crests of all current Witcher Schools which held some sort of presence at Kaer Solaris after the Cleansing, even if it were terribly minor. Flags bearing the sigils of the Schools of the Wolf, Viper, Dragon, Fox, Manticore, Raven, Owl, Örn, Griffin, Lion, Bear and, controversially, the honorable memory of the School of the Cat were all to be found displayed with pride and honor. Though in truth…not a one was left from the Cat's ranks who willingly took up the name or Crest of that now detested School. Other, lesser ‘Schools’ had, and likely still, existed in tandem with those listed. However, none of them ever received official support or had their guild licenses ratified by the Council and a royal guarantor willing to endorse and sponsor their fortress. As to their status in this day and age…it was anyone's guess by and large. These minor Witcher ‘Schools’ lay scattered about the Continent to fill in whatever gaps preexisting Schools must have lacked coverage for in their eyes. Yet, given few had even been granted temporary guild permits…we took these unknown Witchers at arm's length in the rare case one of them ever appeared. Their organizations varied too wildly in quality, numbers, and sometimes overall integrity, yet those which had at least been granted temporary papers were generally considered to have some merit of trustworthiness. All the same, we venerated the Honorable Twelve here readily and frequently as an outward display of our attempts to make the School of the Wolf a home for all Witchers. While it still kept its moniker by almost everyone when not called by its proper name, Kaer Solaris was indeed the closest thing to a real home I had ever felt since my long-distant fillyhood. The entire Valley of the Sun at large had become the safest place for Witchers and our ilk to reside together alongside those members of the Eldar as had likewise sought out the Valley for its safety and tightly-knit community.

Like the lower city wall, the Bastion was serviced by a pair of gatehouses reinforced by a set of portculli, drawbridges and yet another moat; one fed by the river which poured into the lake from the foothills of the Holy Mount somewhat further beyond. These barriers were all open wide to welcome me, and I passed into the central courtyard without any incident. The interior of the roughly oval-shaped Bastion was separated into four sections arranged around a central ringed fence of stone. Four wide berms reinforced with stone walls had been built up at the corners, each raised above the central circuit by a few meters; accessed via their own shared sets of chiseled stairways set in the space between each berm against the curtain wall. Each stone-backed rampart served as an independent training area complete with several meters of space each, space enough for four separate Mentors or Instructors to train their Apprentices either alone, or together in groups as per their lesson requirements. The center of the courtyard itself was dominated by a wide, circular fighting ring enwreathed fully by a low granite fence padded on its inner face, whilst the outer was studded by braziers, and punctuated by four independent entryways with wooden gates. As to be expected, this space was utilized for intensive, full-contact sparring sessions between two-to-six Apprentices at once as they applied the lessons taught in their fencing classes at the School above. During the Witcher's Tourney, it played host to all manner of contests of combat between highly-skilled professionals all vying for victory amidst a cheering crowd. Today, my heart was warmed by seeing well over three dozen faces amongst those practically applying the techniques taught to them via our tomes and diagrams. With so many Schools all communally dwelling in the same keep, the list of available Mentors came from all backgrounds, and applicants were free to select which School they felt best suited them or simply appealed to them the most. If none immediately appealed to them, and no Mentor had asked to take them in as their pupil yet they still passed the Trial, they'd be permitted to study as an honorary Acolyte whilst they decided. Indeed today, all living, fully-mutated Witchers who had survived their Trial of the Grasses and graduated in full were permitted to take the title of Mentor, and train a single Apprentice of their own in a direct peer-to-peer relationship. Of course…no true mutations such as the true Trial of the Grasses had been performed in the Laboratorium in well over a century. The Grasses had been robbed from us in the wake of the Cleansing; centuries of careful study and theory, mutagen recipes perfected through fatal trial and error, and rare herb/fungi cultivation techniques passed down as the proud heirlooms of generations of Witchers and Sorcerers alike…all stolen in a moment. Truly, the only reason behind Celestia in granting us the continued training of Apprentices was to combat the Abyssal crisis she herself had brought about. Better for our own to die rather than her precious subjects in the persistent and unceasing pursuit of ridding the world of Chasms, monsters and Daemon. We had yet to loose our edge (or prestige) as elite schools of combat training, which ensured Kaer Solaris would never fully be lacking in new blood joining our ranks as Witchlings and Acolytes.

To be sure, any who could pass the bar of entry to even be counted as a student of the School was no ordinary individual. Though Kaer Solaris, and by extension the Wolves, were not so harsh in their teaching methods as the School of the Bear, nor even as demanding as the Örn, it was still no mean feat to be found worthy of even being inducted here as a student. There were many fatal risks present along the road to becoming a Witcher, and each of these was firmly explained and affirmed to the applicant prior to their commitment to lengthy preliminary testing. This testing, known as the Trial of the Sword, took place primarily in the Bastion and occurred over the course of two-to-four years depending upon talent, personal commitment, and the end-goals of the student in question. The goal of this program of sorts was twofold: sifting out those unfit for advancement in our ranks, and to offer a full, comprehensive course on fencing and swordplay to hone what skills applicants should already possess. Of course, it was far from unheard of for those with no prior skill with a sword to appear on a Witcher School's doorstep only to find their dedication (and even natural talent) sees them through any doubters who may have mocked them at the Bastion. They who impressed the Bastion Commander and possible Mentors, took to their lessons with extreme diligence and vigor, and excelled in their bladework would be extended what was called 'The Choice'. A fancifully named, formal offer of induction into the School and progression to the next rank of our guild, The Choice was a lifelong commitment as the end-goal was some level of genetic mutation. These graduates of the Trial of the Sword could then be approached by a licensed Mentor with an offer of direct tutelage, or elsewise attempt to find on their own a Witcher Adept or Master who is in search of a personal student and protégé. Those who came within striking distance of being offered the Choice, or elsewise decided not to make a full-commitment to the Witchers for one reason or another, were granted the honorary rank of Acolyte as proof of their training. Though the only combat taught to students in the Bastion was that against other Sentients wielding a weapon for self-defense, Acolytes were extended the opportunity to study the fundamentals of the true Witcher’s Path. Alongside those who had made the Choice, they were instructed in silver weapons and endurance training, elementary Alchemy and bombcraft, wilderness tracking, herblore, advanced agility, and a broad introduction to the complicated world of monster slaying. Those who pursued this extra training were permitted to possess and purchase some minor trappings of a proper Witcher of the School; the armor, weapons and various bags and pouches as offered to Witchlings with options for a more tailored appearance, granted they’d the coin for it. Being trained by, but not mutated into the ranks of, the likes of Witchers, Acolytes were permitted the wearing of a Pendant; a facsimile of a Witcher's Medallion taking the shape of a flat disc bearing the Crest of whatever School they'd studied at. Given we were at the School of the Wolf, the majority of Acolyte Pendants being produced in recent decades bore the Wolf's Head, yet those produced by other Schools still existed. Either in the hooves of those trained in Schools as still survived outside of Kaer Solaris, or in those rare cases a Mentor of a particular School takes in a personal pupil early in the Bastion, who then goes on to refuse The Choice. Whatever their personal reasons (for there were indeed many to choose from), a Pendant after the likeness of that Mentor's School would be fashioned for them to be worn dangling from the waist for all to see; the right to wear a Witcher's Crest around the neck only permitted to those who have made The Choice.

In the days of old, those who graduated from their time at the Bastion and made The Choice would transition into the process of becoming what was termed a Witchling. Though it had lost the meaning it once held, it was a term used to refer to those who began the months-long preliminary stages preceding the Trial of the Grasses which held the secret to our extensive mutations. These Witchers-to-be were fed enchanted Alchemical brews in the form of steeped teas and tinctures meant to strengthen their bodies and minds against the mutations brought about by the Grasses. Though nowhere near in the same league as those potent elixirs which formed the Grasses, the teas that were administered were in themselves specialized mild mutagenic agents of their own. Designed to unlock the body’s full potential prior to the rounds of genetic mutations, those who could endure this drawn-out process without succumbing to organ failure would come out the other side in the prime of their mortal existence. Increased muscle mass, faster, more responsive reflexes and reactions and a moderately extended lifespan to boot. The budding beginnings of those specialized cells which conducted magic also began to form during this stage, granting the basic use of telekinesis and an anemic use of Signs. This all was done in stages with dosages of these teas being administered every four-to-six weeks or so depending upon the recipe used and resources of the Laboratorium performing it. All of this and more was in preparation for the real Trial, wherein each and every cell of a Witchling's body would be broken down and remade by the Grasses, hopefully, into that of a full Witcher. Of course…no Witchling had been transformed in the Hall of Changes in many a School in many, many moons. With our secrets and materials in Celestia's possession, we simply lacked the means to mutate anyone beyond the teas used to produce a Witchling. Of course, naturally, this did not go to say that Her Highness had simply let our centuries of blood-soaked discoveries go to waste. No...in fact, quite the opposite even as, with the use of those traitorous Cats-turned-Elite Witch Hunters, their secrets could be unlocked and put to new uses. Those Witch Hunters as mutated by the first of their wretched kind were quite alike unto our Witchlings with less-extensive mutations as we Witchers underwent. Yet, those former Cats saw fit to amplify the potency of the teas and underpin them with more aggressive mutagens than usual.

Though the recipes for the true Grasses were lost to most Continental Schools, the secrets of the teas had been retained by remnants of the Ravens and were somewhat improved upon when brought to Kaer Solaris. Her Highness had yet to throw a royal tantrum over our continued use of these mild mutagens as again, it was better for our own to die over her loyal subordinates. Indeed, graciously, the best and brightest of our current age have toiled tirelessly to further push the safe, mutable limits of these teas in the transformation of our Witchlings. As a result of what could only have been some divine favor, the secret to inducing basic powers of telekinesis with the possibility of very minor spellcraft had been rediscovered and reintroduced into the recipe early. Granted they survived these preparatory teas, Witchlings would go on to complete their training to its fullest extent like any other Witcher before them, before being declared full graduates of the School. It was only then they would be granted the privileges, but not the title, of a true Witcher given the current legal (and scientific) prohibitions. Indeed…the best any of us could hope for was for even one of our students to return alive from their first year on the Path. They were no substitute for a true Witcher, but…they were certified by a prestigious fighting institution to perform at a level far above the average soldier or skilled mercenary. We had to have some faith in our own ability to still teach and train students. The Witchlings of today were far-and-above those like in my day, regardless of the stage having once only been a transitory one between that of an Acolyte and a full-Witcher. Graciously...they all seemed to yet be capable of fiery commitment to our cause, even if the number of Equestrian recruits had greatly dwindled.

Though the northern ‘front’ face of the Bastion possessed two gates, the south-facing wall only possessed one as the pavers of the central courtyard transformed seamlessly back into the High Road once past the portcullis. With the bottleneck in the Valley walls immediately ahead, the path to the School began to rise sharply along a slope of basalt; a pair of smaller roads branching off to either side and leading to the Upper Valley where the Mages, Thestrals and their ilk chose to reside. Low, graceful stairs were formed into the High Road along the length of the slope, while pillars of white marble capped with wide sconces of red jasper lit the way on either side with golden flame at regular intervals. Midway up, the mighty mountain spring which fed the lake and various defensive moats gushed forth from apertures carved into either side of the approach; the deep canals continually funneling fresh water into the Mirror and everything else downstream. At the very top of the lofty ridge lay the formal Barbican of the School proper, a miniature, squared tower fort built around an entrance corridor capped at either end by thick portculli. In truth, it took the appearance of a large stone box capped off by a tall covered watchtower and flanked at either side by semicircular salients which were built over the edge of the void, some hundred-and-fifty meters above the Valley floor. The Barbican itself was dutifully occupied by the School Guard, though at a minimum when compared to other defenses dotting the Valley. This was in no way due to a shortage of available sentries, but rather…it was seen as a waste of resources when the greatest of the defenders amongst them was a true Direwolf, and a fully-mutated Witcher at that. Richtus had been a part of the Wolf School for many a century, being a middling Second Born like myself and having studied directly under the tutelage of members of the First Century. The regal red markings adorning all Direwolves were fading to a pale rose color across his body and yet, the fire that burned deep within his colossal being refused to be so readily extinguished. He had outlasted many of his fellows of the Second Born and would have been made our current fencing instructor had the post not required so much physical activity. Posted within the Barbican as Captain of the Guard however… With all the defenses further up the Valley, he was granted plenty of time with which to rest his old, aching bones and watch over the Valley. Rest and recount tales of the Golden Age to any willing to lend the old Wolf a willing ear and a pint (or barrel) of mead.

“And so she returns! A full five months ahead of schedule at that.” He boomed in greeting as I mounted the slope and entered the Barbican. “Unless winter has returned unseasonably early… a prospect I very much doubt. What brings ye home so soon from the Path, Frejdá?”

“Nay, no snow yet falls upon the High Road. I came in haste, bearing sad mementos of one Fallen on the Path sometime long ago.”

Though it was subtle, a shiver of sadness seemed to strike him as well as those others stationed on duty who had gathered to witness my arrival. It was far from the first Shroud to pass them by, though I deigned to guess as to how long it had been since their last. Few Cats had come to rest amongst our honored dead since the Cleansing; those counted amongst the faithful having long since been thought accounted for and interred in the Grand Catacombs. All that being said, we all too shared in the common grief that accompanied the deceased. A Witcher shared far more in common with us all than the brutish Equestrians, even those whom we considered Anathema at large.

“Yes…I can see that clearly now. Please…pray tell…was it one of our own?”

“Put thy fears to rest, old friend. It was no Wolf I happened upon, but rather a Cat. And yes…before a word of derision escapes your lips, I found him in the den of a NightShade Spectre with his silver at his side and his Medallion around his neck. A faithful Witcher by all accounts.”

“I see…” He responded, a stern and reluctant expression in his golden eyes. “Then go at once, Viper. I’m sure the Archivist would be most intrigued as to what you may have learned about this…Witcher. None other accompanying you in your return?”

“No, were there to be any?”

“Aye…diplomats from Trottingham, due two days past. However, seeing as you are unaware of any of this, I can only assume you did not encounter anything related to them while on the High Road?”

“I regret to inform you, yes. The High Road was quite bereft of travelers once I had passed Linseed Hollow. Had it not been for the sorry fucks occupying the Steeple, I’d have completely forgotten any else but me existed for a time.”

“That is…disheartening to say the least. Very well, please summon Sir Tiffy and his Foxes and have them report to me immediately if you are able. It is only fitting that the search be mounted by one of their own after all.”

I nodded heartily while Richtus and the rest of the School Guard parted towards the sides of the vaulted gatehouse interior. Those Guard that could gave the Shroud an honorable salute as I passed by and onto the bridge; the Crest of the Wolf School proudly embroidered on the breasts of their plate and gambeson hauberks. Like the path leading into the Valley from the Arch of the Hunters, the long bridge leading to the School’s front gates was dotted with majestically carved Guardian Wolves with mighty brass lanterns dangling from their jaws. Much alike in appearance to Direwolves, these divine messengers also were graced by mighty sets of graceful feathered wings; the envoys of Amaterasu Herself it was said. Had any here actually ever seen or spoken with one ever in the history of the School? Absolutely not. And yet, the ancient stone tablets housed in the Spire and the carvings depicting them in the oldest caves in the White Fang Mountains insisted otherwise. Being such sacred icons to the Direwolves, it was only seen as fitting by the great architects of the day to construct their likeness along the main bridge entering the School. And indeed, these statues were more than mere decoration as a spell would animate them with powerful spirits if the School itself was threatened with a ground invasion.

Ahead, the gatehouse awaited with its various defenses lowered and awaiting me; a possible yet proper arc of defensive fire awaiting the order to let loose from a pair of salient towers built off the gatehouse. Each two-story tower jutted forward several meters to either side of the lengthy drawbridge, acting as the only towers on the School's wall which kept its fine wooden hoardings installed year-round as extra shade for those on guard duty. Above the gatehouse salient stood the North Towers; broad, squared structures built as part of the main curtain wall of the School acting as private offices and bedrooms for some ranking members of staff. Inside the gatehouse proper lay a pair of low defensive apron walls, accessed via the two internal guardhouses that occupied the lower salient towers flanking the drawbridge itself. Overhead, the vaulted ceiling of the interior was pockmarked by several murderholes perfect for unleashing all manner of deadly objects and substances. Meanwhile, beneath my hooves, the steel grating which supported my passage could easily be triggered like a trapdoor sending any unlucky invaders down a very long shaft to their doom. The School Guard occupied this space like unto the Barbican across the entrance bridge, halberds in claw and hoof with sturdy steel blades at their sides. Given that word of my arrival was now long since old news it seemed, not a blade was drawn nor a voice raised in anger but in warm, boisterous greeting. That was of course, until the sight of the Shroud upon my back brought their tones down to a much more respectful level; performing a traditional salute of mourning by drawing their hooves, claws, paws, etc. over their faces to simulate a veil before giving a long, thoughtful wave with that same limb.

In lieu of the corpse lying in the Shroud, I bowed my head low in respectful honor of the motion and returned it with one of my own as they had been so thoughtful towards the deceased. The second portcullis was raised with a grating squeal of rattling chains and squeaking iron-clad beams of wood as a great feeling of calm finally began to truly set in as my body began to recognize at last that I was home. The worries of the Path and dangers of rowdy Equestrians on the High Road could now be unshouldered and left behind in the chasm separating the gatehouse from the Barbican. Though the good folks in Redclaw Ridge were all better company than almost any to be found outside the Valley, there were no better, fitting companions for a road-weary Witcher than the company of those who knew the weariness for themselves all too well. I, as well as my Fallen companion, had finally returned to our only real home in Equestria which had yet to be fully robbed of us.
At last I could find some rest and relaxation as only Kaer Solaris could provide, and my nameless compatriot could begin his preparations for his final rest amidst the Hall of Cats within the Grand Catacombs of Witchers. It was such a blessing to be home at last.

Chapter Three: Kaer Solaris, The Wolven Keep of the Sun

Sunlight returned in full force to illuminate the spacious Lower Courtyard once I emerged back outside again, the space consisting of wide lawns of moss and wild grass dotted by many beautiful trees swaying softly in the breeze. The lush courtyard was infrequently used as a training area for the Bastion students, and could better be described as a traditional inner bailey as found in a typical lord’s castle. Acting as a sort of front lawn and forested garden, this modestly adorned area acted as the first look visitors and students had of the School upon entry. Above, and slightly ahead and to my left, loomed the keep proper. It was an enormous, hulking structure that took the form of the letter ‘T’ laid on its side; the crossbar of the letter running north to south forming the Great Hall. Like a giant stony growth, a colossal semicircular apse housing the Grand Library jutted out westward with only the peak of its rounded roof poking over the height of the curtain wall. Even from the gatehouse I could observe several of the large Zamak Ravens, used for sending and receiving messages without the need for magic, coming to and from this same roof. The Rookery occupied the topmost floor of the Library and made use of several sheltered portals in its lofty ceiling for the free passage of messages and packages to and from the School. The 'stem' of the T-shaped keep meanwhile extended quite some distance eastward, dwelling in the shadow of a mighty squared tower built atop the structure near its end. At its peak, the lofty stained glass windows of the Archmaster's private quarters could be seen gleaming in the Sun, even from so far down below. Indeed, the balcony ringing the upper reaches of the Master's Tower provided his bedroom with the best view in the Valley, outside of the temples which occupied the mountain peaks surrounding us.

Several meters ahead of me, and coming off the stone foundations of the Library, a low wall studded by battlements descended from the Upper Courtyard, protecting the larger of two stairways bridging both courtyards together. At the foot of the stair, this wall sported a small yet sturdily built gate banded with iron; the rest of the wall's length spreading up and onto a relatively straight, high ridge which separated the two courtyards from one another. The wall and ridge continued all the way to my left until it met the mighty curtain wall of the fortress near the easternmost North Tower. A second, far narrower staircase was built up and along the towering curtain wall to my far left till it merged with the low wall of the Upper Courtyard, defended at its summit by a solitary postern door of iron. Along the top of the straightest section of Upper Courtyard’s battlements was affixed a broad oaken beam some ten-meters long, spanning its length end-to-end as one unbroken piece. It was an advanced tool of balance given to only Witchlings and Acolytes rather than the Apprentices down in the Bastion. Whilst their tests of balance were kept to heights at or below three-and-a-half meters, this greater test of skill towered some ten-meters high from the perspective of the Lower Courtyard. Relative safety for participants was provided in two forms. A tumble to one side was a mere short drop onto the training pads lining the inner side of the wall, while the other side ensured freefall for a full second or so before…

“CLEAR! Lookout below!”

A yelp of fright and a mighty splash of water erupted some ways ahead of me with a dazed, soaked, but very much alive Acolyte tumbling back over the lip of a white marble trough. More spring water gushed softly from several fountain mouths carved into the towering wall supporting the rocky ridge, dumping yet more water from its pipes. Down below, the lengthy trough lining its base was but one of the many bits of functional architecture at play in the School’s design and stood a couple of meters wide and twice as deep. Even in my haste, I was compelled to stay a moment and watch on with a small fire of pride in my breast as the Acolyte regained her senses and stumbled back to her paws; streaks of water trickling off her snout, elbows and tail. It was rather uncommon for a Lesser Dragon to seek Kaer Solaris for a Witcher’s education, even after the Cleansing rendered some Schools functionally defunct outside of the Valley. It was even stranger when one considered the fact that the School of her own namesake still (somewhat) existed in scattered groups across the Continent. Yet, there she stood but a few paces from me, with ridged scales of coppery bronze and proudly wearing the green-and-gold hardleather cuirass of the School of the Griffin. Sheathed at her back was the simple yet sturdy silver longsword granted to those of her rank with its distinctive V-shaped crossguard, meanwhile the sheath for her steel sword sat empty at her side. With a heavy grunt of irritation accompanied by a puff of flame from her nostrils, she dove back under the water, only surfacing again once she had retrieved her missing blade from its depths.

“Return at once, Ashandra!” Came the call from the gruff and burly Razorbeak up above, a Griffin in both species and in the School of his graduation. “The time for self pity is in the Barracks, now move! Thrice more just for your lollygagging!”

A second, far larger puff of flame escaped her before she dutifully sheathed her steel sword back at her side and clambered up the side of the wall, making use of conspicuously easy-to-grab bricks. Though I tried to restrain it, I could not help but afford myself a small laugh at her expense as the faint memories of my own inexperience prickled my mind from times afar. Razorbeak was certainly a stern fencing Instructor for the School, and not one to be kept waiting any longer than necessary. However, he was far from cruel to his students; in fact, he was a terrific judge of character and could see the capacity to perform in each and every last pupil he oversaw. Once he had determined the mettle within someone, he would push them as far out of their comfort zone as that mettle could handle without snapping. Ashandra was an unusual specimen to be sure, but she was proving especially difficult for him to mold into the desired shape. Twice now had she been deemed unfit to make the Choice and begin the mild mutations of a Witchling to assume her final form. Far too much aggression in her heart, always taking the most immediate road to victory and success… She had graduated the Trial of the Sword with flying colors, becoming an honorary Acolyte while her eyes were set on achieving her full potential as a Witchling. And yet she had not the patience, nor the restraint for any of our tomes or lectures as her heart lay in the heat of battle, not cramped in a lecture hall. A tough nut to crack to be sure, but I and the rest of the Masters, Mentors and Instructors had full confidence in Razorbeak and his personal pupil. It had been heartbreaking to lay our last fencing Instructor to rest some thirty-winters past, and all for the wicked deed of a coin-strapped innkeep that had spied a hefty coin purse on his weary patron. Nevertheless, when the exiled Instructor of the School of the Griffin arrived on our doorstep seeking sanctuary soon after, we made the most of what had been offered. He had done well by us all during his now decades-long stay at Kaer Solaris, and whatever events or actions that led to his banishment from the Griffins mattered not to us. After all, there had not been any active diplomatic channels between our Schools in ages…

By the time Ashandra had clambered over the lip of the beam atop the wall, I was departing in the opposite direction to the right of the main gate. A graceful bridge forming an arch one could walk under connected the westernmost of the North Towers to the top floor of the Library; a long exterior railing of stone lining the whole exterior of the Rookery and its many windows. Directly under the bridge connecting the tower to the Library lay another small staircase built against the curtain wall, similar in design to the smaller of the two paths bridging the Upper and Lower Courtyards. This stair granted passage to the second guardroom supporting the gatehouse at its bottom landing, as well as access to the broad walkway spanning the top of the entire curtain wall from end to end. What arable land there was to this end of the Lower Courtyard conformed to the perimeter of the wall, and around the base of the enormous semicircular Library structure. The lot of it was exceedingly flat with minimal pathing interrupting its large swaths of tilled soil. At the corner, the Northwest Tower turned the curtain wall sharply south/southeast with a middling granary nestled in its crook. Meanwhile, all other available land had long since been occupied by one large patch of farmland rich in volcanic soil and tended by some of the best gardeners in the Kingdom. Here, the School did its best to provide some modicum of self-sufficiency to itself, so as to not demand too much of the Valley and its many, many residents. Potatoes formed the majority of the crops sown and harvested at Kaer Solaris, followed closely by maize, tomatoes, gourds, lettuce, cabbage, and a selection of fruits, peppers, legumes and various herbs; all of which grew and matured year-round thanks to magic. Other foodstuffs were brought in from mostly local sources as few mercantile caravan companies were willing to openly do business with us. Those who did primarily came from Trottingham and the Thestral Dominion, both nations to our south who had to cross through unfriendly Equestrian territory to get to us. The narrow path forward curved gently in a gracious arc around the circumference of the Library, continuing unbroken until another low wall lined with battlements and armed with a gate barred the stairway into the scullery. Like unto the gates protecting the Upper Courtyard, these doors too stood open to welcome me with several servants of the School milling about tending to the crops, threshing grain in the open air, or drawing water from the well tucked in the corner between the gated wall and the Library.

The stairway leading into the scullery past the gate likewise curved for a time round the bend of the Library structure, before leading sharply back up to the curtain wall from a landing at the exterior door. While the rest of the Kitchen staff slept in the Servant’s Courtyard on the other side of the southern wall, the Head Cook resided in a small, cozy stone hut atop the roof of the scullery. From here, Chef Infernus, another Lesser Dragon, was allowed the opportunity to immediately descend to his place of work, or proceed down a lift to the Servant’s Courtyard via a small tower set in the curtain wall a short ways from the stairs. I myself passed through the scullery and carefully navigated around the busywork of servants, male and female alike, scrubbing dishes clean from the noon meal in large communal washing troughs. Whilst the scullery was unremarkable, and rather comparable to that found in the average castle fort, our Kitchens on the other hoof were grand enough to rival the halls of some Dukes. The vaulted stone ceiling was hung thickly with chandeliers, dangling herbs, spices, and meats both cured and freshly slaughtered. Meanwhile, over a dozen dutiful cooks flitted about to and fro between the various preparation tables, bubbling kettles and blazing hot coal-fired cooking ranges. The path from the farm through the Kitchens and into the lower levels of the keep was rather frequented by students, servants, and faculty alike as it saved some time spent walking through the upper floors. Therefore, a row of blackened paving stones had been placed down the path most easily avoided by the cooks, their assistants and the various serving staff as they worked. This narrow trail led me within striking distance of several cooks engrossed entirely in their work yet, like an invisible barrier, not a one breached the indicated tiles. With the nigh-on debilitating aroma of such tremendous cuisine so close at hoof, the hunger within my gut lashed out violently for its just dues. My journey continued along the marked path, with a moment’s rest to request some food and drink, till I passed through the doorway on the far side of the room. The servants had access to a two-person lift in the corner of the Kitchen which rose directly into the Great Hall for immediate service of the tables above. I, however, was not bound for the Hall. Rather, I sought what lay immediately beneath its candle-laden tables and grand marble floors.

The Reliquary Shrine was a near replica of the Great Hall directly overhead, if reduced somewhat in length and width; not mentioning for a moment the tremendous difference in the height of the vaulted ceiling here versus what loomed over the hall above us. Within these sacred walls lay a gentle hush of respectful silence; a long hall lined on either side by deep alcoves and adorned at the end closest to me by a marvelously large canvas painting. Here, amidst the shrines to the world's various major pantheons inhabiting the alcoves, all were welcome to come and pray to their Gods and Goddesses of choice. On full display to the wall to my right, any curious eye would immediately catch a glance of the Oath of the First Born, as brought to life by the masterful brush strokes of the master painter Douxrigaard sometime around the middle of the third century. Standing before a great round table, each thrusting their silver sword towards the center, were the proud Hunters-turned-Witchers who would form the original six Schools. The First Century had now all become legendary figures amongst our guild, with many a young Witchling looking up to them and asking themselves if they could one day measure up. To name them all by heart was a favorite pop quiz by irate Mentors, and to study their journals and Ledgers was like unto reading mystical tales woven in real history. Indeed, more than a few Relics in their name found a home within the sacred halls of the Reliquary museum nearby. A day of triumph and boundless optimism, they each took their Oath to walk the Witcher' Path. Surely those heady days depicted in oil-on-canvas some four-centuries past would always last, yes…?

At the other end of the hall sat the immense vault door of the Reliquary itself, wherein the most precious artifacts of our past were restored, cataloged and stored away in a veritable museum of their own. The hulking door itself had cost the School a small fortune to have cast by the Underkingdom of Copperbeaks, and installed by experts of the Pygmy Mastersmiths. And yet, its tremendous weight, secured tightly by forty bolts arranged around the rim of the door, opened and closed as smoothly as a finely-oiled whetstone dragged over a mirror-polished blade. Behind its hulking mass, the armor, some weapons and other personal effects of notable Witchers occupied various stands set about the spacious vault decorated after the manner a stately manor museum. A fair few of those arms and armors I and my fellows brought back from our travels would not tarry within there for long however. What items survived the ravages of time were typically comprised of materials far too useful and resilient to be left as mere trinkets for one to ogle over. Rather, they would be repurposed as best determined by the Armorer and Quartermaster after every item was turned in for official documentation. While armors were harder to re-bequeath due to variations in height, weight and general anatomy, weapons by and large retained a greater value in this regard. The plate and chain of one stallion may not necessarily fit the physique of another for example, but an exchange of their weapons between them is far more universal. Some of the Grandmasters present within the School were even so lucky as to bear one or even two of these ancient, storied swords for their own Hunts in modern times.

There were several individuals occupying the muted grounds of the Shrine, each deep in meditation or otherwise engrossed in whatever holy text borrowed from the small libraries accompanying each alcove. Granted the presence of the Shrine within our grounds, as well as access to the mighty towering Spire of the Direwolves, we saw a wide array of faces amidst the alcoves. It had been a rather tense topic of discussion to allow any not on the Path or otherwise serving the School directly to enter our walls. Naturally, we all had felt some manner of trepidation over the possibility of further theft and spies from those who visited. And yet graciously, nary a worry was to be had of it all yet. Those who visited only sought the tranquility of our sacred hall and bountiful Garden, while others came seeking only the contents of those holy texts pertaining to the various Gods and Goddesses found in their respective alcove. Though I was not one necessarily inclined towards deific worship, I could not begrudge these seekers of the written word of their thirst for these precious, ancient tomes. A countless number of other copies had already been long since lost or destroyed over the centuries-long decline of the Eldar, so to have even these few survive was something to be celebrated. The individual I sought most here however, was not so preoccupied on any prayer or sacred writ, but rather set about the hall brushing anything not in use with her mighty tail. The very idea of dust in her Shrine was a very affront to decency itself, and not a day passed where even a speck of grime was allowed a moment to settle. In robes of white trimmed beautifully in fanciful streaks of red like unto her very fur, our resident Archivist Vivian stood, expertly wielding her tail like a feather duster along the portrait frame.

“Oh blasted subterranean halls…” She muttered softly to herself as she toiled away. “Turn your back for but a moment and the cobwebs have already begun to be spun in the corners…”

“Miss Vivian?” I announced softly, standing somewhat to her side so as to not seem as though I had approached directly from behind like some thief in the night

“Dearie me, one moment…oh! Frejdá! Praise Mother, you’ve returned!”

Though she was no Witcher, one could’ve mistaken her for one by the speed at which her paws embraced me. A Direwolf like unto her younger brother, she too was amongst the smaller of their kind with mighty specimens like Richtus being relics of how they had once been millennia past. All said thusly however, there was to be no mistaking a Dire from that of a normal Wolf as they stood easily a heads’ length taller above their lesser cousins; all born of a fragmented Ember of Amaterasu as left during the Creation. Each commanded flame as it were their plaything and made for fine warriors and Witchers alike, nevertheless they all retained a strong inclination towards peaceful solutions and preferred quietude to raucous mayhem. The Valley had been their home since the beginning of the world even, so for them to have allowed us all to settle here was of the utmost courtesy of these gentle, flame-wielding giants. Even in her Shrine (in fact, because of her Shrine), our joyous reunion was very hushed and rather subdued as it otherwise would have been.

“Autumn has yet even to descend on the mountains, what has brought you home so soon, dear sister? I…oh…”

Without even a word necessary from my lips, her eyes had caught sight of the Shroud upon my back and the bundle of extra weapons set haphazardly beside it. Truly there was no easy way of obscuring them from sight save for magic and as I was no Sorceress Supreme…

“Indeed…unfortunate gifts I bear.” I replied, allowing her to retrieve the items from my person. “Though these are not all. We must prepare the Table of Testament at once. This Witcher’s Medallion still yet clings to life, though there is no way to predict for how much longer that may remain a fact.”

“Indeed, a blessed find to be sure. Very well, let me summon an assistant to tend to the Relics whilst I prepare the Table. Of what School is the Fallen?”

“Cat. And yes, I too am still in somewhat of a shock from the news. There is no denying however that he had fallen whilst on the Path, a faithful who died with his silver blade by his side. It seems he was unfortunately suffocated by a NightShade, the same which I slew for its Petals by complete happenstance.”

“I see…very well, we shall ensure that he is given a proper internment. For now, I shall go to the Archives and begin drawing the vertices. If you would be so kind as to make your way to the Herbarium and retrieve some leaves of Nepeta cataria and Teucrium polium for me? I would be much obliged for your assistance in this matter.”

“We have both of those growing in a back corner plot of the Gardens do we not? Unless this brew specifically requires dried leaves, I think we might be better served with the fresh stuff.”

“Oh? Do we have those planted up there? Dearie me, do we produce that many Feline-centric scent lures here?”

“Well, I know it is a personal favorite recipe of Eclipse Knight Emerald, who's taken up the rotating post of Alchemy Instructor for at least the next two winters. He said he finds the aroma most pleasing, and regularly uses it as a sort of incense in his personal chambers. As such, he uses it as a benchmark test for his students as his nose for it is as refined as a Yonderlandian sommelier.”

“Ahh…and only the freshest ingredients produce the most potent fragrances. Very well, to the Gardens then my dear! Let us rouse our guest together if we may, Mother willing. I will also see to the collection of the Glovewort blossoms needed for this ritual as well.”

It was a simple enough request and one I was more than able to assist with as even a moment in the Gardens did wonders to rouse the mind and spirit. With a curtsy of respect, I dipped my head low in her direction before setting off for one of the four doorways tucked near the corners of the Shrine. The swiftest path up to the Gardens was via a lantern-lit stairwell ascending to the Great Hall, wherein the last remains of the noon meal were being tended to by the serving staff. Similarly rectangular in shape to the Shrine down below, the Great Hall was by its very name much more spacious with room to spare for most occasions. Like the towers of the Bastion, the lofty stone walls were adorned by mighty banners, each bearing the Crest and sewn in the colors of those Schools that had assimilated themselves to one degree or another into Kaer Solaris after the Cleansing. Meanwhile, sprawling chandeliers of many dozens of candles dangled down from the lofty rafters to provide light in conjunction with mighty braziers along the walls. The lower half of the Hall came furnished with long trestle tables of cherrywood, capable of seating nearly three-hundred strong if rather cramped for space. Here Hopefuls, Witchlings and Acolytes gathered to dine on three full meals a day, with an additional three lighter meals offered at midmorning, midday and midnight given our ravenous hunger. Further up the Great Hall, separate tables and seating for Witcher Adepts and Masters occupied their own designated area as they had earned the right to some peace-and-quiet from the newly initiated. The Instructors themselves ate and convened their daily meetings at a designated table set on an upper mezzanine balcony overlooking the rest of the Great Hall below. From there, they could peer down and scrutinize upon their many students and protégés in comfort, whilst ready to correct any misbehavior at a moment's notice.

At the head of the Great Hall, set atop a wide dais, sat the table of the Archmaster of the School accompanied by wide padded benches for he and the other members of the Council which looked out o'er the rest of the Hall. Narrow yet towering panes of stained glass illuminated the Hall at its southernmost end, sparkling flecks of reds, blues, greens and gold across the tables and floor, bathing all within the Sun’s reach. Unlike some of the other stained glass featured elsewhere such as the Master's Hall, these windows sought not to portray any recognizable shapes or faces. Rather, they stood as a multi-colored testament to the natural beauty to be had from the wonders of nature and the bounties we by extension were allowed to enjoy. Of course, even as permanent a feature as they were, other items in the Great Hall were only temporary and were designed to be easily moved as the School hours demanded. Even as I stood and observed, the School staff were swiftly disassembling the Archmaster’s table as they returned the Hall to normal, replacing the table with that of one large padded chair meant for the head of the entire School. The Judgement Seat as it was so named, had been the place from which every Archmaster had listened and passed judgment on the cases brought before him or her over the centuries of Kaer Solaris’ existence. However…our current leader, one Ludovic of Redclaw, partook in the more gentle disposition of his older sister and loathed the use of the Judgement Seat save for those unfortunate times requiring it be used. Instead, the Seat was returned to its rightful place as tradition demanded, yet remained without an occupant for most of its days as a symbolic gesture. Ludovic was like most other Direwolves of the Solar Clan which were the first to call this Valley their home, kind-hearted and noble in his dealings towards friends and foes alike. Yet at the same time, capable of much fire and violence when kindled to righteous fury against those who truly would do himself, or any of us, real harm.

Six iron-banded doors leading out occupied spaces along the base of the Hall, three to a side, with the stair down to the Shrine set in the central doorway of the western side of the Hall. Accessing the Gardens was a task made most simple by crossing directly to the eastern side and passing through a more unique doorway at the northern end of the Hall near its grand entrance. Like unto the Shrine down below, the Gardens took great part in the tranquility that those on pilgrimage and Fire Priests alike sought from their spiritual experience at the School. As a result, the doorway leading directly outside was in fact more of a short tunnel, set at both ends by sturdy doors so as to help mute the rambunctious sounds of the Great Hall and its occupants. The Gardens were, for all sakes and appearances, simply a grand cloister like those found in monasteries and abbeys across the world. An ambulatory, or covered walkway of stone, rung around a squared off central garden area on three sides: from the west, south and the east. The northern end of the Gardens had the opportunity to host a second low retaining wall, set at an angle unlike the rest so that it met up with the stone blocks of the Great Hall. Similar to the wall hugging along the rim of the Upper Courtyard, this too came complete with another lengthy beam of oak atop its length for balance; this time posing an even greater challenge than before. Unlike the lower wall, this came with additional infrastructure to suspend several large, free-hanging carved logs mounted with steel brackets dangling from a second beam set above the battlements with supports at either end. Training upon the Pendulums was very much the same as the lesser challenge I had witnessed Ashandra fall from upon my arrival, requiring a steady gait, extreme focus, and perfect agility. However, this challenge had the added caveat of dancing around and between the wooden logs, practicing advanced sword forms from one end to another as the additional obstacles swung from side to side. Indeed, at a certain point both challenges were to be performed whilst blindfolded in order to test muscle memory, as well as a Witcher's senses other than sight. We would not always have the luxury of eyesight during a Hunt, even with Alchemical enhancement, so extreme tests such as this were simply necessary. As with many things in the School, that which wasn’t needed immediately was often kept stored away and out of sight, so as to preserve the beauty found within Kaer Solaris. By the grace of some ancient Mage or Sorceress however, a muffling charm could be cast across the wall via the use of a spell-infused gem allowing for any practitioners to train without disturbing those below in the Garden. The whole wall, its beam, as well as the Pendulum and its supports were almost always left as they were, seeing as those qualified to use it had the right to train at nearly any time they pleased. That, and it was regularly maintained enough to survive in any weather entirely unscathed, remaining ready always to wallop its next hapless participants from off the wall were they sloppy.

Turning immediately left from the door to the Great Hall, I edged around the western side of the ambulatory bound for one of three archways entering the Garden proper; a landing to a narrow exterior stairway down to the Upper Courtyard continued through a second archway further leftwards along the Great Hall. Many a rare and prized tree grew here, granting all the chance to take shelter in their shade and breathe deeply the scent of dozens of plants and flowers around them. Terraced grow beds had been built into the southern corners of the Garden against the lower banisters of the ambulatory. Both sections of grow beds were separated by the southern entrance arch and its broad connecting path leading to a central gazebo of pure white marble and bright red jasper. Water for the various flora was provided via a series of covered stone troughs in the floor feeding runoff from a large fountain in southern-facing of two recessed alcoves found under the shade of the comfortably wide ambulatory. Within the rich volcanic soil of the beds, the majority of what plants we Witchers brewed frequently for our Hunts grew tall and proud. Flowers, roots, leaves, berries, stems, nectar, pollen…all the essentials were to be found in one, technically two, exceedingly well cared for locations. What species of mushrooms as we might require were grown indoors in a middling Alchemy lab nearby wherein students of the craft would ply their lessons. The plants which I had been sent to fetch were not quite so common for Alchemic use as Arenaria or Mandrake root, yet they were neither rare nor obscure. Catswort and Cat Thyme had potent, even addictive qualities to them when presented to Felines of any species, and were thus utilized in the creation of powerful scent lures. For the Table of Testament, we would require these same ingredients, for the purpose of rousing our wayward Cat Medallion if only for a moment. If even a single word was able to be announced or written down, it would prove some miracle indeed, though I was not confident in the likelihood of any sort of meaningful discovery. As to whether or not this ritual constituted as a form of necromancy...that was just simply never discussed due to the sheer, specialized utility the Table of Testament offered us in situations exactly like ours.

What stems and petals I peeled gently away from these plants immediately regrew as though I had never even plucked them, blossoming back to full size in the blink of an eye. This miraculous regeneration was only useful for replenishing small bunches of lost material, with anything over the needs of a single Witcher’s Potion or two requiring progressively more time for the plant to recover. As it stood however, I had only required minimal amounts of either plant so each was able to restore themselves almost instantaneously before my very eyes. Ingredients in hoof, I paused a moment to trek towards the central gazebo and pay my respects at the great sconce burning with a golden fire eternal. Though it paled in comparison to the size and scope of the Spire, this gazebo was no less sacred, nor diminished, as a holy Shrine to Amaterasu. Here, one could feel the heat of the Ember left behind at this very spot when Amaterasu ascended into the Cosmos once more in search of further worlds to fashion. Others were naturally already present and silently pouring their thoughts out as they gazed deeply into the golden flames while some would toss a small offering into the blaze. I myself was no stranger to offering up thanks of my own each time I returned to the School after setting out on the Path, though at this time I lacked a proper offering by which to offer up. Though the Spectral Petals were more than worth their weight in platinum, I had not the time nor the means to safely extract even a single Petal from the enchanted crystal tube which contained it. All the same however, I put forth my utmost intention to do so were the situation far less at risk of dangerous exposure to Abyssal energies. With a feeling of warmth like a motherly hug wrapping itself around my heart, I stared deeply into the golden, fiery depths a moment longer before departing on my way. My intention had been correctly interpreted and I was softly blessed for the kindly thought of gratitude all the same.

I could not help but be somewhat grateful that the noon meal was ended, and the majority of the School had returned to their studies and other duties, leaving me free to move without interruption. This allowed me to traverse the short path between the Gardens and back down to the Shrine rather quickly, and before I knew it, my hooves were already in contact with the grand woven rug adorning its floor. Vivian herself was no longer visible in the Shrine, nor were the swords or Shroud containing the remains, and I traversed past the Oath of the First Born to the doorway directly opposite the stairwell. Beyond the locked door of the Archives lay perhaps the Witcher’s second greatest treasure trove: firsthoof accounts and reflections from those on the Path. Inside lay a somewhat narrow, two-story library hall containing the whole of what Codices which had been recovered from the Fallen; the far end of the Archives forming a large, semicircular apse with a half-domed roof overhead. Every last bit of wall space was dedicated to housing these small, yet thick leather-bound tomes, with access to the narrow walkway forming the second floor granted via a steep and exceedingly narrow set of stairs. Commanding the center of the apse at the far side, a wide crescent-shaped table sat rung about by cozy reading chairs; meanwhile, a graceful chandelier of glowing white gems dangled down from above to accompany the lighting provided by smaller, candle-like projects adorned with further glowing crystal. Atop this odd table lay the Monstrorum, an enormous book acting as the master copy of our guild's Bestiary; dozens of blank pages laying in wait towards the back as the Abyss continually churned out new species in need of documentation. It was here that any Witcher, Witchling or Acolyte would be permitted to read from the abundant personal Hunt accountings of Witchers across all Schools and through many centuries. And, with the permission of their Guardian Spirit where possible, there was also the chance to browse some personal memoirs held within the latter end of each personal Codex. Each leather-bound tome was well worth their weight in gold and platinum alike, veritable histories of our Order throughout the ages as told through the daily toil of our compatriots and forbearers. Indeed, there were thousands of these that we were so lucky as to be the humble caretakers for. Such boundless knowledge and wisdom was to be had from each and every one as while there were prescriptions for every kind of Hunt, how each Witcher applied their knowledge could be deeply unique and personal. Things equally as likely to spark eureka moments in any young, ambitious student's mind as they would an old and well-traveled one seeking new knowledge. And hoard knowledge we did...if only to preserve it from total erasure to the ravages of time and change.

Beyond the crescent reading table with its colossal Bestiary was Vivian, sat before a broad, hexagonal table of dark black marble gilt with silver and bearing large, lit candles of beeswax in a line atop a low stone shelf. A hexagram had been carved into the table's surface during its construction, and a small basin had been hollowed out in its center for housing aromatic brews. A Witcher’s portable Alchemy kit had been assembled on the upper portion of the tabletop with the stem of the final piece of glassware poised directly over the central basin. In fine white chalk, Vivian had already gone to the trouble of preparing the additional vertices the hexagram needed to rouse a Cat Guardian as each School’s respective Guardian required a specific pattern be drawn across the array. In addition, Runes of the Elden Tongue had been inscribed into the crook of each arm of the bizarre array in a manner that I simply was too unversed in to perform myself. Indeed, Vivian was the first to discover the fundamental principles and techniques behind the full functionality of the Table of Testament. Having an inherent gift for brushing close to the Veil between life and death, Vivian would have been known as some sort of Necromancer were it not for her utmost respect for the Souls of the departed. Without her careful guidance and dutiful performance in her role as the Archivist and Keeper of the Shrine, this subterranean level of the School would have likely been made into something…lesser. A small barracks or perhaps a cellar for aging the Valley’s famous gin and brandy. A worthy use to be sure, yet not so much as the priceless treasure of nearly seven-centuries' worth of collected first-hoof accounts of various Hunts. Not to mention a disjointed history of our ever-bleaker world as told through the eyes of those fighting in the thickest part of it all.

“Ah! Gracious of you to return so quickly! I know you must be weary from your journey so I am deeply grateful for your prompt assistance with this. You could have at least paused to pluck an apple from the Gardens for yourself.”

“Oh don’t you fret, Vivian.” I replied with a soft chuckle whilst withdrawing the ingredients from my Alchemy satchel. “I devoured an apple and a bread roll while passing through the Kitchens, that shall tide me over well enough until we are finished here I should hope.”

“I should do better than to worry over you as far as your stomach is concerned…” Came her amused reply, a small spark from her paw igniting the Alchemy burners. “You always find a means to fill your belly no matter the time of day.”

“By all means, a mare who knows herself ought best to placate her needs quickly lest they result in her devolving into an old hag, full of angry complaints and bitter words.”

“Indeed!" She chuckled before adopting again her solemn expression. "Ahem, all jests aside, I have all prepared for the Table and with these ingredients we may begin. Produce the Medallion if you would.”

From my waist I retrieved the Medallion I had wound around my belt after the fashion of Acolytes, and levitated it into her open paws. For a moment she held it aloft by its chain, gazing deeply into its citrine eyes before a soft smile graced her face and a soft sigh of relief escaped her lips.

“It seems you spoke true! It yet lives, if…barely. I must admit, I am dubious if we will even be able to rouse it without fully killing it in the process. This will be exceedingly risky...”

“I fear the same, but…we would be remiss not to attempt it. At the very least…we can hope whatever consciousness it attains will sense it is finally amongst family here at Kaer Solaris. Now…let us begin.”

With a soft metallic click, the tightly woven silver chain easily detached from the Medallion allowing the large silver Cat head to enter into a narrow magic field above the Table’s central basin. This held it in place suspended in the air allowing it full contact with the potent fumes of the Potion that was beginning to be brewed in the background. Both of the plant ingredients I had retrieved were crushed into a fine greenish paste using a mortar and pestle, before being diluted in a mixture of pure ethanol, Blisterwood Sap, Bison Grass Extract, Milkweed Resin and a hearty scoop of fine black pitch gathered from the Darkmire. Once thoroughly mixed, it was transferred to a boiling flask to boil off the majority of its water content; the remaining vapor from the concoction passing through a tempered glass condenser ran over by a constant flush of cold water. The resulting condensed fluid trickled thickly into the basin below, alongside powdered moonstone mixed thickly into a emulsified white Glovewort paste. A flower which only grew in tombs and catacombs saturated by Souls, the Glovewort in particular was the key to beckoning and enlivening such a weak spirit on the verge of death itself. Once the trickling liquid met the Glovewort-moonstone paste, it began to softly smoke and bubble as a new substance formed before our eyes. The typical Alchemy I and others here engaged in rarely strayed from the topics of natural science except in those cases wherein an Arcane-tinged material was necessary for a particular recipe. They who truly studied the finer points of Arcane science as qualified practitioners of spellcraft were the root source of many Witcher's knowledge of how any of these exotic ingredients functioned. Yet even they were not so gifted or as gentle-spirited as to pierce the Veil like Vivian could. By her studious paws and brilliant mind had she endeavored to perfect what simple techniques had been fashioned for the Table of Testament for many a century. Once all Glovewort had been routinely plucked from the Grand Catacombs upon its first blooming to be plucked and cast onto Mother's Mirror to catch the starlight in their petals and transfer some of that comfort onto the Souls of the Fallen. Now, under Vivian's care, only the newest of loculi interred or carved out had their Glovewort blooms harvested so quickly. The rest were allowed to grow to larger and larger sizes in order to fully mature those unknowable qualities which made these flowers brush up against, and even pierce through the Veil itself.

With the addition of several drops of Water Hag essence, the bubbling reaction proceed to shrink as it dried into small, irregular off-white crystals lightly tinged in red and blue in the shallow recess of the central basin. With the majority of its water content removed, a gritty yellowish paste reluctantly dripped like warm tar through a spigot at the boiling flasks’ side. Dropped into a ceramic crucible, Vivian had me hold the semi-moist substance aloft in my magic above her muzzle whilst she breathed a soft jet of bright blue flame from her maw. Within a matter of seconds, it was thoroughly dried out like the finest of kindling, and soon too was deposited into the basin below the floating Medallion. Another round of pestle grinding later, and with some additional hydration provided by inert mineral spirits, the gritty tar was made one with the sparkling, off-white crystals from the second reaction. With another spark from her paw, the mixture ignited heartily with soft snaps as the crystals popped and crackled from the heat within the basin of the Table. Within a moment, a thick trickle of smoke rose up from the slowly burning blend and into a small portal cast a short ways overhead so as to save the precious tomes from any harmful fumes. Like incense slowly snaking a smoky tail into the air, our scent lure lazily enveloped the whole of the Medallion partly obscuring it behind a haze of white opaqueness. The lure had now been laid, and assumedly the freshest of Glovewort blossoms at the peak of spirit-calling potential were utilized by our learned Archivist. All that remained yet was to summon the Guardian Spirit within, and hope beyond hope it had yet the strength to respond to our call.

“Rise!” Commanded Vivian in a gentle, yet firm tone. “Rise and arouse thy senses to the scents of thy past, to the aromas of thy liking. Hear ye our call and answer forthwith the pleas of fellows yet living. Who was he who bore thee hence? From what far-flung keep are ye come, O' Guardian of this faithful Cat?”

The beeswax candles dimmed and the trailing smoke wavered unnaturally in the white light of the crystal lanterns and chandeliers. It clung so thickly round the Medallion that it was now entirely obscured from sight and from the depths emerged the small figure of a Feline formed entirely of this same smoke. It reared its miniscule head at both of us in turn, a sense of peace and comfort emanating from its form before rising up in one great mass of vapor and collapsing across the table like a cold fog. Once the smoke had vanished, we were able to see the Table had been cleared of the chalked lines drawn by Vivian and were instead replaced by a single word etched in white. Or...perhaps it was actually a name?

“Braxia.” She read aloud softly whilst gently retrieving the Medallion from the ritual area. “Not a name I am familiar with, but…it is far more than we deserved some could say given its unknown age. I suggest consulting Sir Tiffy to see if the name is at all familiar to him. He is the eldest of the Foxes still in the keep who yet remember his early days amongst the Cats.”

“Richtus tasked me with seeking him out already, so this is only more incentive to do so. And quickly at that.” I replied. “Any chance you may know where he is to be found these days? I now would be much obliged if I wasn’t forced to wander the School asking after his whereabouts to every nook and cranny.”

“Unfortunately I do not, my dear.” She replied with a soft frown while reattaching the Medallion to its silver chain. “However, I do know that the Instructors are due to hold Council around this hour so you stand a chance of catching him there. Word at this morning’s meeting was, a fresh round of warriors has sent word of their desire to join our ranks. Officially. They seek a Witcher’s instruction and the mutations of a Witchling, likely more had we still the means. Today's midday meeting was supposed to be almost entirely dedicated to that topic alone from what I heard.”

“But of course, what else would drive otherwise perfectly normal and socially acceptable ponies to our door? I am curious however, were they amongst those currently training at the Bastion? I will admit I was not wholly observant to their faces as I hurried towards the keep, but none seemed like they belonged to any one same group of applicants.”

“Nay, they have yet to arrive as they await our official reply. However, they seem to be a company of brothers, cousins and uncles who seek out and slay monsters together as a form of…I suppose one could call it familial bonding? From what Ludovic mentioned in passing during the morning meal, they’ve garnered modest renown in the Rosethorn Highlands from whence they hail. I personally was in full support of accepting their request as their reputation has been mentioned by the Innkeep prior to today. If old Barley Mash has words to spare about it, there must be more than mere rumor and conjecture behind their supposed renown.”

“I see…that would explain why not a single Contract has come out of that region for some time. Very well, thank you Vivian. I shall seek out the Instructor’s table and see if Sir Tiffy has a moment to spare. I’m sure he too would like to be made aware of our discovery. As well as that of the Trottingham delegation’s continued delay…”

Her eyes narrowed and she glanced back at me warily as she asked, “They have yet to arrive as well…? You don’t suppose…?”

“Truly I’ve not even the foggiest… Trottingham may be at serious odds with Her Excellency, but I would like to believe it will not come to blows. An attack on a purely diplomatic envoy would be political suicide, regardless of whether or not it is illegal for so many Witchers to travel together at once openly on the High Road. Besides, only a small portion of their Royal Guard consists of Foxes these days. I doubt the ambassador had more than two Foxes escorting their entourage alongside the rank-and-file Guard. If anything...I would put my betting purse on it being the Duchy of Āider.”

“True enough indeed…however, you know as well as I do that many a blind eye is turned when unauthorized violence occurs towards any of us by any party. It could have been a thick band of rogues or a spur-of-the-moment pogrom. But…it does us no good neither to worry nor to tarry as we both have matters we must attend to.”

“Regrettably so, yes…” I replied as the claws of drowsiness began to tug at the corners of my eyes and mind. “Thank you graciously for your assistance, as always. I will report my findings as soon as I am able, though it may be on the morrow you hear of them. The longer I tarry, the more I am coming to the realization that my body is more weary from the Long March than I had expected. I dare say sleep will come to beckon me soon enough…with or without my consent!”

“Then be off with you!” She replied with a soft giggle and a wave of her graceful paw. “I shall see to the cleanup here and the rest of the internment proceedings for the Fallen. Excuse me…Braxia. May you walk in the Light of the True Sun, sister.”

“May you as well, Vivian. We will meet again soon I’m sure!”

With another curtsy of respect, I turned and made my way for the door back to the Shrine whilst glancing about at the countless Codices that surround us. In some ways it was a bit of a blessing that I had failed to find this Braxia’s personal Codex, not the least of which being a small compulsion to browse it's pages for knowledge of my own. It had been a miracle in and of itself that Vivian had managed to rouse the Guardian Spirit with enough strength to even spell out the name of its master. To expect it to endure past that to grant permission and unseal his memoirs was simply too much to ask. Of course, the Ledger would be as valuable as any of the others which lined the Archive walls, but they were more technical documentation of our Hunts than anything else. Any auxiliary notes of any great length that were in addition to what the Ledger required were reserved for the pages of a Witcher’s memoirs. These were in truth the greater treasure over the Ledger as firsthoof accounts of various Hunts always trumped any technical description of events. Without Braxia’s Codex though…there was not so much to worry over. It never ceased to irk me whenever one remained sealed due to one unfortunate circumstance or another…

Leaving her to tend to the Table and the remnants of the ritual, I exited through the Shrine and ascended the stairs once more to the Great Hall. By this time, the space had been returned entirely to its normal layout during daily training and lectures, with only a smattering of tables remaining at the lower end of the Hall. The Judgment Seat sat vacant at the head of the Hall, whilst a scattered hoof full of serving staff and School Guard enjoyed a meal of their own during a lull in their schedules. Through the central door in the western side, one could access the stairs leading to a landing on the ‘second floor’ mezzanine of the Hall. To the left, a door to the Library sat closed and turning right, I emerged through an open portal back out into the Hall onto a raised balcony serviced built atop the main entrance doors. It was here, some seven meters above the heads of those seated below, a long, rectangular table sat isolated, reserved for the Schools’ Instructors who oversaw the training and study of students. Thrice daily, at dawn, at noon, and at dusk, they met as a Council with other ranking School staff to discuss and review the day-to-day operations of the School. I was fortunate however that they were still holding their meeting even after the noon meal period had officially ended. Given the nature of this meeting however, individuals such as our Archivist, Chief Librarian, or our Forgemasters were not necessarily required to be present. Rather, seated at this private table were our Herbalist, Quartermaster, Sorceress Supreme, Head of Staff, Chief Tracker, Chief Alchemist, a Grandmaster of the Council who was without a personal pupil, and Archmaster Ludovic himself commanding the head. As Razorbeak was at once our Chief Fencer as well as a Mentor to his own private pupil, his Mentorship trumped his duty to this meeting. Instead, one of his subordinates, a Pegasus by the name of Smokey Blitz, occupied his seat at the table. On its surface, a highly detailed map of the fortress sat with model tents and units placed at several locations while glasses of light wine sat before each chair; the crystal pitcher serving their needs standing nearly empty already on a silver tray nearby. Some bread, smoked cured sausage and a basket of fresh fruit and vegetables likewise accompanied their glass of wine as a light refreshment to what seemed like an otherwise rather heavy debate in-progress.

“I care not what their letter claims to state, I will not guarantee a place in my lectures on the arcane to every common wandering mercenary who wanders into our halls and that is absolutely final!”

“Come now, Miss Rosemary! Be reasonable and at least give them the chance to prove their aptitude. You parlayed when the Duke of Yonderland requested we train his personal company of Chevalier, why such resistance now?”

“Oh must I spell it out for you every time, Mundus? The good Knights serving under the banner of Duke Keidis Delacroix were already stallions of culture and high refinement by virtue of their royal birth. They were no common vagrants of some backwater region of Equestria, but of good lineage and stock which traces itself back to the Arrival. To teach Knights Errant such as those was merely a gesture of good faith, a gesture I am certain will prove to be most useful to us in the future I assure you. Yonderland will yet come to better diplomatic terms with Kaer Solaris.”

“My scouts reported to me prior to our meeting, the rumors of their deeds do indeed seem to have merit, Miss Rosemary. Aye, they’re reputed to be…rough and rowdy, however…what group of stallions is not when amongst kin engaged in the same way of life? The bonds forged between warriors, let alone those between kin, rarely results in the band they form having the trappings of professionals as we perceive the term. I say there is real merit to-”

“I thought I made myself very clear, Táhl. I will not be teaching any who so much as soil the fair reputation of magic by their very presence and ignorance! Good day!”

With a soft clap like thunder, the vibrantly dressed Thestral Sorceress got to her hooves and fell backwards through a violently orange portal she had opened directly behind her place at the table. The moment she disappeared through it, the portal collapsed on itself with an audible thud which drummed against the ear uncomfortably. Those who remained all sat in a tense, annoyed silence, making my final approach to interrupt them a cautious one. While everyone present was sitting stiff and wearing some expression of irritation on their face, Lewis himself merely sighed and settled back in his chair at the head of the table. Rosemary’s unfortunate assistant Habaara, a short Dwemess in robes similar to Vivian’s, lacked the ability to teleport herself at will like her Sorceress. Instead, the diminutive Griffin was forced to awkwardly gather her Mistress’s scattered personal effects before brushing past me to the stairwell absolutely pink in the cheeks and apologizing profusely with every hurried step she took. Only once she had left and the door to the Library slammed shut behind her did I finally address those still gathered at the table. Even then, a slight coil of tension remained in the air that I was loathe to prod.

“Greetings!” I announced with as much volume as felt appropriate to the tense atmosphere. “I...eh…apologize for the poor timing of my arrival, but I promise I will be gone in but a moment my friends.”

“Ah, Frejdá! It is good you are here.” Ludovic replied with visible relief for the distraction. “The Barbican alerted us to your arrival some time ago although, we did not fetch for you as it seemed better you obtained some respite from your journey. I suppose that notion was partially wasted but, we are still glad to welcome you home.”

I gave them all a formal bow, made all the easier without the awkward load of a Shroud and extra longswords occupying my back. Though it made for infrequent excursions on the Path, I was deeply grateful School Instructors held their duty to teaching their knowledge over that of fulfilling their own original calling to kill monsters. More than half-a-century had elapsed since my own integration into Kaer Solaris from that of Kaer Nathair and, by the grace of all the Gods and Goddesses, nary a new face had I to witness occupy most of these chairs.

“I am most certainly glad for the warm welcome, Archmaster. I come seeking Grandmaster Tiffy on two matters, although admittedly one is far more academic than the other.”

“Truly? Well my friends, it appears that all that needed saying has been said. I motion we adjourn until the evening meal to gather our thoughts. Any opposed?”

The graying stallion eyed the other heads at the table and observed the same results as I had. Our resident Master of the Arcane had made her point very clear, and the atmosphere felt tired. With not a single word for or against the motion, Sir Tiffy raised what was left in his glass to the longevity of the School, drank, and bid his fellows farewell. The aging Witcher was so kind as to bid we speak out in the open air and so, we left the table down the mezzanine along the eastern side of the Great Hall. Here, a second doorway exited out onto a covered stone balcony which overlooked the Gardens immediately down below with the intimidating hulk of the Barracks rising from the far northeastern corner of the curtain wall. This upper balcony wrapped around the topside of the covered ambulatory of the grand cloister, with the way leading to our right following the length of the Master’s Hall forming the lengthy stem of the T-shaped keep. Meanwhile, like unto the walkway directly beneath us, the path headed northwards towards the front of the School almost immediately transformed into an exterior stairway hugging the front face of the Great Hall leading downwards. This then merged with the stairs to the Upper Courtyard from the landing off the north side of the Gardens creating one large connected network of paths. In one giant circuit, one could mount one of two stairs from the Upper Courtyard and reach the Gardens above, and then onto the curtain wall itself. From there, one had access to the Barracks and any other tower as lined the curtain wall, as well as the upper ambulatory of the Garden cloister leading to the Instructor's quarters, and the entrance to the Great Hall we had just exited out of. Each narrow column supporting the second angled roof of grey shingles was studded on four sides by further brass lanterns which lent their light to all the others in the Gardens, including the Shrine, to keep the cloister feeling warm and deeply inviting no matter the hour. While the lanterns immediately outside bedroom windows could play havoc on one's sleep schedule, each Instructor was wise enough to hang thick curtains and drew them tightly closed come nightfall.

Continuing right from the doorway, we followed the length of the Great Hall’s exterior southwards till it turned sharply leftwards towards the east to accompany the length of the Master's Hall; all leading to the base of the loftiest tower in the School. This path along the Master's Hall lead past several doorways housing our Instructor’s private quarters, each small room sporting a pair of decorative windows, narrow grow beds of personally selected plants, and short brick chimneys rising up from their personal fireplaces. As Sir Tiffy was a Grandmaster however, his quarters were within the highest confines of the keep’s great tower; informally called the Master’s Tower by most all in the School. It was so named as the majority of those who had attained this lofty rank resided within its lofty heights, myself included. In some ways, it acted as an enormous sundial as its colossal shadow rotated around the circumference of the curtain wall, each major Tower along its length a rough estimation as to the exact time of day. Stopping midway along the Instructor's front balcony, we could look out over the various pilgrims and students milling about the Gardens, while at the same time take in the invigorating aromas of rare flora on a mountain breeze. Admittedly…our attention was naturally drawn to a group of four or so Witcher Adepts who were each taking turns at tackling the Pendulums; the noise of which having been graciously muffled via one of the School’s built-in artifacts nearby the machine's operating levers Although several hundred Witcher's now claimed Kaer Solaris as their home, not a one remained who bore the name of the Cat School. All members had abandoned the name just prior to the Cleansing in order to make one pivotal decision towards one side or another. While a goodly few gladly cast away their Medallions and fled the Path for a chance to serve the coming Solar order, the rest had sought out a better way. A new way that was, at its core, the same damn old ways they had once fervently followed like unto the rest of us still following the Witcher's Code and continually stalked the Path year-to-year.

Sir Tiffy was amongst the last of those of the Fox School who still retained memory of the times wherein the School of the Cat had been wholly loyal to the Witcher’s Path. Once their broad betrayal was irrevocably sealed by their disgraced Archmaster Grim Paw, those still faithful to the Path fled to the safety of the Wolves. Over the course of their time spent training alongside them, these wayward Cats began to adopt what techniques and skills of their fellow Wolves which best complimented those they already practiced. Within a decade, perhaps a bit more, they had come to the unanimous decision that the name of the Cat School had been sullied far too much for them to continue to use it as their Crest. Instead, these loyal Witchers discovered that their forms and techniques had been irrevocably changed into a hybridized style all its own; an amalgamation of Cat and Wolf doctrines and tactics that strode the line between them with distinction. Subsequently, and quite fittingly, they took up the name and Crest of the Fox, a race very much a mix of both species in both traits and behavior. New Medallions were cast in their name and the great might of their combined fiery spirit amidst the flames of the Arcane Ember created the first new School Guardian breed in centuries. Their old Cat School armors were turned in for preservation in the Reliquary whilst new diagrams were commissioned and drafted to redress and rearm our newest School. Their Crest, Medallions, weapons and armor all changed from what they had once been for so long...yet their spirit was not diminished in the least. Once Trottingham had scooped them up for their own, it was off to the races for he and his fellows. Back to the Witcher's Path were we all belonged, doing what it was we did best and what we had sacrificed everything we were before in order to follow.

“Now!" He asked once we had both taken some time to enjoy the fresh air. “What is it you wished to tell me, lass? 'Tis a rare thing indeed for ye to seek me out so I must assume it is a matter in need of some attention?”

“You assume correctly then.” I responded with a soft smile. “As I said before, I have two matters for you. The first and far more pressing matter is that Richtus has summoned you and whatever Foxes you can muster to the Barbican. It appears you were all awaiting a delegation from Trottingham to arrive some two days hence, correct?”

“Indeed so. We received a message via Zamak not a month hence from Vulpes Manor stating three Foxes had unfortunately perished along the Path this past year. Naturally, this necessitated replacements be selected from those dwelling here so we were prepared to host their delegation for the selection. Am I to also assume they and the Shrouds in their care still have yet to appear in our midst?”

“Aye. Rictus questioned me as soon as I set hoof in the Barbican if I had spotted horn or tail of them whilst on the High Road. Had he not brought it up, I would have been entirely unaware of this delegation’s entire existence and scheduled arrival.”

“Truly delightful, yes…" He sighed bitterly, setting his forelegs onto the stone railing and resting his head into them. “Very well then…I shall assemble and set loose my best trackers. We will require the aid of one versed in teleportation so as to spread them out immediately without drawing the attention of the garrison at Ire’s Steeple.”

“I am terribly afraid to remind you Sir Tiffy, I am no better versed in the Arcane arts than you are. If you are seeking to get me to fetch a Sorcerer or Sorceress on your behalf…I am afraid I will yet again have to be the bearer of bad news. It is taking some effort to even remain standing upright at this time, heh.”

“Nay, I understand utmostly, child. Haldivar and his attendants are scheduled for the Laboratorium the early part of this afternoon, I will seek them out in due time. Now…pray tell, what is this not-so-pressing matter you wished of me before we go our separate ways?”

“Ah, yes! In all frankness, the reason for my early arrival was due to encountering the remains of a Cat in the lair of a NightSpectre I was Hunting for unrelated reasons.”

His ears perked and his eyes brightened somewhat with excitement at my words. Indeed, the memory of the last Shroud containing the remains of a Cat Witcher was of a very long time ago. Nearly fifty years or perhaps a tad more if I were to trust my gut.

“Another Fallen Cat finally found at last!” He exclaimed softly in muted joy. “Oh dear, please do not keep an old Witcher waiting for more! Were you able to discover his or her name?”

“We were most fortunate in that endeavor! The Guardian managed to spell out the name, ‘Braxia’. As Vivian had no recollection of the name, we can only assume there is no written record of him anywhere in the School.”

“Indeed…you would be hard pressed to find a name such as his amongst our tomes here. Braxia Melitus, made a Grandmaster Witcher of the School of the Cat in the year 145. Certainly a name I have not brought to mind in…oh, I don’t even wish to make a reckoning of it. Far too long my dear, far too long…”

“Ah, so he was a Witcher from the second century?” I whistled softly in respect. “Dearie me, that is fascinating. Was he amongst the First Born? The date of his Masterhood seems to indicate that may have been the case, unless he was an unusually talented student and rose quickly through the ranks to get there.”

“How very astute, Frejdá! At least regarding your first guess at least. Yes, he was amongst the very last of the Old Hunters brought in for the initial round of Trials in the second half of the first century. He set out on the Path from…oh dear me, which keep was it that we were occupying at the time…? Bah…they are all in the hooves of the enemy now, so what does it matter? Ahem! Braxia departed…oh, sometime in the spring of 297? If I remember correctly, he had departed southwards in search of something…a material or ingredient of some sort. When one winter passed without his return well…that is not unusual for any of us wandering the Path having missed the mountain passes prior to the winter snows. After the third however…we were left to assume he had fled this mortal coil and his would be another name on the list of the Lost. The Council of Elders ratified the motion only a few months later...”

“And now he is brought as close to home as any of us have left, to be interred amongst the Fallen in the Grand Catacombs where he belongs. Amidst the only family we truly have.” Came my gentle reply as tears visibly wetted his aged eyes.

“Indeed he is…I was neither his pupil nor even well-acquainted with the stallion in those days as he was more than twice my age even at the time. And yet…the sour sting of loss pricks at my heart as if I mourn the loss of a dear friend…”

“I can relate to your feelings…it is eternally bittersweet, these sorts of macabre discoveries. On the one hoof there is the joy and satisfaction of returning the remains of the Fallen to a proper rest but, on the other, there is the anguish of loss. Indeed…one could almost call it a feeling akin to that of being robbed. Violently at that.”

“Heh…be wary those words of wisdom do not sweep ye off to old age on swift wings. My heart yearns for the burning fire of youth…to embark on the Path? ‘Tis a Witcher’s true calling, lass. If your heart burns not with unrest when settling in for a long duration, then both the student and the Mentor are at fault. Sadly, there is no surefire mutation to ensure such a burning passion for the Path exists. The only remedy for such a lack of zeal is action, young lady.”

“Implying your advanced years are akin to factors within one’s control such as laziness and sloth, rather than a biological result of continual existence? Come now…even a graying Fox is of great use in Kaer Solaris. Though…I suppose there is no harm in requesting you also join in Rictus’ search party. I’m certain more than one of the School Guard would be ecstatic for the chance to walk astride a living legend such as thyself.”

His wrinkling face smiled brightly at my words and though he laughed them off, there were signs they had sparked an idea within him. I was all the more obliged to spurn him along as even old blood deserved some action too.

“Oh…you young Witchers and your snappy words.” He chuckled wistfully, setting his hooves back on the ground and standing upright. “Perhaps there is merit in your idea… I thank you for seeking me out regarding Braxia. I am certain dear Vivian would simply love as full an accounting of him as I am able to recount, but that will have to occur later. For now…I suggest tending to your own needs, whereas it seems I’ve some proper Witcher’s work to do for once. May ye walk in the Light of the True Sun, Frejdá!”

“And you, dear Tiffy. Be damned sure you do not return to us in a Shroud yourself you hear?”

We clasped hooves for a moment, sharing in the camaraderie of our craft before being forced to part once again; he for the staircase down to the Upper Courtyard while I resumed down the walkway to the east. Continuing along the upper reaches of the Master’s Hall, I passed by five doors and ten small windows leading to some of our Instructor’s modest bedrooms. While the path continued on till it connected with the broad eastern section of the curtain wall, a narrow passage had been constructed near to where the base of the Master’s Tower met the roofline of the Hall. This allowed one to cross through to the southern face of the Hall, which sported a second balcony servicing the other set of five bedrooms. Once facing south, the path to the right stretched across the balcony to access a stairwell down to the Great Hall, while the path leftwards entered the Master’s Tower proper. The Tower itself rose up thirty-five lofty stories by way of a lift set in its center while six rooms to a floor occupied each story save the last five. Four of these shared only two large rooms apiece meant exclusively for Grandmasters on the Council, whilst the entirety of the thirty-fifth floor formed the Archmaster’s private quarters, also known as the Solar. Stepping into the wooden bulwark of the lift shaft and onto the elaborate platform, I nudged the small lever on a panel set into the frame supporting the lift denoted by the number 4 painted onto the wooden placard. With a soft creak in the system of pulleys, chains, cables, and counterweights, the lift began to rise up through the narrow shaft for the fourth floor. Once it came to a complete stop and the deadbolts locked the platform in place, I disembarked into the rather cramped wooden atrium surrounding the lift which was lit by yet more graceful brass lanterns set with glowing white crystals. With a risk of fire anywhere there was wood, the use of these crystals was quite pervasive across the entire School to say the absolute least.

Facing inwards were the six doors leading to the various identical rooms on the fourth floor, my own including a view gazing southwards towards Kael’s Fang with the Spire atop its peak. As I approached the door, the emerald eyes of my Medallion flashed as the green, spectral tail of a great Viper reached forth to tap the keyhole barring it shut. It faded to nothing the moment the door began to swing open, and I gave the Medallion a soft pat of gratitude for my Guardian’s aid, however minor. The interior of my bedroom was hardly spacious being roughly three meters wide and just over half as long, but...it was private and considered my own. Unlike the shared bunks of the Barracks here nor those back in Kaer Nathair. Trophies of memorable Hunts adorned my walls ranging from ears, horns, eyes and other tiny bits as could be easily mounted in such limited space amidst small tapestries and parchments bearing crafting diagrams. A middling yet plush Thestral rug of woven wool covered the majority of my floor space, with ample space given round the foot of the modest fireplace in the northern corner of the room. In the corner opposite the hearth sat my bed, made of fine mahogany and respectively collected feathers of Dwemish down I had spent absolute top coin for. As for the rest of my furnishings, they consisted of a simple dresser and mirror with a washing basin, a personal bookshelf, a tiny writing desk and plush chair, a small Arcane clock, a cushioned lounge chair, and display stands of darkly varnished wood for my weapons and armor. Making great use of them, I deposited my personal effects with as much professional care as I had left in me before collapsing headfirst into the blessed embrace of silken bedsheets. My meditation, my journal, even a quick bite to eat before sleep were all secondary needs in the face of simple exhaustion given a proper chance to recover in proper luxury. Before my face had even had time to meet the warm embrace of my pillows, I was already headlong into the blissful void of sleep and knew no more.

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Chapter Five: Young Blood in the Gauntlet

Whether it was a minute or a hundred later, my calm silence was eventually brought to an abrupt end by the near simultaneous slamming open of the two lecture hall doors. The noise originated from a large group of students as they ‘escaped’ from their Alchemy lessons in order to attend the next. The suddenness of the noise was certainly startling, but I didn’t allow myself to overly rouse to it. Instead, I kept my eyes closed and my posture relaxed so I wouldn’t be bothered in the event one of them spotted me. As the various loud-mouthed Witchlings and Acolytes filtered out aways to my right, I focused on staying out of their notice. I planned on rising to my hooves very soon of course, however that was to be done on my own time and I was simply not feeling up to being randomly questioned by a student seeking easy test answers. One by one they filtered out, my ears able to pick out their individual gaits as they moved as one chaotically organized herd up the stairway by the Tree. As the last of their steps vibrated the stone beneath me, signaling their departure to the Upper Courtyard via the curtain wall, I found my chance to stand back up. The teachers within the lecture halls were likely to be busy cleaning up from this day’s Alchemy lessons and not all too interested in some idle conversation; assuming they even happened to be persons I enjoyed speaking to. Though I didn’t wish to be directly heckled by them, there was a high likelihood that these students were off to engage in physical combat training in the Upper Courtyard. Graciously, this was an activity I could engage in without obstructing their lessons as all the focus would be elsewhere rather than on myself. Besides…I was interested in seeing how well the younger blood was handling it all since I had last seen any of them in action.

Keeping some distance between us, I mounted the stairs behind them and plodded my way up and around the Vigil Tree onto the broad walk lining the main wall. Above and between the crenellations, the ring of mountains around the School cast soft shadows across the Valley below with the faint shapes of the temples far away atop their peaks. Here, the pervasive breeze gusted softly against my side from between the battlements, following me along while I passed by the entrance to the Barracks built off the curtain wall via a side causeway. Shortly past the lofty stone bridge to the Barracks, another staircase branched left and descended back towards the Pendulum wall to a wide landing built along its length, some five meters below the contraption. This quasi-balcony connected with the other stairway descending from the opposite side of the cloister, nearby the side entrance to the Great Hall, and acted as a catch for any practicing the Pendulums above. Though the danger was inherent, no life should ever be sacrificed during practice necessitating the installation of enormous, thickly padded boards set on hinges along its length which could be unlatched from the wall as needed for training safety. Where this landing met the stairs from the opposite side, it continued downwards until it reached the stone pavers of the Upper Courtyard near to the main entrance to the Great Hall. None however occupied the precarious oaken beam above me with its swinging obstacles, and each of the training pads rested upright, latched securely against the wall; their thick layers of padding fitting snugly into a shallow recess in the wall laying flush at the seam. Resting my forelegs against the carved railings beside me, I could look down into the whole of the Courtyard and scope out exactly which group of students I wished to observe for a time.

The Upper Courtyard of the School played host to several key buildings and training areas vital to the combat arts of our profession, all spread out across a wide, roughly rhomboid space dotted by plots of grass, shrubbery, and trees. Directly below me, set into the base of the wall, sat the door leading down to the Laboratorium directly across the way from the foot of the grand ramp leading to the doors of the Great Hall. To my immediate right, the multi-storied mass of the Armory rose a full story above my head, running north against the curtain wall with several smokestacks protruding from its peaked roof. To its right, tucked up against and built into the northern wall, was the similarly lofty Inn known as 'The Crosswinds', bordered on its westernmost side by the postern door set into the low wall sporting the balance beam. This comfortable establishment served our many visitors fine food and spirits on its first floor, while providing lodging on its second and third stories in the form of small, cozy private bedrooms. The fourth floor acted in the capacity of a second guardhouse connected directly to the Inn, allowing any of the School Guard on break direct access to the main wall via one of the defensive towers embedded in the northern section of the wall; its lower levels acting as a cellar for the homely kitchen set behind the front counter of the bar. Off in the northeast corner of the Courtyard between the Inn and the Armory were various training dummies, all set at differing ranges from a cordoned spot designated for elementary archery and throwing weapons training.

Finally, set in the rough center of the Courtyard was a broad, yet low ring of stone, capped off at the top by a loose mesh dome of flat metal bars allowing spectators to look down into the round chiseled pit known as the Gauntlet. From a series of levers, pulleys, and buttons built into the ring, a vast array of devices could be triggered within the pit with the goal of the trainee to practice their sword forms whilst dodging all manner of obstacles triggered by Instructors and Mentors above. Swinging Pendulums, dart launchers, repeating crossbows, blunted steel blades of various types, low-tier combat spells, pillars in the floor raising and lowering at random… Expertly wielded sorcery had blended seamlessly with the complex Pygmy machinery underpinning the entire apparatus; truly a marvel of engineering worthy of its own renown were it better known. The pit itself was large enough to accommodate up to three participants at once, with ample space for complex movements, allowing for the spectacle that was a ferocious duel between Witchers punctuated by the many surprises in store. As the largest crowd of students had gathered here, I set my sights on observing what sort of fighting spirit this young batch of blood could muster up this day.

“Alright, the lot of ya been doin’ me proud these last few weeks. Truly been a pleasure to see the flash o’ your swords and the fire in your eyes as you’ve started tackling the Narrows. Truly a right fuckin’ pleasure that.”

The scene below me was quaint as the group of twelve Witchlings and Acolytes of varying Crests cheered and applauded each other at these sincere words of positive reinforcement. Brynhild, a Highland Valkyrie Master from the School of the Wolf, was acting as today’s Overseer of the Gauntlet, and never ceased to tower over most of her students save some particularly sizable Griffins. School code dictated that the Fencing Instructor may only appoint two Lieutenants at any one time, yet this did not prevent her or other Masters and Mentors from acting in such a capacity when necessary. In a case such as this, she was well within her right to operate the device given Razorbeak was attending his own pupil and his two Lieutenants were attending to other classes. A warrior teacher to her core, Brynhild could always be found wherever there were strong, eager minds to be chiseled into shape and deadly techniques to refine to perfection.

“However!” She continued, her tone turning stern and commanding as she tugged a wayward strand of golden hair back over her ear with one of her long wings. “That means I can push you soft-hoofed hermits that much harder now, eh? Uh-huh, you heard me. Atalis! Winter Grove! You two are goin’ down to the pit first and we all want to see a show, now don’t we? ”

With a smirk of silent amusement, I observed as the two Witchlings were singled out and the crowd of students around them fled a short distance away as if a plague had struck the pair. Atalis was a name I had some memory of, one belonging to the black-and-gold feathered son of a low-born Dwemish blacksmith from Keldagrim. Reportedly, he had made a name for himself during his Trial of the Sword in one of those beautiful occasions where those present were allowed to witness true budding potential in a rising star. Though I knew for certain I wasn’t there to witness it, word of great strength for his diminutive stature spread to anyone with ears across the School, as well as his Choice to study under a fully-grown Örn who towered seven or so heads taller than he. Bjørn Stonepaw had not exactly been a Mentor at the time, yet had been in attendance during that year's final exams and Atalis had rather brazenly singled him out. The other unwitting volunteer, Winter Grove, was not a name nor a face I could so-readily bring to mind, forcing me to surmise what facts I could from her appearance alone. From a distance, I could see her sparkling short white/gray hair, icy blue eyes, bat-like wings, tall tufted ears, and the trappings of a Witchling of the School of the Raven; the black ‘feathers’ of her armor contrasting well with her bluish-gray fur. She, and others of the so-called ‘Night Children’, were a mysterious race with limited interactions with the rest of the outside world at large. Rather, these bat-like Equines much preferred to keep to themselves in their hidden villages deep within secret caves; supposedly the progeny of Equestrian-Thestral unions which, with no great surprise, were almost unheard of. Though ancient unions of Highland Valkyrie and Thestrals had given rise to my kind, a union between Eldar was far less uncommon than one with an Equestrian as a mate. Both Witchlings gave the other a grim look before proceeding together in my general direction, destined for the recessed door set below me in order to access the Gauntlet. As they passed by and underneath, I indulged in a hearty wave for them both and gave each of them a hearty little smile. I was hoping that, despite our unfamiliarity with one another, they would at least feel some modicum of encouragement coming from me.

Once the door down to the Laboratorium thudded shut behind the pair, I leapt over the railing and down to the pavers below in order to join the other spectators from the best vantage point. The other students had already gathered round the low wall lining the rim of the pit and taken up spaces to see between the wide, flat bars forming the domed roof; Brynhild making her way to one of the four control boards which directed the Gauntlets’ mechanisms. Indeed, I could have been entirely invisible for all the attention I and some others nearby received as we joined the spellbound crowd forming around the pit as it was all in good fun to watch others train. The Gauntlet was by far our premier tool for replicating the sheer chaos that was multi-target engagements such as in a city or, much less commonly, in open battle with another assembled force. This training was not only necessary, but paramount in a world where most Equestrians knew numbers were their best (and sometimes only) bet for victory over a Witcher. Each and every student who wished to learn the Witcher arts would eventually find themselves down in the pit, fighting like their life depended on it as they applied what they learned to such a chaotic chamber of surprises. Even Acolytes with no mutations would have to spend time themselves in the Gauntlet, the challenge only somewhat slackened in light of that fact. It was a brutal tribulation to face...and yet, true battle brought about the worst dangers and chaos. As long as our students knew the taste of such chaos and could fight on, they stood at least a chance in the world beyond our Valley.

There was a slight journey to navigate the steps to the passage leading down, so a brief pause was allowed to occur before the pair of doors at the bottom swung open and our first participants emerged. It was…unusual to witness a Dwem wearing the bulky chain-and-gambeson armor of an Örn Witchling; moderately reinforced by simple lamellar pieces worn atop. However, the diminutive Atalis bore the weight proudly upon his broad shoulders while holding his angular head high. In truth, the look upon his face was…strained one could say, almost distracted even. Whether this were due to the nerves of the moment, or something else prickling the back of his mind like a briar stuck in one’s side...I couldn’t say. All the more however, he still held his head high and faced the challenge ahead without cowering down. It was a humble and honest display of a fiery fighting spirit which had enabled him to have the stones to strike so high in his goals so as to surpass his own species. Truly, there wasn’t much nuance surrounding the Örn, both as a species and as one of our Witcher Schools. They were essentially larger, stronger Griffins whose island nations to the west and east were ones of tradition and a fondness for the strength of arm and arms. Their School in the western, more unified islands stood as a symbol for the toughest place for the toughest Örn to rise to greatness amongst their kin. Indeed, the Örn became so enthralled in playing host to our guild that the Archmaster of the School was now held with the same honor the title of King amongst their islands. In fact, it was well known by now that the terms ‘King’ and ‘Archmaster’ had become almost synonymous with one another and became interchangeable by the populace; the line of succession determined by they who could best the reigning monarch in honorable single combat in line with the old ways. Atalis was not so bold as to vie for the Örn throne of course…yet, he was to be commended for even attempting his chosen path; let alone for the simple fact that he was a successful pupil by all measures it seemed. I was curious however as to his proficiency with Signs, given his obvious reliance on physical might.

The Örn were not so intent as to the use of magic in combat as their mid-sized relations at the School of the Griffin, nor especially like unto the Örn's own Descendant School, the School of the Owl located off the eastern coasts. Whilst the Örn were indeed capable of strong connections to the Arcane, they chose instead to emphasize physical might over that of magic. However, they, like other species possessed of digitary appendages, had quick access to Signs in a way the rest of us with hooves had no physical way of performing. Typical novices in our craft with no claws to flex were forced to vocally invoke the name of whichever Sign they wished to cast, while experienced Witchers could cast any of them with but a flick of their thoughts and a hoof outstretched. The so-called ‘Claw Technique’ however, allowed any with nimble digits to form a facsimile of the written Rune which represented each Sign. These simple spells were able to be cast without a word, nor a thought, but a simple gesture of the hand; the resulting Signs being all the stronger from the presence of the Rune formed by their claws or talons. Indeed, the School of the Owl had been founded for the very purpose of expounding upon the Arcane potential held within the Örn, bringing about many new Signs which few other Schools could perform. While few Owl Witchers had found their place in Kaer Solaris (most prowling the eastern shores of the Continent), they were as close to Mages and Sorceresses as Witchers could be. Even as I pondered it, I wondered what the impending fight would look like had the little Dwem decided to demand Mentorship of one of our few Owls on site. Regrettably however, with an axe in one fist, and his talons clenched around a modified bastard sword in the other, there was simply no way for Atalis to cast any sort of magic quickly. If anything, he seemed to relish in his more physical stance as there was a strength in his posture which seemed to embrace the weight of his armor and weapons with excited, open arms.

Winter, on the other hoof, looked decidedly nervous as she shuffled lightly in place with her fans of feathered knives at the ready; her eyes darting about the various holes and channels in the walls of the pit from whence their 'distractions' would emerge. The School of the Raven was in truth a Descendant of the School of the Swan, having done away with the xenophobic stipulations of the Thestrals whilst applying their love of ranged combat to an entirely new degree. Making use of all things sharp which could be shot or thrown in quick succession, a Raven could end most engagements from a safe distance with options to spare, relying on a pair of twinned, feather-bladed short sabers for whenever a fight became too close for comfort. While those bow-obsessed Thestrals abstained from entertaining the merits of the crossbow, and few of them gave into the ‘parlor trick’ that was the use of throwing darts and knives, these Ravens sought a new path. They went about the foundation of their School in the full-hearted pursuit of the truest potential of a Witcher's enhanced senses being seriously applied to the art of ranged warfare. Indeed, their signature weapons were their throwing knives which were fashioned after the likeness of feathers, something their Raven-themed ensemble allowed them to keep hidden on their person in great abundance. True to its name, the School of the Raven made liberal use of black dye in the construction of their form-fitting armor, with long, finely detailed ‘feathers’ of thick, wire-backed leather lining the trim of her graceful spaulders and slender tassets. Plates of similarly blackened steel were systematically riveted about the exterior of her leather armor for further protection, accompanied by rows of yet further throwing knives sheathed in rows of five at strategic points across her body. Fitting robes of black linen mated with a mail hauberk filled in the visible gaps in her outer armor, with a stylized asymmetrical skirt providing the mild illusion of the closed wings of a raven.

As for the mare wearing all this gear…well, there was simply nothing of substance for me to say without knowing much about her on a personal level. I knew she was a Mentored student sporting dual-enrollment status which allowed her to participate in physical classes alongside other students, else she would be elsewhere, metaphorically tied at the hip to her Mentor. Aside from such shallow facts, the most I was able to surmise was the simple fact that she was lovely on the eyes and that she and I were likely very distantly related in some frightfully twisted familial tree via our own distant relations to Thestrals. All the same however, this Raven Witchling was standing ready with several fans of wooden throwing knives and twined short sabers hovering ready at her sides; her opponent hefting a large training axe across his shoulder and taking a low stance that could be applied both offensively as well as defensively. A Raven versus an (unusually short) Örn…without even knowing it, I was chanting along with the crowd of students and other onlookers hoping for a good show from the duo. There was nothing overly complicated in what the pair had to do, a simple one-on-one duel between two students using the best of what they knew against each other minus an intention to truly harm the other. The only catch found came from the confined environment in which they had to fight and the creativity of the one behind the controls of the Gauntlet’s many toys and gadgets. With Brynhild at the helm, the two of them, as well as the rest of us, were in for an interesting performance at the very least.

With both combatants ready, and not one to stand on much ceremony, Brynhild barked the command to begin before tugging on a series of levers and switches in the control center before her. Immediately the floor beneath the two began to change as individual stone blocks roughly a meter squared began to rise to varying heights; Brynhild intentionally raising Winter above Atalis while only granting him two uneven plinths to make use of. Sensing her advantage, Winter promptly launched herself forward in a flip directly over her opponent whilst utilizing her momentum to naturally allow a broad fan of wooden knives to fling down in his direction. Atalis, understandably put off by the poor starting position, crouched ever lower and hesitated more than his Mentor would have liked before deciding on a direction to evade. His movements were sure and strong though once he finally committed to action, his strength being his only saving grace given the circumstances. Though he successfully dodged the bulk of projectiles, two still very clearly thudded off the hard leather greave of his left hindleg as a result of his momentary hesitation to evade. Each moment of their bout passed by at a snails’ pace as the adrenaline of the moment took hold of my vision, every movement crisp and clear to see below me allowing for extra observations like these to be made in detail. Witchlings also naturally moved slower than fully-fledged Witchers were capable of, so even if their speed exceeded that of the average warrior, they still somewhat trudged through molasses when seen through a Witcher’s eyes.

“First point goes to Winter!” Brynhild called out proudly, a nearby student stacking a flat, carved stone onto the right side of a small altar built into the wall nearby. “Come now Atalis! Hesitation means defeat when fair Lady Death comes whispering thy name in the misty twilight. Again!”

Another combination of inputs into the grand mechanism and the arena changed anew once Winter had retrieved her knives, and both combatants gave the sign to proceed. This time, both of them were brought onto a raised but cohesive platform in the center of the pit which, while broad for one person, was rather cramped with two occupants attempting to use it. When no further traps were immediately sprung on them, they took the cue and began circling each other in the limited space whilst sizing the other up through their expressions and body language. After a pause, Atalis was the first to engage, beginning his attack with a heavy overhead strike from his axe while using his strength to change the momentum of his body unexpectedly to deliver a broad horizontal sweep with his sword. Winter effortlessly sidestepped his axe with a dainty pirouette, her sabers poised ready to deliver a counter-blow, before frantically crossing them defensively at the very last moment to block his unexpected second attack. The blow carried such power behind it that the poor mare was sent flying backwards from off the fighting platform, however she smartly recovered midair and used the wall of the pit to launch herself back into the designated area. Though his attack had struck true and knocked her out of the 'ring', she had both defended herself properly so no blade reached its mark and had gotten herself back to the arena without touching the floor. All told, there was no point given to either side but, the pause in fighting between them showed he knew she had won the point at least in spirit. The crowd was certainly beginning to grow in enthusiasm as the fight started picking up in intensity.

With their first blows exchanged without any interference, the difficulty was increased without warning by a blunted pendulum suddenly swinging between them, bringing their mutual standoff to a sudden halt. Accompanying the pendulum were several pillars of stone formed from the stone walls, which punched outwards suddenly at varying heights. This forced our combatants to duck and contort themselves in continually awkward ways in order to avoid sustaining a hit. The pattern of stones being used to strike from the walls was being done at random so no comfortable pattern could be adapted to. Instead, Atalis and Winter were forced to dance a careful, brutish performance around the ever present danger of being knocked off the platform and losing a point for negligence. In moments like these, I found myself utterly fascinated by the chance to observe two rather opposing Schools, least in terms of fighting techniques, have the chance to spread their wings as it were. Winter was light on her hooves and agile in her strikes, her earlier trepidations tempered by focus as she filled the air with graceful swings of her sabers accompanied by a knife or two scattered throughout her flowing attacks. Indeed, it seemed that once she learned the walls of the pit were free to use without a loss of points, she subsequently doubled her acrobatic efforts against her opponent. She truly seemed to favor horizontal flips off the walls whilst unleashing fans of knives at Atalis. Before long, the floor of the pit became littered with the feather-bladed wooden weapons, varnished a deep black so as to blend in with the rest of her ensemble.

Atalis by comparison was slower and deliberate in his movements, moving far more cautiously than his opponent with far fewer attacks being dealt in his name. However, there was a firm precision to his movements as he moved from form to form attempting to retaliate in those few moments Winter was not pressing her advantage in speed. She was able to strike extremely quickly…and yet, Atalis was managing, if barely, to hold off her assault using his short stature and the weight of his weapons to assist in moving himself about speedily. When he did manage to obtain an opening in which to strike back, Winter most certainly felt it even through her magic as she struggled to defend against them. The clang of steel-on-steel filled the air with the lovely sounds of battle, and they remained more-or-less in a stalemate for a time, trading blows and excelling in their respective defenses with one another. That was of course until a somewhat haphazard swing from Atalis’ greatsword bounced his blade from off one of the jutting pillars from the wall, sending it clattering noisily from out of his talons and onto the stone floor. Undeterred however, and perhaps overly heated due to her acrobatics, our little Örn-in-spirit bellowed something angrily before dropping his armored shoulder and charging at his opponent just as she came to a landing from yet another evasionary flip. The resulting body-slam knocked the poor girl clean off the platform this time, her body expectedly taking a bruising from the force that sent her tumbling to the floor and a couple meters across it until she slid into the wall. Given his circumstances, it was a valid move to make as the Örn taught such unarmed techniques in their ranks and such a blow would knock many an opponent to their arse; Sentient and Daemon alike.

“Finally!” Atalis bellowed down at his opponent as she stiffly got back to her hooves and retrieved her weapons. “How do the pavers taste, you dainty cunt?”

“Oi! No need for shite talk, Witchling!” Brynhild snapped irritably while a stone marker was placed on the altar in his name. “Any more talk like that and I’ll take a point just for being an arse-head. Now, let us change things up once again shall we? To your positions!”

The platform withdrew back to ground level and once they had prepared for the next bout, a series of wide, scythe-like blades swung out from thin channels in the walls followed by blunted bolts shot from repeating crossbows set in hidden alcoves. In this round, Brynhild seemed intent on preventing either party from having a moment to spare towards their opponent. Instead, both Witchlings engaged in evasive maneuvers and perilously tight parries against the multiple obstacles sent their way. Yet more stones of the pit walls shot out at random, protruding and retracting at unpredictable speeds within the restrictions provided by the movement of other traps. Neither combatant was given more than a passing moment to strike out, the arena focusing on Winter in such a manner so that she let off nary a bolt nor knife in Atalis’ direction. In fact, Brynhild kept her constantly on frantic hooves by forcing her to employ many advanced evasionary tactics as taught amongst the Ravens, those which kept them nigh-on untouchable while at range. To see her move was like watching a seasoned dancer engage in her craft atop a bed of hot coals. Every movement was fluid, sharp and sure as bolts, blades and bludgeons weaved a deadly partner into being around her. Atalis lacked her finesse and rather instead planted himself firmly within a small area, making ample use of the armored outer sides of his wings to bat incoming projectiles away while keeping his movements tight and close to the body. His short stature likewise played to his advantage as the stones which would clobber the side of Winter’s head sailed uselessly over his, giving him one less environmental danger to worry over. While Winter’s approach was visually impressive and required extremely high levels of endurance and agility to perform, her opponent comparatively limited his exertion while obtaining maximum results. Stamina management was paramount to our profession, sometimes requiring a will of steel to adhere to when the urge to outperform your opponent strikes during combat. This made it all the more necessary that these Witchlings, who lacked all the physical enhancements of a fully mutated Witcher, were taught to measure their actions and anticipate future exhaustion.

Their initial starting position was repeated but with their roles reversed, Atalis granted the high ground to start while Winter’s place remained level with the floor around her. Noticing he was shooting upwards over his opponent however, the diminutive Örn shot himself into the air, using his wings for some extra height, before bringing the weight of his weapons and armor down with a mighty crash of steel upon stone. The tremendous force behind his combined weapon attack cracked the pavers where Winter had just stood and utterly pulverized portions into dust; the steel of his blades shattering like a crystal bell against the stone. The sound of his weapons suffering catastrophic failures rang sharply in everyone’s ears and an eerie quiet overcame us all as we watched with bated breath at the spectacle below. Winter had again managed to evade his attack, and had even drawn an elegant repeating crossbow from off her back to retaliate, but even she was struck silent and still from the ferocious attack. Atalis… It was near impossible to see his expression as his eyes were fixed down at the sight of his destroyed weapons… Something had snapped in him...a nerve had been struck that was at once deep beneath the surface and an open, festering sore. I didn't go for my weapon in fear of some latent mutation suddenly triggering some form of psychotic episode as this seemed an emotional break rather than a true fracturing of the psyche. Only a fool would dare think he was anywhere near the words, ‘pleased’ or ‘happy’ with his choices, no current predicament.

“ATALIS!” Bellowed out a gruff, thickly accented voice from the opposite side of the Gauntlet ring. “You absolutely daft lil' bastard, get yer fuckin’ wee ass up here now! Some time alone in the wild oughta sort you out right…”

As one we all glanced up at the towering Örn clad in heavy chain, steel lamellar and a finely studded gambeson marking its wearer as a Master Witcher; its colors dyed a dark emerald green and trimmed in a dusky orange tone representative of their School. Like their smaller and lesser kin the Griffins, all Örn possessed the common biological features associated with their kind. Namely, the stocky paws and bodies of large Felid species, accompanied by extremely muscular forelegs ending in mighty talons, and typically an eagle or hawk-like head shape though others were known to occur. In the case of Atalis’ master Bjørn, his feathers were like unto tarnished brass trimmed with dark brown at the tips, his fur a pelt of dark chestnut, talons and beak like carved obsidian and sharp, and golden Witcher eyes half-hidden under a furrowed brow which gazed down into the Gauntlet with a quiet, restrained anger dripping with disappointment. Upon his back lay a pair of twinned greatswords after the robust design of the Örn, each blade longer than most Witchers standing fully upright. The watchful amber eyes of the Eagle's head pommels likewise glared out like glowing embers from over his shoulder, as well as the Medallion around his neck. The fun of the moment had been unceremoniously cut short and, rather unfortunately for Atalis, the consequences for allowing his anger to get the better of him had come on swift wings indeed. Or…rather they would have, were most Örn capable of more than merely using their wings to glide about from high elevations.

The pair of Witchlings emerged from the steep stairway under the Gardens and back onto the pavestones of the Upper Courtyard in utter silence. Winter had rather quickly snatched up all her scattered knives and relocated them back to their various sheaths prior to returning back to the group up above. Regrettably, her veritable victory had been somewhat rendered meaningless given her opponent had forfeited the entire match by his own actions. Atalis, on the other hoof, was understandably crestfallen as he tailed some ways behind Winter, his head hanging so low under himself that his beak could have dragged along the ground were he not careful. I truly did feel for him given his ability to combat someone nearly twice as agile as him, yet his inability to control his temper when faced with that challenge…it was only fitting that his Mentor reprimanded him before it happened again. Yet, the School of the Örn was not so given to extreme punishment for misbehavior as their exceedingly strong contemporaries in the School of the Bear once were, for whom life itself was a punishment to be endured. Had Atalis shattered his weapons as he had while a Bear, it is likely his Mentor would have cut him down where he stood in a fit of unrestrained rage, for which they were all notoriously known for. Those Bears yet walking the Path, if any others still yet survived at all, had long ago abandoned their solidarity to one another and intentionally stalked lands as far away from one another as they possibly could.

No…Atalis was truly blessed to have chosen the more sensible of the two Schools which preferred heavy armor, large weapons and brute strength in combat. As of now, only one Bear called Kaer Solaris his home and nary a Soul knew him by name, for he oft left the Valley at random to stalk the Path and brokered no conversation with any daring enough to try. At one time, perhaps even the School of the Dragon may have considered him for training, were the School itself not the site of a botched attempt to seal away an Arch-Daemon during the height of our Golden Age. Instead, these fellows in the Heavy Doctrine lived on in fractured spirit with no single fortified keep to keep their ferocious ways united; living in isolated groups of a dozen or so apiece in remote caves or occupying derelict Eldar outposts, keeping to their own aside from the occasional visitor to Kaer Solaris. Outside of perhaps a half-dozen Apprentices recruited personally by one of those visiting Dragons over the last century, the School of the Bear and Dragon alike shared a minimal impact on the daily life at Kaer Solaris. Were it otherwise, I had a burning curiosity to know if Atalis’ Choice would have changed with those two other Schools available as options in their original state. Oh the questions that come to mind with a student with such raw potential and so many Schools that would bring out his full inner-strength.

“Alright, since one of us doesn’t know how to not play rough with the fun toys, the rest of us can’t play with ‘em either. Least not till we can get one o’ the Masons Guild out here to repair that stone.” Brynhild called out to those students still standing by at nervous attention. “Well! In that case lads, off wit’ ye down to the Bastion and join the rest o’ them practicing the sword. First one down’ll earn themselves an extra fifteen-minutes in the Baths tonight! I'd even make it twenty if the Bastion Commander gives a stellar reporting of your efforts!”

The mere mention of extra time to spend soaking in the cleansing warmth of the geothermal hot springs in the Hall of Pools, the group of students began to excitedly make their way towards the gatehouse in the Lower Courtyard. Most of them pushed and shoved one another in rambunctious, friendly competition in order to reach the bottom of the main stairway, Meanwhile, three much more daring Apprentices dove over the balance beam and into the wide water trough below with near-professional grace and cunning. If anything, I tipped my horn towards them for their initiative in seeking a faster method to their goals whilst using a safety measure already in place, even if it were a risky behavior to foster in a student. A fourth body would have joined them over the edge, a young and ambitious Direwolfess by the name of Valencia, had she not been stopped by Brynhild with a stern expression and a hoof raised in warning against any further movements. The towering, golden haired mare was not one you wished to spark the ire of, let alone when she was in a definitive position of authority over oneself. In lieu of children, Mentors had ward over their Apprentices, who oft were in need of a strong parental approach to their training. And like Razorbeak with Ashandra, some Mentors truly had their work cut out for them with their personal pupils and indeed, their training could be compared to parenting a wayward, unruly child. Stupid questions, choices, test answers, excuses and all.

“Oi! And where in the fresh Hel do ya think yer goin’ Oktland? Eh!?” Her Mentor challenged pointedly, stopping her mid-step onto the oaken beam to join the others. “With the amount o’ pages you’ve left to read in On Ghouls & Alghouls?! Uh-uh, get back here now little missus, we’re going to the Library together. You’re going to pass that damned writ assessment if it’s the last goddamned thing you ever do in this School!”

“Oh come on!” Valencia grunted back with an annoyed curl to her lip exposing some pointed ivory teeth. “What's that old book supposed to teach me that raw experience with a sword can’t? Besides, I read chapter nine this morning before breakfast so what does it matter? I wish to fight a damn Ghoul, not bloody read about them!”

“Well at this point you can forget about getting to the Bastion first, little lady.” Brynhild responded with a dangerously amused chuckle towards her pupil who failed to cower. “Either ya skimmed those pages, or you’re just tryin’ to outright trying to bullshit me. I ain’t buyin’ it unless you can answer me a question from chapter nine. What are the distinct physical characteristics which set the two apart from one another? I'm not looking for broad strokes here, I want some specifics, damnit.”

“One’s paler and has spikes with barbs along half their length, the other ones just have claws and teeth with darker colorations denoting their lesser status. Happy?” She replied simply before bravely raising a paw to make for the beam once more.

“So ya skimmed it, congratulations. If you wish to skim by the skin of your teeth while on the Path, that’s your fuckin’ business once you graduate. You chose to accept my Mentorship, and as long as you remain studying under my tutelage, we are going to be doing shit the right way like everyone else here has to do. Now get your arse back over here and let’s get to reading already before I reconsider your dual-enrollment status again…”

With such a threat hanging over her head, Valencia wisely dropped her paw from off of the balance beam and turned towards her Mentor with a head almost as weighed down as Atalis’ from earlier. The white of her fur was brighter and possessed a youthful sheen to it which Ludovic, Vivian or, more especially, Richtus lacked to varying degrees with regards to their respective ages; however, the red markings around her eyes were of a duller red than theirs. This of course was all the more indicative of her young age as, though she had already long since experienced her first Sparks, she had yet to grow into her inner flame. A flame which proudly had its relative maturity displayed in the vibrancy of color in their markings. Indeed, she was much like unto Razorbeak’s own pupil Ashandra, in that they both could scarcely contain their fiery physical ambitions whilst shirking their responsibility to academia. Young blood always had and always will have a singular craving for action, and the gratification that comes with the thrill of a good, successful Hunt. However…a sharp blade meant nothing if the mind controlling its movement were duller than iron scrap, and in the heat of battle, knowledge will always prove equally as useful as a steel or silver sword. Brynhild, Razorbeak and Bjørn alike all faced an uphill battle in their pursuit of their Mentorships, yet all were equally up to the task in my eyes. Indeed so as to prove my point, Brynhild still yet held sway over her pupil and could just barely reign-in those youthful impulses by the force of her presence and reputation alone. Even if in some cases, like now, it took a bit more fire in her coals to burn away at that stubborn, youthful pride almost all Witchlings and Acolytes started with.

“Blades. Now. Earn them back from me the right way and remember, owning these is a privilege around here. A privilege you earn by following the fuckin’ rules, Valencia. Breaking the rules here costs you nothing but time, but don’t cheapen yourself with an avoidable fate down the road when mistakes can cost you everything and more. If I, your friends, and every other damned Witcher in this School have to or have had to study for our own exams, what on Terra Firma made you think you’re an exception around here? You think the Archmaster got to his position by swinging his swords about at each and every problem that came his way? I don’t want your arse dead in some fuckin’ cave on your first year on the Path because you weren’t quite sure what you were up against. I am not going through that pain again, damnit!”

Brynhild held out her hoof expectantly and dutifully, her pupil followed the command she had been given, even if it were obvious it pained her to do so. The faint red sparkle of her telekinesis wrapped around the hilt of her two swords, and drew them from the now empty sheaths on her back and at her side before presenting the hilts to her Mentor, her head hung low in shame. I myself frowned somewhat in silent empathy for both of their respective plights, though at the end of the day, I knew which of the two of them were more in the right. None of us wished to see yet another bright, shining star taking off into the Valley’s sky during their training, only for that light to be unceremoniously snuffed out early by some folly or another while on their first year truly traversing the Path alone. There was simply no way to sugarcoat the fact that our Witchlings were no true Witchers and even full Witchers regularly fell during dangerous Hunts. Ours was a risky and perilous profession, and one which we had all agreed to endure. Too many precious stars had fallen from our sky as it was…

“Good. Now, let’s go give that ‘old book’ of yours a visit shall we? Answer the pre-test I have prepared for today correctly and I’ll give them back to you after dinner, with a possible bonus to be determined based off your behavior. Any complaints and you don’t see these shiny beauties till the end of the damned week and that book becomes your new best friend.”

Though it strained even my astute hearing, I could still hear her reply an extremely subdued, “Yes…Mentor…” while following along behind Brynhild who was already on the move towards the grand ramp to the Great Hall. They stopped for a moment by one of the School Guard standing at attention by the doors, speaking for a moment before the Guard hurried off inside, likely intent on sending a message to the Masons Guild on her behalf regarding what occurred in the Gauntlet. Before long, both of their black-and-red uniforms disappeared behind the threshold of the Hall’s colossal double doors, beautifully carved with its Direwolf motifs and figures. Though I had hoped Brynhild would have a moment to spare in which to speak with me so we could catch up, her duty to her Mentorship laid the highest right to claim her time and attention. It was one of several reasons I of myself had deigned to apply for Mentorship with the School, despite numerous arguments from Instructors, the Archmaster himself, and other Witchers who wished otherwise. I simply did not wish to be tied to the School and its grounds for several years while dutifully training a personally selected pupil in the finer points of our profession. The School of the Viper, or what was left of it, now lived on in only twenty-two Witchers (including myself) and a dozen or so Apprentices, each of whom was already actively being Mentored by other members of my School. And while I understood the rather precarious nature of the School of the Viper’s very survival with so few standing members, I just simply wished to stalk the Path and fight back the Abyss as was our calling. I’d considered Mentorship before…yet, the time for that had yet to come I felt. Besides, it wasn’t as if I knew exactly which kind of Apprentice I wanted to personally train myself… Nor did I wish to experience the anguish of losing a shining star of my own as too many Mentors past and present felt all too personally. No, I felt most at home while alone on the Hunt, practically applying those twenty-seven years spent mostly cooped up in Kaer Nathair with my muzzle buried in tomes. Whilst most could find themselves 'rid' of their Mentors come the day of their graduation, my own had seen fit to prolong our time together by several times that. Truly I could relate with Ashandra, Valencia or any other amongst us for whom the best days of our lives were spent with our blades out of the sheath and danger (or entertaining combat at the very least) present somewhere in our surroundings.

Coming back to myself after letting my thoughts wander quite far and wide away from my immediate surroundings, the sounds of other students training nearby was enough to rouse my senses back to reality. Indeed, hearing the quiet peals of steel-on-steel and the soft thwack of arrows hitting their targets was enough to remind me that I had yet to participate in some daily exercise of my own. While neglecting a few days or weeks even was viable without any real loss in muscle mass or stamina, it was never a good idea to ignore the urge once the prompting hits. Almost as if on cue, the large, wide black-and-red wings of a Zamak Raven swooped down from the Rookery atop the Library, bearing a wooden box held up by a handle of thick rope in its talons. The truly massive raptor, near unto Dwem in height, glanced quickly back and forth between the box beneath it and myself with an expectant look and a soft caw which morphed more into that of a falcon’s cry towards the end. These magnificent birds were extremely friendly creatures and eager to assist others when raised from an egg by talented hooves and had been employed by Schools everywhere for centuries. Sporting two long, crimson red feathers which curled from off the back of their heads, they were known to spontaneously catch fire when the creature was irate or worse. Related to Phoenixes, these birds were dangerous apex predators in the wild with a reputation for fierceness which earned them the nickname of ‘Feathered Wyverns’. With sections of their flight pinion feathers able to spark themselves aflame at will, they could ignite the very air around themselves with their wings and blast waves of violently hot gusts of air laced with tongues of flame at their enemies. In captivity, and with careful rearing however, they became eager to serve and make themselves feel useful as part of their adoptive family.

Indeed, they were born with a level of intelligence which bordered somewhere near full Sentience just shy of verbal speech. Their use had once been part of a highly sophisticated system of communication and distribution for the many Witcher Schools about the Continent. Hundreds of stone Rookeries were erected far and wide throughout many Kingdoms, old and current, in order to handle the mountains of paperwork which accompanied our profession. We treated our Zamaks well and in exchange, these birds were more than eager to deliver messages, packages and otherwise with an uncanny ability to quickly find their destinations and recipients. I, like every other surviving Witcher around me, had rather extensive personal experience utilizing this exact system of communication as it was the lifeline for our wages and paperwork. Of course, come the Cleansing, their use has become far less widespread as it once had been in times past. Far less was now in need of constant transit between those numerous locations that had once been associated with us. Rookeries and the clerical offices attached to them had been left abandoned en-masse in the years immediately following the Cleansing. Several dozen yet clung to life located in remote regions of Equestria, operating solely off the charity of locals who felt they benefitted from the service and funds from the Kaer Solaris Treasury. The rest that were still just as functional as in our Golden Age were localized within Eldar communities and a few odd Kingdoms doing so independently out of their own purses. Contracts were much less formal now and the paperwork needed in order to obtain payment from the Chamberlain had long since been replaced with the touch-and-go chaos of today. Individuals, villages, occasionally nobles and even Kings amongst others, all posting Contracts as they would and paying what they could (if they chose to at all). Yet, most Contracts were of the lower-to-lowest quality as roaming bands of Witch Hunters seemingly gobbled up all the better ones for themselves. Unfortunately, with their rise to power, there were far fewer tamed and friendly Zamaks left in the world; those which hadn't returned to their Feral roots finding suitable new masters for themselves in which to feel useful again.

“Ah! It seems he deigned to send everything at once rather than message me to return and pick these up myself. Thank you graciously for bringing this to me, friend.” I said to my feathered courier with a bright grin, to which it wiggled its tail feathers excitedly like a Canine and cawed happily once more.

With a small hop, it moved to the side from off its delivery allowing me to open the box and retrieve my armor from a neatly folded pile within. Immediately the air around it was wafted with gentle waves of the scent of lavender and cloves, a welcoming scent which sadly would likely be lost within a day or two out on the Path. Once I had retrieved all my items from the box, the Zamak gave another excited caw of approval and hopped back up onto the stiff rope handle to depart once more. Though I had intended on snacking on it once the pangs of hunger inevitably returned, I decided to be generous and offer up the apples I had left the Great Hall with during the noon meal. With yet another, even more excited caw the Zamak wiggled its tail feathers eagerly and held its long, slightly curved black beak wide open to receive my gift; something it was able to swallow down in one go. It likely would have preferred a spot of meat over a bit of fruit, but it was happy to partake in both apples all the same before taking the rope in both talons, and taking off up and over the roof of the School going south. After its wings vanished over the peak, I gathered up my gear and hurriedly made my way up the stairs from the Upper Courtyard to the pathway atop the covered walk of the Gardens’ grand cloister. Before long I had ascended the lift in the Master’s Tower and returned to my bedroom, intent on changing back into the comforting embrace of my armor and to store away my current gambeson garb. The assorted pieces of my kit fell into place on my body with a perfect, tailored fit like a full-bodied, comfortable glove and in so many minutes, I had the last of my belts strapped down and my weapons properly attached to my back. Once back along the walk servicing the Instructors bedrooms, I had the chance to glance about over the Gardens while I took a moment to ponder over what form of exercise I wished to participate in. A moment that was soon brought to a not-unwelcome close by the arrival of the Archmaster himself to my side from the door leading into the Great Hall further ahead.

“Ah, there you are Frejdá!” He grinned brightly as he caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. “Glad to see your gear is back up to code again, heh, heh.”

I smirked back at him for his simple jest and replied, “Indeed! My dear Mentor would rise as a Revenant out of the Grand Catacombs were he to learn I left my equipment caked with grime from the Path. Though I must be honest, the lot of you were most gracious by not mentioning its stink yesterday… When my nose finally lost its acclimatization to it, I genuinely wondered how any of you were able to withstand its pungent odors, the day’s old Ichor especially. Vivian in particular deserves some recognition for her discretion given she fully embraced me upon my return with the Shroud…”

“Aye…the Shroud is why I wished to speak with you again before you had time to return to the Path. I heard all the details from Vivian last night regarding your findings, both the remains themselves as well as those found at the Table of Testament. I was also fortunate to have some further details elucidated by Sir Tiffy before he left the School with his Foxes. Master Braxia Melitus of the School of the Cat, vanished from official record in the spring of 297 AoS in line with a personal mission registered with their Chamberlain's Office as ‘exotic specimen retrieval’. He was then declared one of the Lost in the year 300 by the Council of Elders when he failed to return to the Grand Caravan by the spring thaw.”

“And here he is back amongst his distant kin after three-and-a-half centuries. What an odd, sad twist of fate for one of the First Born.” I replied softly, my thoughts recalling the same conversation I had with Sir Tiffy myself on this same spot the day before.

“Aye…an ignominious end for what Tiffy described as an otherwise shining example of living fully by the Witcher’s Code. Someone who likely deserves a mural of his own someday if we happen to find a wall with any amount of free space available. Regardless, all of this to say…thank you for bringing him home, Frejdá. Kaer Solaris might not be one of the fortresses the Cats once cycled between, yet he deserves to be laid to rest amongst his own in the end. Not lying as some bleached pile of bones wasting away in the Nest of a damned NightShade…”

“Please…it’s the least I can do to bring one of the Fallen back. Though I will admit I was at a loss for words upon seeing that Medallion around his neck…a Cat who had actually been honorably on the Path. Even if he were there just to collect her Shade Petals, she was still dangerous to the folk who decided to set down roots nearby a couple centuries later and needed to be exterminated. It was my honor and pleasure to finish what he started, even if it were by complete accident on my part.”

“Accident or not, all of us here thank you sincerely for your effort in bringing him here to us speedily and for swallowing any vitriol towards the School of the Cat in this endeavor. Others may have temporarily interred the Shroud in a cairn until the chill of winter called them home and they bothered to haul it back with them at that time. If…they even bothered at all. I will not lie and say there are not those here who would let their hatred trump their duty to one of the Fallen. Despite their betrayal, there were still honorable Witchers in their ranks right till the end, else the School of the Fox would not exist at all today. Bitterness has a way of tainting hearts for many years…and Mother only knows how many years we Witchers can live.”

“It is my deepest pleasure, Archmaster. Unlike these younger Witchers and Apprentices, I still value our traditions quite fiercely and fulfilling my part was no chore, but an enjoyable distraction from the Path. I appreciate the recognition…however, I do not wish to impede you from any matters far more important than thanking me for this matter. I am sure there are other duties you need to see to which triumph over a simple thank-you. Please, do not let me keep you.”

With a soft chuckle the large Direwolf rolled his armored shoulders and motioned with his muzzle towards the blades on his back. While he had been dressed in formal gambeson robes when last I saw him, he had since donned the armor befitting his station; a grandmaster crafted piece heavily alloyed with Isildine to defend against physical threats and tempered Dimeritium to face matters of the Arcane.

“And waste the time I spent putting this ensemble on? Please, you have the eyes of a mare itching to stretch her legs and swing her blades about dangerously. I would be gracious if you let me participate alongside you as I too am in need of some exercise this day.”

“Something about this indicates there is more you wish to discuss with me…”

“Heh, very well. I am guilty as charged on that account, however I ask that you hear me out at the very least. Is that too much to ask? You’ll have a suitable sparring partner nonetheless if it is of any comfort to you, heh.”

“Hmm…I suppose so, though if I don’t like what I hear I will let you know so we may focus solely on our swordplay in amicable silence.”

“Are you that averse as to what I might have to say...?”

“If you’re to ask me to reconsider applying for Mentorship certification, I will tell you again what I have told you before right here and now: no. I will apply for them one day, I swear it…but I do not yet feel ready to shoulder that kind of burden, Ludovic. I simply do not want to at this time, I cannot put it any more simply to you without becoming pedantic.”

By the way his mouth closed and the look in his eyes I knew I had caught his question in the bag before he had even time to let it out of the bush. This was not the only time this year he had approached me with the same question after all, he had raised it with me prior to my setting out on the Path earlier in the spring after the first thaw.

“Your School is endangered, Frejdá.” He said simply after a quiet moment of thought as he pleaded with me with fiery orange eyes. “If we lose even a few more Vipers…your traditions are at risk of being lost or corrupted to misinterpretation over time. We need every original Viper still living teaching a suitable Apprentice in your ways in order to keep your School alive.”

“Believe you me…I am all too aware as to how at risk my School is for full extinction. Luckily for us though, we’re not so at risk for tearing ourselves apart from the inside like other Schools. Besides, we have a dozen Apprentices already actively being trained here. That should be enough to keep us going for the next few decades if they’re lucky and applied themselves well to their studies and training.”

“You mention internal division as if it were a real threat to you, but what happened to the Bears was a fundamental problem with how they approached our profession…” He sighed tiredly with a groan at their expense. “Much like the Cats, they only hold a damned memory here in our tomes and relics. I do not ever want the same thing to happen to the School of the Viper as well, or any other School for that matter. We are all we have in this hellish world of ours…despite our petty disputes, we are all family at the end of the day. The title of Grandmaster may no longer officially exist for your School, but as eldest amongst your peers…you control its destiny by being the most experienced hoof on the rudder. I’ve kept my concerns as quiet and unobtrusive as I can, but I cannot hold back my opinions any longer. As your friend and as Archmaster of what’s left of our Order, I am imploring you to consider Mentorship and establish a worthy heir by way of your knowledge and experience. Few of the Second Born, or even Third Born yet remain; let alone any Vipers like yourself amongst their number…to lose you would be a debilitating blow in more ways than I care to try and imagine."

"It would only be a two-decade commitment, Frejdá; perhaps a few years more if necessary as you know these things can sometimes unfold. You’ve endured that and many more years besides up until now, always honoring your duty to the Witcher’s Path and thinning the Abyssal threat to our world. All I am asking is that you take a well-deserved break for a relatively short time in order to ensure your School continues to endure. You will be welcome to enjoy all the comforts Kaer Solaris can provide and you may have your choice from the finalists of this latest group undergoing the Trial of the Sword. I would even be willing to allow you to wait for the next batch of recruits to form if none of the current trainees is to your liking. The School will attend to your needs, provide a suitable monthly stipend for extra expenses, and you may thus train a worthy successor with all peace of mind. It is far from the worst offer you could be extended in this day and age.”

“I…I understand. I truly do.” I replied quietly after a pause for me to look away and gather my scattered thoughts again. “Let me finish out what remains of this year. I’ve made piss-all coin thus far and I’ve had a terribly loose purse when it comes to the gratuity I’ve let slip since returning to the Valley. I would much rather not petition the Chamberlain’s Office for another loan out of the Treasury so soon after my last. Five years is fuck-all time as far as bookkeeping is concerned and even a decade would still be too soon by their arduous standards.”

“I will see to any of your debt obligations my friend, you need not worry about coin whilst lodging here as a Mentor as I mentioned previously. Even so, the guild tax here on Masters is still only 5.7% is it not? Has your purse fallen upon such extremely hard times?”

“As a matter of fact, it has in a way. In no small part thanks to southern Equestria being barren of meaningful Contracts and those who did offer them were not always amicable customers come payment due. I am not worried about paying my dues…the School will have my share of its upkeep. I was merely looking for an extra comfortable winter this year for myself personally as there are some items I have been meaning to purchase. That Dwem gem trader in Redclaw Ridge as one example has an exquisite star amethyst from the mines of Asgarnia I requested he hold especially in reserve for me. I put that hold and posted an initial payment right before I set out this spring, I would like to pay for it in full when next I greet him if at all possible. I try not to make it a habit to purchase anything on credit, even in the Valley. That, as well as other personal indulgences besides that I wish to pass the winter months with in my possession.”

“And…if I were again to see to your monetary and extra personal needs taking into account your seniority and rank? Would that perchance catch a spark in your interest in my request? Or perhaps I should call it a proposal?”

“Then…I might be persuaded. Might. It’s something I would have to mull over. I wouldn’t wish to feel indebted in those sort of matters.”

His tensed shoulders relaxed at my words and with a grateful sigh he replied, “I will take what I am able then, my friend. If it is of any comfort, you are not being offered all that much more than the average package extended to all Mentors here, so any worry of standing out in that way should be minimal. Of course, we may speak more on this later once you’ve had more time to ponder it. For now…let us draw our swords as one and stretch our legs together!”

With a grateful sigh of my own as his poignant lecture ended, I too responded with, “And here I was beginning to think you would never ask. Yes, let us get right on to it!”

**********

Chapter Six: Old Blood on the Pendulums

“Well…I had hoped that we could make use of this, but I see it is suddenly out-of-order. Most unfortunate…”

In the course of our conversation down to the Upper Courtyard, I had been so caught up in retelling the Hunt which led up to my discovery that I had failed to mention the Gauntlet was in some need of repair. Graciously, in the time since I had been absent, a magic-user had been called upon to cast a sigil of warning around the circumference of the spectator zone. Now, a floating ring of blue spectral swords stood crossed in deterrence a few paces away from the ring of the Gauntlet, slowly rotating in a circle so as to better catch one's attention.

“Ah! Yes…I should have informed you that the Gauntlet received a bit of a beating of its own earlier before I got my armor back from the washers. Bjørn’s charge, Atalis, lost his cool during a duel with a Witchling from the Raven School and wrecked one of the paving stones of the pit with his sword and axe.”

“I can plainly see where he wrecked those too it seems…” He replied with soft bemusement tinged by sadness as the shattered steel remains of Atalis’ weapons were still down there. “His mother’s death must really be having a stronger effect on him than Bjørn was letting on in our last meeting.”

“Oh…? This is news to me.” I muttered in response as things started to make sense all of a sudden.

“Indeed it would be, we got word of it from Keldagrim nearly two fortnights ago. She worked the mines supplying ore to her husband’s smelt-and-forge business if you were not already aware. A terrible cave-in it seems, bloody earthquake caught the support infrastructure in the mine shaft with its trousers down and a few hundred meters of tunnel was buried under rubble. They managed to recover the body, amongst two other paid staff they employed…but it goes without saying, that that is but a small comfort to anyone else involved given the circumstances.”

“Dear Gods…what a horrible fate for anyone to endure…” I replied in a hushed tone, the circumstances surrounding Atalis’s bout of anger making more sense than ever before. “Indeed…he seems to be taking it quite hard. His performance was…distracted and full of anger to say the least.”

“And thus the shattered stone and steel, yes.” He finished for me as he gave the pit another glance. “I will speak to both he and Bjørn as soon as I am able in order to address this. In a case such as this, Bjørn is less able to empathize with his Apprentice than he should be given their differences. The Örn are no slouches when it comes to honoring family and the dead, yet their practices and beliefs differ from that of the Dwem. It is no easy nor mean thing to fully detach oneself from the heritage in which they were raised. He needs to honor her memory as per the tradition of his people…and remaining bound here during his time of grief is a cruel punishment he need not suffer through. Bjørn lost his own family well over two centuries ago. I think it goes without saying that the steely bastard is long since over his feelings for that moment and has forgotten what it is like to have one's parents still around. Atalis...what can be said there that isn't already obvious? He is so young in comparison to his Mentor, barely hatched from the egg as they would say. There is much he has yet to learn.”

“Indeed... Well, you may wish to seek out Bjørn sooner rather than later in that case. He was intent on taking Atalis out into the wilderness, likely to perform the Right of Spear and Bow again. They could be gone for quite some time as old Örn traditions are wont to do…”

“Is that so…? Curses…that certainly changes things somewhat. I still fully intend on being your sparring partner today, however…I think you understand the situation. You may accompany me in finding them if you’d like, however you likely wish to get right to practicing so I will not keep you if that is the case. I will simply join you as soon as I am able, hopefully quite soon if they have yet to leave the School grounds. Do you happen to know if they tarried or set out immediately for the wilds?”

“I know neither in all truthfulness. I am afraid to say I was caught up in my own thoughts and observing Brynhild who was in charge of the Gauntlet at that time, not to mention the fight itself. However, as to the options you offered me, I think I will proceed without you and hope you are able to join me again quickly. My body itches to fight and you have no need of me when a trained Zamak or Sorceress could locate them within moments. I will meet you at the Pendulums I suppose, seeing as the Gauntlet is currently not an option.”

“Very well then! That sounds like a fitting proposition to me!” He said brightly as he double-checked the straps of his armor and gave me an honorable bow. “I shall meet you there soon if luck is on my side, if not…I was at least able to get you to hear out my other request and ponder over it, so that is enough for me. Go in good safety, Witcher.”

“You likewise, Archmaster.” I responded with a bow of my own as he had been so gracious as to extend one my way first. “May the Light of the True Sun guide thy Path, Brother.”

In so many minutes I had gained and lost my sparring partner, and I joined him along the grand ramp to the Great Hall before we parted ways. He went further inside, likely bound for the Rookery and their swiftest Zamak. Meanwhile, I made way for the stairs leading from the Upper Courtyard to the broad stone landing underlying the Pendulums in order to unlatch the safety pads from their recesses in the wall. The drop from above was rather lofty, even for a Witcher’s reinforced skeletal structure and internal organs. Of course, the skilled acrobat could still indeed land safely with a calculated roll to disperse the impact and momentum, yet these pads ensured that level of skill wasn’t so necessary. Forming a multi-layered bed made of many reams of Zephyr Silk inflated by dense pockets of air drawn in naturally over time, each layer remained inflated and at the ready for any sudden kinetic impacts. Upon heavy contact with a pad, the kinetic energy of the impact was instantaneously transferred into and throughout the individual threads of the special spider’s thread; immediately reacting by releasing colossal gusts of stored wind magic at the same exact time. In a precisely-measured counterstrike to the weight of a body falling upon it, one would find their landing rather cushioned for what one would see as too-thin of padding for such a large fall. Once the last of these wondrously expensive pads glided smoothly down along oiled hinges to the floor of the landing, a quick focused spark of Igni from my hoof ignited a pair of lanterns at either end. Hid behind panes of red glass, these decorative lights of fine brass indicated the training pads, and the Pendulums by extension, were currently in use. Any still wishing to pass by under them had now been properly forewarned were they paying attention. I had done my part, and it was on everyone else to do theirs so as to avoid any unnecessary injuries.

Rising to the top of the stairs on the Barracks side of the main curtain wall, I could further ascend atop a wooden platform built off the stairs, allowing for easy access to the broad balance beam straddling the Garden wall. Above me, the wood-and-metal structure holding up the set of eight Pendulums had it’s control lever set in the locked position so none of them swung haphazardly in the breeze; a second lever set into the stone of the wall itself nearby which hid a feature the beam of the Upper/Lower Courtyard lacked. Using a similar mechanism like unto those utilized in the Gauntlet (if on a lesser scale of complexity), this lever, when pulled, lowered entire sections of the beam to provide an even greater challenge. Making use of both devices, I watched as the Pendulums all freely began to softly sway as one, whilst the seemingly unbroken balance beam fell away to a series of flat, narrow posts. With the idea being to perform one's sword techniques whilst dancing and hopping about between the posts, it was by far one of the more skill-intensive training techniques in our curriculum. At some point, every Witcher, and now Witchling, in training would have to face this beast as part of their practical examinations in their combat lessons. A few lives had been incidentally lost due to extremely unlucky falls, but many scrapes and bruises were had by all who came to grow accustomed to such a demanding device. As a tool utilized by every School that I knew of, they varied in scale and complexity, with Kaer Solaris’s occupying the higher end of the middle of the pack. Indeed, it had once been the subject of much debate as to whether the Pendulums found with the Vipers at Kaer Nathair, or those at the Cat's primary fortresses known once as the Lion's Redoubt, were the most punishing to experience. The debate continued even to the modern-day, though few now could claim to have visited even one of the Cat School's many sub-fortresses scattered about the western half of the Continent; let alone their first and greatest.

With the Pendulums themselves now freely hanging on their chains, and their control lever set into a standby mode awaiting motion, only three things remained before I was able to truly start. The first, and arguably most important, was to charge the spell-infused crystal powering the muffling charm, which ensured I and many others could practice whilst bellowing to the top of our lungs if we so wished. Being attuned to the element of air, a quick telekinetic blast of Aard into the reinforced housing retaining the crystal was enough to cause it to glow with life as the spell took hold. Secondly, I turned to my side and retrieved a thick padded blindfold from off a hook on the support beam nearby, placing it over my head and letting it rest on my forehead for later. For my first few passes up and down the length of the wall, I wished to retain my vision as I got back into rhythm with the machine, but I fully intended to do it all blind before too long. Once upon the first bit of the beam, I ensured the blindfold wouldn’t slip with movement, crouched into a ready-position, and blasted the line of Pendulums before me with a much stronger blast of Aard. The Sign sent each of them swinging wildly as the mechanism controlling their individual chains ensured their pattern of motion was randomized between them for maximum difficulty. To and fro they swung wildly about as each chain fought against its tether to drag its Pendulum whichever way the mechanism demanded. When their patterns were independently established between them, I drew steel and leapt forward onto the second section of beam; a half-meter gap existing between each section with an equal amount of beam remaining raised.

Immediately I felt my muscles tense as my sense of balance rushed in to take control of my body upon realizing how high I was. It was a delicate balance to strike, no pun intended, when it came to equalizing one's sense of balance with the task of moving forward and performing complex motions of any sort. A task of steady breathing akin to meditation to focus one's thoughts in the heat of the moment, with numerous factors all vying for equal attention. One had to straddle the line between an awareness of one's self, and a broader awareness of all else in the surrounding environment, knowing what to filter out and what to focus in on. Each chain squeaked ever so softly no matter the amount of oiling given, and each Pendulum whooshed independently through the air as they swung from side to side. The scents coming from the air of the Gardens nearby obscured one sensory input which was graciously unnecessary for this task. Scent, as well as one’s sense of taste, were usually secondary, or even tertiary, sources of environmental data to be processed amongst the other senses like sight and touch. The ability to see and hear your quarry tended to trump all other senses in the course of a Hunt as they provided the most raw available data in your immediate environment; one's sense of smell immediately following in what could be considered a close third place. Of course, with the removal of one sense (like sight for example), those that remained behind automatically raised in priority, and a sense of smell could be as revealing as eyes were the creature rank enough. The trained ear too could pick out the individual noises produced by each Pendulum and, in conjunction with the changes in air pressure relative to each swing, amongst other accounted factors, the mind's eye could accurately gauge where they were at all times. Without skipping a beat my body seemed to quickly recall its place upon the beam from countless times before, and I found myself almost instinctively closing my eyes so as to simulate the blindfold.

With adrenaline coursing through my system as a mighty stimulant, time slowed to a crawl around me, allowing my ears to pick up on the rhythm of each individual Pendulum as it swung. My awareness of each independently would naturally diminish the moment I began moving forward, however I knew to live in the moment as it were. It was important to remember there were eight targets of worry in the area, of course. A proper accounting of one's enemy was absolutely necessary to keep stored in the back of the mind at all times as the danger was not over until the last of them dropped. However, as long as I knew where I was in relation to them, I needed only worry about no more than three at any one time. Four at absolute most if I opted at all for any defensive techniques which focused on putting great distance between ones-self and a given target. After all, only so many enemies can engage you at any one time without entangling themselves and ruining the other's attacks. Focusing upon those enemies closest to you was to be a motion as fluid as the swing of your blades, constantly in motion and striking targets as they became vulnerable. This was to train a Witcher to always stay on the move, to notice and establish patterns within chaos, and to hybridize the techniques they'd been taught as the moment-to-moment demanded. Truly, if there was one major benefit to be had to our guild by consequence of the Cleansing, it would most certainly be the efforts made to blur the lines between the different Schools and our varying ways of solving the same, endlessly-long list of mutual problems. Just as myself and my fellow Vipers indulged those at Kaer Solaris with the secrets of Venoms (and NeuroToxics to those who could handle them), many other surviving Schools had seen fit to open their private tomes, charts and diagrams. Not all had been revealed of course, as even still we all liked to keep some secrets to ourselves; either due to the dangers involved only they are trained to endure, or for some other esoteric reason as might escape an outsider's full understanding. By this, we had all profited greatly from the benefits found in one another's varying ways of slaying monsters. New fencing techniques, Signs, Potions, weaponry and more were all the bounty of the moment when we decided to open our doors to one another more to ensure mutual survival.

It was soon shown prudent to me that I would be better off applying the blindfold immediately, as I pirouetted daintily between the second and third pedestals with my eyes still clenched tightly shut. Having decided to act whilst in the middle of a technique, I found myself balanced fully upright upon my left forehoof, as I tugged the thick bit of fabric properly over my eyes. All the while, I felt the presence of the first two Pendulums in my immediate vicinity; my mind's eye breathing into life the rough outline of both shapes as they swung about at random before and behind me. With the blindfold in place, I continued from where I had left off in my technique and sprung myself forward over the next bit of beam and onto the one beyond it; parrying aside a wayward Pendulum from behind as I leapt. The moment I felt my right hind leg land on solid ground, I instinctively ducked low beneath a haphazard horizontal sweep making sure to cut at an angle against the wooden post as it sailed past. This same Pendulum then wildly swung back around intent on clobbering my midsection, forcing a tight parry along the flat of my blade which then flowed naturally into a heavy pommel strike, sending it sailing away once more. By the time it came back round again to deliver another blow, I had already moved beyond its range and into that of two others further down the line. Immediately upon getting there, I was forced into a complicated horizontal flip whilst attempting to land two hooves on the same narrow bit of oaken beam; one of them managing to brush the back of my armor within a hair's length of contact. Landing safely, I came down just in time to glance a heavy blow up the length of my blade, slowing it down sufficiently so as to render it vulnerable to a heavy cutting blow of my own in retaliation. The music had been cued and my partners were in their full range of deadly motions as we conducted our frantic waltz with one another. I knew the steps to perform, the dips and twirls that defined the way we Witchers fought...all that was left was for my partners to conduct the course of our performance as it would. All I needed do was loose myself in the beat of the music.

A jump to avoid a low attack, an uncomfortable stretch away from danger, and a set of cuts to now-exposed targets. A skip forwards, and a hasty retreat to evade a swing that was simply too unwise to try and guard against. A pirouette forward to bring the momentum of my swung to bear along the edge of my blade, a dash backwards escaping a blow mere hairs away from hitting their mark. Try as I might, there came times wherein the Pendulums seemed to work as one to force you to always stay on a fleeting, overly-defensive hoof. Brief moments wherein the only course of attack was to ward off theirs and wait for an opportune moment in which to truly strike back. The next moment presented itself not a second later as my opponent sailed away harmlessly before me; the Pendulum behind me still roughly a meter off to my right but closing in fast. Ferociously I struck back at my ‘opponent’, bringing my blade across my front in a wide, heavy swing easily capable of decapitating most beings had this been a real engagement. The chop indeed hit true and with great effort as several chips of wood were flung away violently from the point of impact and the Pendulum sailed away with one more gash in its side.

Each attack buzzed gentle vibrations through the length of my weapon, eliciting a crystal-clear tone much cleaner in pitch than an ordinary steel could attain when struck against a solid object. Indeed, mastercrafted Witcher blades such as mine were heavily alloyed with the illustrious ‘super-metal’ known by its Dwemari moniker of Isildine. Standing for what roughly translated as ‘bones of gods', it had the same rough density per-ounce as aluminum making any weapon alloyed with it exceedingly light for its size. And yet, this miraculous metal, which shone like highly-polished silver even in its native form as a meteoric ore, was unyielding to almost all known forms of damage. With blades that nary required sharpening, nor risked catastrophic stress failures, like unto the ones Atalis had experienced earlier in the Gauntlet, they were amongst the most highly sought-after weapons on the global market. Naturally, few possessed the coin nor the market-savviness to naturally obtain one of these beautiful works of art, making it a rare sight outside the sheath of a Master or Grandmaster Witcher. Of course, a global black market also existed away from public record wherein such rare, exotic beauties could be illegally obtained if one had the exorbitant weight of coin needed for such a transaction. With such costs associated with such premium quality weapons, it was a truly rare sight to spot one even in some of the finest private collections. That said however…it was becoming more and more common to see Celestia's most prized Witch Hunters proudly sporting them. Either as traitorous heirlooms of the School of the Cat which they had brought over to their new uniform, or as pilfered trophies of murder, entrapment, and the torture of my good fellows on the Path. Unfortunately, I needed to remain focused if I were to maintain my performance… My thoughts needed to drift back towards shallower, safer waters.

Like a grand, deadly dance of skill, I then lost myself in the flow of the moment just as I’d been taught to do. Diligent in my balance of focus between the placement of my body, and the placement of the many dangers and distractions about me that all senses but my eyes were aware of. The elaborate fight I executed through careful, measured movements played out in my mind’s eye with perfect clarity as I struck, dove, dodged and retaliated as the situation evolved and demanded. Though voluntarily stripped of my sight, my other senses were far from dulled, and I was in full control of the situation as my bubble of awareness kept my hooves one step ahead of danger. It would be criminal if I attempted to hide my disappointment that such chaotic battles as the Pendulums tried to replicate had become mostly a thing of the past themselves. Aside from the occasional nest of monsters crawling with multiple targets, the majority of the fights and scuffles we found ourselves in these days were one-on-one or perhaps three-on-one engagements. I longed for the truest test of skill…that element which only full-scale battles could bring which was only found when war gripped the land and Witchers inevitably joined a side in the conflict. Yet, graciously for the rest of the Eldar, the Race Wars had finally died out seemingly for good only a few years after the Cleansing. By then, Celestia’s lust for violence had graciously faded to smouldering ash, alongside that of the divine Ember she had used to bring her violence about. Her personal ambitions have since recessed to the background of the world stage, with those of her loyal (and rather ignorant) subjects rising to the fore. The work offered to Witchers has long since soured to become quite dour, often thankless Contracts of laughable quality or integrity. Nowadays, peasants and other poor common folk could post a Contract all on their own if they so wished with no need of the legions of middle-mares which facilitated official Witcher business back in the day. Unlike those heady days of yore flushed with royal coin, there was naught but these poor sops own personal integrity which ensured our fair payment in-full properly exchanged hooves between both parties.

The Witchlings and Acolytes of today could have hardly been alive, let alone even born yet in most cases, to have witnessed our true Golden Age… I doubted they would even believe a time had once existed wherein all Contracts were professionally put together by teams of dedicated Scribes working in tandem with armies of Scouts and informants from far and wide. They had once worked tirelessly, keeping all appraised as to the goings-on with Abyssal sightings across the world, and offering royal gold for a Witcher's honest work. Assuming all protocols had been followed and the Hunt properly documented and registered with one's local Chamberlain Office of course. To Hunt unauthorized was a legal fire dance in any century, something which only rather recently began to be amended in light of the Abyss continuing to spread unabated . As to when the current state of Witcher Contracts started to come about? It was hard to say in all truthfulness. The decay of the ‘good old days’ began to set in even as I was becoming an Adept myself in our ranks...and that was all the way back in the mid-third century. Yet still...so many of my best memories in life lay in those heady years of yore. The spoils of my labors were never particularly vast or expensive, and all the same I loved them for it. To wander the High Road being treated in a league akin to that of noble Knights, as an elite force of nature in our own right...it was a true dream to have lived and been a part of. Peasants dipped their heads in respect, Kings and Queens sought us for counsel and employment, gold and silver flowed across the Continent in the name of our guild. We still remained a force to be reckoned with, but our fangs had been dulled by such a large loss of life over such a short period of time. How I wished to return hence and do it all over again. Whilst some decisions I would never make twice, such as misreading labels in Bombcrafting and detonating a mortar dish during the final exam, others I would make again in a heartbeat. I never once regretted my Choice.

It was all too easy to slip into the hazy comfort of nostalgic memories for any Witcher who had seen those days… Whilst the body went on with its predestined motions in the act of training, the mind was free to start to wander somewhat, somewhere deep in the back of one’s head. Although these lapses in attention could be interpreted as senility when an aged Witcher drifted off deeply into the well of memories, it was not however so simple as that. Creaking joints, achy muscles and a noticeable difference in physical ability over that of a youth were experiences we shared universally with the elderly members of other communities. However, when it came to mental acuity, there had yet to be a Witcher which suffered from some form of cognitive degradation as was typically found in the average elderly Equestrian for example. Slipping into bouts of deep thought was merely a sign of maturity in a Witcher, and seen as a positive habit to embrace. Youthful blood would always boil when kept idle and will seek out for itself a fight that was becoming of such vigor and energy. To grow old as a Witcher was to come to an awareness of one’s true place on the Path, to gather and collect knowledge and experience in abundance whilst also recognizing one’s weaknesses. Browsing the subconscious for old memories was an opportunity to reflect on it all from a wiser perspective than when those events occurred. A chance to witness the broader scope of each moment and to perhaps make an accounting of those factors which had once been ignored in the fiery, youthful heat of the moment. In fact, one could say we were strongly encouraged to engage in this practice, even from the start of our training. It inevitably comes out to be a terrible burden for young blood to bear, let alone adapt to and embrace in its fullest; a boon only seen as thus when viewed through the lens of past events.

In what felt like no time at all, the presence of another nearby intruded into my bubble of awareness and I set myself towards the middle of the beam so as to make room for my companion. Ludovic had returned faster than I was expecting given I had expected Bjørn and Atalis to head immediately out of the Valley. Yet, I was grateful all the same for his speedy return as combat exercises never felt quite right without a physical opponent to train against. There was a loud thud and a shudder through the support system above me as the lever was temporarily moved back into the locked position. At the same time, the chains stiffened from an internal wire running through each link and abruptly arrested the swing of each Pendulum. For now of course, before too long they would be back to doing what they were designed to do whilst we practiced those arts which we were designed to do as Witchers.

“Beautiful form, as always!” He boomed encouragingly as the mental image of him moved up and onto the first section of the beam to join me. “Always a pleasure to watch a Viper dance!”

“Oh come now, with but a longsword I am far from excelling in displaying the prowess of my School.” I replied with a smile as I took a moment to remove the blindfold and look him in the face properly. “I would draw my Fangs, but I’m afraid it still fails to feel the same as it did at Kaer Nathair. No offense meant to Solaris at all, of course.”

“None taken! It was designed with our broader longsword-centric curriculum in mind, so it is only fitting you feel ours are inadequate for the full use of your Fangs. I would have you know however, we finally found the time in which to consider your proposal to add a facsimile of the Pendulums of Kaer Nathair somewhere to the School.”

“Oh? Well do better than to keep a mare waiting for answers and action! Have at thee!”

With another grin on his part, we crossed our blades flat against the other whilst crouched low in preparation for combat. The lever for the mechanism thudded loudly as he spared a moment to move it, this time into the second position, adding another several links of chain to the Pendulums so their bottoms dropped below the level of the beam to swing horizontally between the gaps. As expected, the wizened old Wolf feigned immediately for an impressive display of the Whirlwind of Razors, opting for a truly master-level technique as his opening salvo. An exceedingly advanced maneuver, it was modified and performed by each School according to their own unique doctrine of combat, taking into account their many strengths. This saw practitioners fill the air before and around them with a flurry of calculated, angled strikes and stabs designed to overwhelm one or more opponents in a wide circle around oneself. Utilizing a complicated combination of strikes and slashes in a highly prescribed manner, the attacks flowed unbroken in a chain of up to dozens upon dozens of attacks depending on the stamina and concentration of the one performing it. The Whirlwind, or more informally the Whirl, was the mark of a true budding sword saint in their respective School. Indeed, one need equally be sainted by the Gods of the sword in order to even stand an inkling of a hope in mounting a suitable defense against such an overwhelming attack. I had yet to be fully-sainted myself as of the present, but I was far from a lowly peasant levied into some Lord’s army in order to fight some war I’d no personal part in. Kaer Nathair was no town watch barracks where the basics of combat are taught to untrained adults taken from field and hearth. I had spent my first decades of life learning how to defend myself and my homeland amongst the others of my kind, another three (more or less) studying the ways of a monster slayer in a proper Witcher School, and slain countless monsters in Hunts, and Sentients in open battle. Just like I had been taught the Whirlwind, I had likewise been taught its Counter-form used purely to defend against such a practitioner.

Making the most of my speed and precision to their utmost, I chose to confidently stand in the face of his assault and defend myself from as many blows as I was able to counter in one standing. Immediately my bubble of awareness was significantly reduced by the introduction of the clash of alloyed steel-on-steel, yet the restoration of my sight greatly softened the loss felt from the removal of my broader sense of hearing. The pattern of blows taught over the course of performing the Whirl varied between Schools, with the Wolves’ techniques forming the foundation upon which the rest of them formulated theirs. Thus, I was already somewhat intimately familiar with the deadly choreography being performed against me and the pattern emerged rather quickly; my sword whipping about rapidly back and forth in an attempt to deflect his blows from all directions. His swings were strong and full-bodied, with several of my deflections coming out less than perfect and over half-a-dozen blows having found their mark during the course of his opening attack. All the while, the Pendulums swung to and fro on their chains, this time only horizontally between the gaps in the beam. They were only minor nuisances to be timed and stepped around in this mode, doing little to stem the tide of furious slashes on his part. He and I rather effortlessly danced between them, atop the precarious set of beams as the sound of combat lashed harshly at our ears in a complete bedlam. In truth, I found myself becoming somewhat dizzy with the number of twirls and pirouettes I performed as part of the maneuver. No matter how many times I bat away his sword, he found a way to bring it right back to devilishly greet me with its gleaming edge. All I was capable of was keeping his assault from completely overwhelming me and falling off the damn balance beam. As far as actually getting in even a single counterattack which wasn't a follow-up attack in the pattern...I was shite out of luck on that front. Ludovic simply didn't require defense when his offense was of such intensity. There was scarcely room to maneuver, both physically as well in the list of options available to me during the course of his exceedingly long-winded assault.

Upon the completion of his opening attack, and dropping back into a guarded ready stance, I would have been collapsing from catastrophic blood loss were I a normal, unarmored mare. My mastercrafted armor however accounted for those sensitive regions we were trained to focus on such as the arteries of the neck, or in the groin, as well as immobilizing blows to the joints and major tendons and muscle groups. By these means we sought to shorten the time of engagement by as 'clean' of means as possible; methods and techniques which could be considered 'fair' by any learned master of the sword. In aiming for these vulnerable locations, even the mightiest warrior and malicious of corporeal Daemon could be brought to their knees and swiftly decapitated, or otherwise dismembered and killed. My armor, and that of any Witcher really, made a full accounting for these regions and many more besides; all designed around our individual styles of attack and defense. In truth, the best bet in landing a truly killing blow to any Master Witcher clad in Isildine-alloyed armor was to aim for the oft unprotected head. It was not universal amongst Witchers to leave one’s head unfettered by the weight and bulk of armor; the Bears, Örn, Dragons, and some Owls alike all preferred to wear helmets or chain coifs in the heat of battle. The rest of us had no formal rule against it, but rather, we felt the loss in quality in several of our vital senses outweighed the protective benefits provided by any significant headgear. As such, we were trained to always be mindful to keep our weapons near our heads, both so we could precisely control the blade, as well as always being ready to intercept an attack. Relying on this training was paramount in all situations and I had been hard-pressed to counter his assault, with most of my effort spent keeping his blade away from my face and neck.

“Most impressive!” He beamed as we took a brief pause after his attack, a Pendulum swinging freely in the gap between us.

“Gracious!” I replied back with a soft smile of pride. “Ever you prove why you are our Archmaster. Such skill!”

“Oh, please do not fetter your own accomplishments, Frejdá. That was a beautiful performance of the Counter-Whirl! Have you had a recent encounter with any Witch Hunters, perchance?”

“No…?” I replied with some confusion as we began to spar once more, this time with far slower movements so we could still easily converse.

“Ah, I apologize then! I am most grateful you were unmolested out there by Her Majesty's finest enforcers. I only asked as most here do not actively practice the Counter-Whirl in recent years, given the limited number of cases in which it is needed.”

“Well, aside from the Witch Hunters, few else know of the technique and fewer yet still can perform it. Let alone with the skill you possess with it! I would be a lifeless corpse devoid of blood by now had my armor not caught your blows.”

“Indeed…perhaps we should actually follow School protocol and not set a poor example for the rest of them…” He replied with some hesitation, levitating the grand Isildine blade of his rank near his face and glancing along its razor's edge.

Taking another pause in our fighting, we each disembarked from the beam on the side of the lever controls, and down to the decorative stone post housing the gem powering the muffling charm. Directly below the hollow frame keeping the gem aloft, there lay a second hollowed-out ring in the steel post with a gentle blue aura of magic suspended within. Anytime more than a single combatant wished to spar on the Pendulums, the participants were required to run the length of their blades through the aura within which borrowed power off the gem for a secondary spell. This coated any weapon ran through it with a temporary shielding spell, one which blunted the edge and was finely restricted to the blade itself like a second skin. Naturally, a full-contact blow would sting something fierce (even with padding), but it was like unto being smitten by a rod rather than being cut and mortally wounded by a sharp edge. A secondary effect of the protective ward was a dampener placed upon any enchanted runes that may be engraved into the weapon; something our offensive equipment came standard with for any that attained the rank of Adept and above. As I had been sparring alone previously, I hadn’t felt this step necessary, as well as the simple fact the wooden posts which formed each Pendulum were freely replaced as often as needed based on the damage done over time. Now that we were paired up however, it was only prudent neither of us risk life and limb simply because we wished to waltz closer with Death itself. Our swords now sufficiently blunted by the spell, we climbed back up onto the beam and returned to roughly where we had been standing previously. Once we had found stable purchase on our respective sections of raised beam, we crossed our blades and smirked at each other once more.

“You spoke of adding an additional Pendulum challenge to the School grounds somewhere?” I asked after a few moments of exchanging blows with one another and hopping across posts between the swing of the Pendulums.

Catching the edge of my sword on his crossguard before twirling his blade in a wide arc to throw off my weapon, he replied, “Oh yes! I spoke with the rest of the Council, and they agreed it would be fitting to add the additional difficulty your system allows, as it would provide even our learned Witchers a brand new challenge.”

“I am relieved to hear that! Pray-tell, where exactly would it be installed? There does not seem to be any fitting space here that immediately comes to mind that isn’t already occupied by something else of equal importance.”

“Razorbeak and his assistants had the idea of building it atop and between the corner towers of the Barracks actually. Only the outer crenellations are absolutely necessary for defense so the inward-facing embrasure may be removed and replaced by a…shall we say, ‘reimagining’ of Kaer Nathair’s infamous pit. Unlike Grandmaster Tahir however, I will see that we’ve netting installed against falls seeing as we are likely to have many failures until people learn to combat the challenge. Fantastic parry, by the by! Are you using form-one of Ironshod’s Wall against me? I thought we were attempting to converse here!”

Instead of an immediate response, I answered by smirking and continuing through with the second, and much more dangerous form of the Ironshod Wall technique; his own attacks turning to Kael’s Fury in an attempt to counter my defense. This second-form was so dangerous as it required the utmost in attention and reaction as one projected the advanced form of the protective Sign of Quen from the hooves, aiming for an extremely narrow window as the enemy’s blow neared its mark. Even with the adrenaline of the moment slowing down my perception of time to a crawl, the Archmaster’s attacks still came at me at a blinding speed as he unleashed multiple thrusts towards my midsection. To parry a blade with one’s bare hooves was no mean feat and nary one I would be willing to perform if I lacked the ability to cast Signs on instinct alone. Each projection of the bubble-shield formed by the advanced form of Quen bounced the tip of his sword away in a manner that would throw any lesser student of the sword off their balance. Yet, not the Archmaster. As to be expected of his position, his skill, and his knowledge in our many techniques put him a head taller than all the other Grandmasters who may have otherwise claimed the station. His control over his weapon was near-flawless, as each repulsion by my shield was expertly controlled and redirected into yet another thrust or tight slash unleashed from a mid-guard stance. My own weapon remained in close reserve as a secondary defense to ward off his assault from reaching my face, coming to my rescue on several occasions where his ability to recover and strike out again outpaced my hooves’ ability to immediately respond. Indeed, I found myself quickly regretting my decision to even try and outperform him in style and technique, as my defense only grew worse as his attacks continued; his stamina for these Direwolf-made sword techniques seemingly limitless as he channeled his inner flame into his motions. No matter how fast my movements, nor my responses to his attacks, he was only growing faster and more aggressive in his flurry of steel.

“Ha! At last a blow lands true!” He grinned as at last my defenses waned to the point he was able to jab my shoulder, sending the blunted tip of his blade skating off the scale-maille of my armor; a loud noise akin to roughly dragging along the rim of a crystal chime ringing out.

“Bah! Lucky shot…” I grumbled back irritably as I hopped away from him to put a still-swinging Pendulum between us. “Were you anyone else I might have gotten away with that maneuver…”

“Indeed you might have! For someone of a School entirely beholden to Medium Doctrine values, you surely have a grasp over at least one of the Heavy Doctrine’s best techniques.”

“I find that a strong defense can wear out most opponents to the point they leave themselves vulnerable to counter-attacks of all sorts. The longer that defense holds, the more tired they’ll become and the less elaborate your counter blow need be in order to break through their defense in turn.”

With a series of quick jabs from the steely pommel of his weapon, followed by a wide slash laced lightly by a streak of flame, he replied, “Spoken like a true Bear! Are you sure you have not missed your calling and misapplied to the wrong School? They would have considered your application for that performance of Ironshod’s Wall alone!”

“And face the decades of mental and emotional abuse their so-called ‘Cubs’ all had to endure prior to graduating the Trial of the Mountains? No, I dare say they earned their fate as it stands now.” I sighed with heavy distaste as I tried for a moment to picture myself donning their heavy armor of forest green and dark brown leather. “Had the Dragons not seen fit to wreck their own School, they are the Heavy Doctrine users I see best suiting me had I not chosen Kaer Nathair back in the day. Even without the ability to breathe fire on my part by birth, their mutations ensured a facsimile could be achieved through magic…and that would have been sufficient enough for me in all truth.”

As if to add a playful pinch of salt into the wound, he grinned wider and promptly opened his maw to unleash a short but mighty stream of deep red flames, laced along the edges by an aura of holy gold. Lightly touched by the divine as it was, the flame which he produced was unlike that seen by any other living Direwolf making physical use of their inner flame. As such, it was at once both Arcane (to a point) as well as physically damaging, reserving its true scorch for Abyssal creatures. An instinctual cast of the lesser form of Quen projected a shield immediately around my person to block the physically damaging aspect of his flame, as my armor was not inherently impregnable to scorching fire. The divine grace tinging his fiery breath with gold on the other hoof knew not to harm me as it cleanly phased through my shield, gently brushing my Soul like a soft kiss as it passed through my armor and body. Indeed, even the steel scales alloyed with Dimeritium scattered about my armors’ construction in clustered groups did nothing to destabilize the Arcane aura which passed through it. It was of course all due to the simple fact that his flame was like unto any other Arcane force in the world, outside the realm of other mortal vessels in the world granted ownership of the touch of some Cosmic force. Rather, while Dimeritium-laced armor was dead useful for blunting, or outright absorbing spells cast at you by a worthy opponent, these golden flames went beyond the Arcane realm and into that of the spiritual. Had I been a Daemon, or worse yet for myself some lesser monster, I would have entirely burnt to ash where I stood, even had I cast Quen upon myself. Once his smirking face was satisfied, having ‘woken me back up’, as a wise-cracking Mentor might jest were they to do something similar to their pupil, he returned again to a furious assault. Blow after blow started coming my way with ever-increasing intensity while his red-tinged telekinesis gripping the hilt of his weapon became one with the silvery streak of destruction that was his wickedly agile blade. It was beginning to become hard to tell if we were even able to continue any conversation at all at this pace, as the strain on my reflexes was making it difficult to speak and spar at the same time. It was true that I had goaded him on by escalating the situation myself earlier, yet I hoped he would be willing to bring it back down a notch once more. After all…there were still words yet to be exchanged between us. Our swords had already exchanged a rather lively debate of their own, it was only fitting we were allowed a bit of a breather in order to converse more freely.

“You’re a bastard sometimes, you know that?” I chided jokingly at him as the form-fitting shield expended its energy and shattered like an ethereal layer of golden skin falling away. “Am I to use every defense I have in order to counter your bag of tricks?”

“I think that all entirely depends on how many of them you try to use on me.” He replied with yet another shite-eating grin. “I am a Wolf who meets escalation with escalation if I so see fit. Using an advanced technique like Ironshod is only poised to entice me to see how far I may push it and any other forms you may wish to try.”

“Well, do I at least pass this little test of yours then? Or am I to try and gauge my success thus far off your demeanor and expressions alone?”

“No need, my friend. I should inform Razorbeak to ask you for a demonstration the next time his students study Heavy Doctrine techniques involving the usage of Signs! That performance was truly commendable, I can see again why you favor defense as it most certainly suits your style. I personally favor a much more offensive approach myself if you haven’t noticed, I find it finishes my engagements faster. After all! There is no enemy left to retaliate when I am able to strike first and leave them behind in pieces!”

After batting aside another half-dozen attacks before I was able to get in a blow of my own, I replied, “Ah yes, I truly could not tell at all. It isn’t as if I am normally able to get more than one or two strikes in at a time on any given opponent…”

Another wide slash laced with fire and a blast of Aard, which I countered with one of my own, and he responded with an amused laugh, “Well, I suppose I do make little effort to hide any of that from plain sight…”

“Truly the embodiment of subtlety, utterly without flaw…” I sighed back with a small, amused smirk of my own at his antics. “I must ask though since it has come to mind again, is there a plan to take in that band of sons, fathers and uncles who formed a monster-killing group of their own?”

His expression fell somewhat, along with that of his guard allowing me to dupe him with a feint flowing into a hearty thrust, which he managed to deflect away from striking his chest, if barely. Instead, the speed of my thrust ensured that though I ‘missed’ his heart, the blunted tip of my sword managed to make some contact with his shoulder near the pit between his leg and torso. Like most armor, the auxillae remained a key weak point that any warrior worth their salt would prioritize should it offer up the opportunity. In the toss-up between full protection and the full range of motion of a primary limb, like most Witchers’ choice to fight without a helmet, it came down usually to agility over protection. Had he been anyone else save a member of the Heavy Doctrine, I might have been able to maneuver my blade into that gap and simulate a tidy dismemberment of the whole leg. Rather, he rolled his torso into my thrust, sending my blade skidding across the riveted mail of his leather-backed arming doublet. The same crystal sound as my armor produced rang out clear as shattering glass to the ear prior to him swiftly bringing up his sword once again to bear. My attempt to use his minute lapse in attention had been met with immediate failure, and I found myself frantically drawing my steel Fang from the small of my back to catch his swing directly by the crossguard. Graciously, my defense proved swift enough to spare my lower abdomen a thorough walloping as I stymied his attack less than a half-meter from making contact with my side. Not only that, I was exceedingly lucky I had not wildly missed entirely and gouged out a groove in his cheek with the un-blunted edge of my other weapon. His expression changed to one of satisfaction as he pressed his sword against the narrow window of defense offered by my slender Fang. Attempting to defend against a longsword with a curved dagger nary thirty-five centimeters in length was neither an easy, nor a very wise decision to opt for. However, given instinct had drawn my Fang true and managed a near-perfect catch of his blade…I had to wonder if my Mentor smiled upon me from somewhere in the beyond. A solid defense becomes more difficult to enact the shorter one’s weapon grew, meaning I was the gracious recipient of near-equal parts honed skill, and blind luck. At least...that was one mare’s humble opinion.

“Well now, what an interesting choice in defense! I was curious if you would bare your Fangs in this fight.” He chuckled heartily as he gazed at our blades locked mid-air by the crossguards. “Seems I will not be disappointed then! Pray tell, might I convince you to sheath your sword and engage me with the tools unique to your School? Every Witcher carries a longsword, so I am in no shortage of learned practitioners in that art. Impress me with the skills of a Master Viper, dear Frejdá!”

In that brief moment I hesitated to respond as a crippling awareness struck me that the Archmaster of the School participating in anything active would draw the eyes of all but the least interested of people around. Performance anxiety was not a common conundrum I faced as I, like any self-respecting mare, enjoyed having some time basking in the warmth of positive recognition. However, being asked to fight with naught but my Fangs atop the Pendulums against the master in using a Witcher’s longsword? A duel with the Archmaster in front of…Gods, who knew how many spectators? I refused to look elsewhere but at him lest I catch someone's eye and lose my nerve entirely. Istiél guide my blows…

“Very well…” I replied with yet more hesitation as I paused to sheath my longsword upon my back and split my steel Fang into two parts for combat. “Please spare me any laughter as these were not made with duels such as this in mind as you should remember.”

“Indeed not! I fear the Gauntlet would have been a far better place for such a performance…” He sighed sheepishly as he acknowledged the twirling Fangs in my soft green telekinetic aura. “You lot excel at multi-target engagements with those things. Don’t think I forgot your actions during your…ahem, ‘deployment’ in the Bitter Fens conflicts.”

“And I was beginning to hope you’d finally forgotten about that whole sordid affair after…what, seventy years is it now?”

“Seventy-three and two months to be more precise. If we are accounting for the absolute last of that lengthy set of conflicts...”

“Duly noted… You have yet to answer my earlier question, though. I'd prefer an answer before both our attentions become bogged-down again in mindless action.”

“Ah, yes…the Thorns of the Highlands. The matter is still as of yet officially undecided I’m afraid to say. As of yet, I am unable to tender a letter of response with our official answer. Sorceress Rosemary…well, I'm sure you witnessed for yourself her stubborn, obstinate response to the whole matter earlier. She is most unwilling to entertain the idea of taking in a band of Equestrian mercenaries and making them Witchlings, though…admittedly her points are not entirely without merit. I will admit myself that I too hesitate somewhat in this matter, as they number nearly thirty-strong which is…simply too large a number. That would undoubtedly cause conflict with Her Majesty given how many currently train in the Bastion already this year…”

“Ah…indeed, that number of burly stallions on the High Road into the Valley would surely be noticed by Ire’s Steeple and relayed back to Canterlot post-haste. Could they perhaps be brought in a few at a time, year-on-year to stagger their arrival in smaller, less conspicuous batches?”

“A possibility Tahl brought up at our meeting as well… However, it fell on deaf ears given Rosemary’s staunch resistance to the idea at large. Even were that issue resolved, it still has yet to save us the other issue of their overall number. They are almost exactly as numerous as the number of students currently undergoing the Trial of the Sword as we speak. We simply just cannot take on that many more students at one time. That…and it would simply not be fair to any other potential applicants were we to delay their acceptance papers until next spring. There’s no exact number of students we may have at any one given time per-se, but I simply do not wish to tempt any boundaries with Her Highness…”

“Well…surely not all of them will pass the Trial and survive the Changes, yes? As dour as that sounds, you and I both know there is never an absolute certainty that those teas won't end up killing a couple along the way. Merely because they start at three-dozen strong does not ensure that same number will come out the other side fully intact. I know full-well that is hardly the kindest thing to say, yet we cannot help but be pragmatic about the facts if we are to try and accommodate them all. So many trained and willing stallions at one time is not a gift we receive often around here anymore. And though I know not of their personal exploits, I’ve little reason to doubt the glowing reviews I overheard during your Council earlier.”

“Indeed… Alright, enough of this topic for now if you would so please, Frejdá. I wish to see those Fangs flash and sparkle in the Sun!”

With that said, he grinned once more and settled into a ready-stance, keeping to his preference for a mid-guard position; equally poised for defense or offense at a moment's notice. With my steel Fang split into two equal dagger-halves, and now covered with a protective ward, I too followed his lead and set myself into a fighting-stance. If with some trepidation as this was still the Archmaster I was dueling and his skill-ceiling had shown itself fully several times already. The situation was entirely different to what it had been the last time he had requested I spar with him with the tools unique to my School. At that time I had only just arrived in the Valley from our scattered flight from the wreckage of Kaer Nathair in the three-or-four years after the Cleansing… One had to prove themselves worthy of the rank they’d received in their former School, engaging in single-combat with the Archmaster if they were to carry over that title into their status of living within Kaer Solaris. My comfortable place in the Master’s Tower, the weapons, gear and armor of my rank, even the gracious (and tantalizing) renewed offer of Mentorship on my own terms were boons that had been on the line that fateful, yet rewarding day. With one Fang held before me with its blade to the ground and the second hovering above my left shoulder pointed in his direction, I was about as ready for anything this friendly little spat had to offer as he was. Though I held to what I said regarding my policy of defense, my Fangs were simply too short to expect reliable defensive coverage when compared to that of a longsword. Instead, I was prompted (or rather forced even) to exchange policies for the time being, and opt for a far more aggressive style to press my advantage in speed and the use of two weapons.

It was somewhat under-hoofed to strike before the proverbial bell had been rung, yet I knew I needed to beat him to the first blow if I wished to stand any chance at all. Flinging the Fang at my shoulder directly at him, I lunged immediately after it to deliver a second stab and a slash at his chest. He effortlessly parried aside my first Fang and expertly hopped across several posts, flipping back over himself as daintily as a younger Wolf away from my attacks. I worried not over my weapon getting batted aside and out of my grip, as my Guardian instinctually manifested its tail from my Medallion and lashed out to retrieve it for me. By the time it had been flung back into my grip, I was using a hind leg to kick away the flat of his blade and transferring into a near-horizontal pirouette to flip over a second, lower swing. All the while, I struck out with my daggers in a stabbing furry trying manically to fluster him onto the back paw with my assault. I was successful in pushing him away from me again for a brief moment as a result of my rush, coming to a landing and finding excellent placement of my hooves on the section of beam beneath me. Poised as I was in the perfect position to retaliate with something grander, I twirled my Fangs about as I began to give him a taste of the Viper School’s take on the Whirlwind of Razors. He had asked for it after all, if in not so many words.

To describe the technique in its fullest form would be like attempting to make an interpretation of honed instinct and trained muscle memory from raw, unmitigated emotions that lay beyond words. Each slash, stab and slice of my Fangs flowed around and around my body in fluid tandem with my dance to and fro along the raised sections of beam. Those who religiously practiced the Whirl (and its counter form) could simply give themselves up wholly, body and Soul, to the deadly motions which decades and centuries of repetitious practice could make as easy as taking in the next breath of air. The Whirl was not necessarily expected to be used as a primary tool of engagement with the intent of dealing direct damage, save in the hooves (or paws) of a skilled practitioner who could still precisely aim so many blows. Instead, the combination of strikes so close and far from the body were designed to ward off multiple attackers at once, whilst getting in the occasional hit on one or more targets in the sequence. One-on-one however, the motions could be adapted somewhat to focus many more blows in one particular direction over all others; even by a learned-amateur of the technique. Ludovic had already brilliantly displayed the fruits of honed mastery over the art, and for his part possessed a formidable stalwart defense of his own. I could not however help but enjoy the rush of satisfaction which washed over me as I saw his face begin to form a snarl of concentration. His strategy of overwhelming offense was meeting its match against a pair of smaller, far more maneuverable weapons as he likewise began to struggle to ward off my flurry of attacks. I was like unto a snowball caught rolling downhill in the lofty mountain peaks, only gaining strength and momentum as I further gave myself to the complicated series of motions I adored. The choreography I employed was at once both highly refined into sets of prescribed strikes and anticipatory blocks, as well as chaotic, unpredictable barrages of ad-hoc attacks thrown in at random in direct response to the attacks of my opponent. Before long, all other thought was purged as unfiltered instinct took complete hold of my faculties, and my bubble of awareness fed reams of information subconsciously into the back of my mind.

It was at this time that my Guardian saw its chance to join in the fray as our instincts combined and our motions synced in conjunction with one another. With my veins coursing with adrenaline and other hormones heightened by the thrill of the moment, my lively vigor was a deep veritable well of energy for my Guardian to manifest itself in the physical world. Striking out with its spectral green tail and broad, diamond-shaped head graced by long, curling horns, my attacks were further flushed with its help creating a true maelstrom of wanton violence. While capable of interacting physically with the world around me, attacks dealt by one's Guardian were purely Arcane in nature. The strength of the attack was entirely dependent on the spiritual strength of the Witcher, a factor housing a legion of other minor factors of its own. With his grandmaster armor woven with chain links of Dimeritium, the damage dealt was heavily blunted; a fact that was to his benefit as it caused even such vicious attacks as my Guardian’s to feel no more than painful needle pricks through his armor. Ordinarily, strikes from a Guardian upon non-protected beings were almost always lethal unless there was another intent present in dealing less damage to an opponent for some specific reason. Were his armor not impregnated by the magic-destabilizing rings of hammered metal, the far more traditional Arcane aura which formed a Guardian’s body would have absolutely devastated him at this strength. They were capable of dealing blows which could pierce the spiritual veil and directly attack an enemy’s Soul at their core. With sustained, significant enough damage, one could poke metaphorical holes in it, enough to cause a ‘leakage’ of spiritual energy. As a result, a Guardian could then choose to additionally engorge itself upon this secondary (if temporary) rush of energy oozing out of a victim’s inner spirit.

Our Medallions had indeed grown highly accustomed to the taste of monster and Daemon Souls alike through our grisly work; though some, like the School of the Cat, had proven they could be swayed after a time towards relishing in the taste of Sentient Souls. As such, those Guardians they had managed to corrupt became just as wild and ruthless as Ferals; seeking to further fatten themselves up on their new taste in Souls. Naturally, no killing blows were intended on either side in this little sparring session of ours, yet my Guardian did not see it fit to hold much in reserve as it added its assault to my own. Like a raging river of power and focus, I allowed all my and its attacks to flow and form themselves together into fitting combinations as they would. My constant racing thoughts and pondering mind had entered into a state of hibernation as our assault continued unabated. That was, until at last a fourth challenger was introduced to the mix to further spice up and escalate the situation. True to his earlier statement, he met my escalations with an equally measured amount of his own and our fight only continued to evolve in complexity and scale as it dragged on.

Though it lacked the ability to strike at two targets at once like unto my Viper, the Wolf Guardian which manifested in a spectral red color erupted violently from his Medallion to further counter our blows. Wielding steel as we were, we stood no chance at bringing any real harm to each other's Guardians; the Lunar Silver of our secondary weapons still capable of damaging their manifested forms with enough focused effort. Rather, he and I continued to exchange our blows and counter-blows at full force while spectral tails, paws and jaws warded off attacks and dealt some of their own amidst the mix. Whirl was met with Counter-Whirl and the crystal ping of our weapons striking and blocking the other’s assault formed a cacophony of noise akin to the Pygmy’s Grand Blast Furnace and its attending army of Master Smiths. Soft sparks of magic still erupted occasionally from the clash of our blades, even despite the protective wards placed around them earlier as the enchanted runes lining the fullers abraded near one another. Our combined words from earlier notwithstanding, we were still finding ourselves caught in a spiraling series of exacerbating circumstances of our own making. The Pendulums, still continuing to swing and sway between the sections of beam, had become all but forgotten afterthoughts between the both of us. Chips of wood found themselves occasionally flying amidst the gale of sparks and streaks of silver as some of our attacks inevitably crossed paths with one or two of them as we continued to go at each other with abandon. All the while, our Guardians continued to likewise manifest yet more and more of themselves until at last, they too were entangled around the other; engaging in their own private match with one another around and between us. At last…the faint echoes of the wondrous thrill of the chaotic battles of yesteryear began to tingle my spine and set my heart a-flutter with joy. I still meant no harm upon my Archmaster, yet I was no longer holding back. I had utterly devoted myself now to-

“ARCHMASTER! ARCHMASTER LUDOVIC, SIR!”

I had been mid-air when the boisterous call of a burly Griffin echoed across the narrow section of the School we occupied trying to get our attention. My bubble of awareness had only found space in its attention for my opponents, and nothing else besides. As a direct result of blindsiding myself, and with startled yelp of soft fright, I too followed in Ashandra’s hooves (or paws) and missed my landing rather embarrassingly. Tumbling off the outer face of the Garden wall, instinct immediately took hold once again over my motions and I tucked myself into position for a safe landing on the pads below. With a height just over seven-and-a-half meters, the fall was a quick affair ended abruptly by my cushioned impact with the specialized training pads I had laid down earlier. My momentary gratitude for such safety measures was unfortunately swept aside by overwhelming self-consciousness as I came to a full reckoning of my surroundings. Several bodies already occupied the raised landing spanning under the length of the Pendulum wall, part of a larger group of students, Mentors, Instructors and many others who had undoubtedly been witnessing the spectacle. Those immediately nearby rushed to aid me back up to my hooves while I profusely apologized for almost falling on top of them, followed by grateful acknowledgements of their kind words towards my performance. Those on the walls and stairs above focused their attention upon Ludovic and whatever pressing business had so rudely interrupted us whilst I thanked those who congratulated me on a ‘spectacular’ performance. I had known there would be dozens, perhaps even hundreds of individual eyes watching and closely scrutinizing my choices and actions…yet, this was almost too much. Had I been allowed to further press my attack without getting cut short, I was sure I was primed to beat him. Or, at the very fucking least, drag him down into declaring a draw so I could keep my personal sense of pride and respect more intact. Their words of encouragement, and even outright wonder and amazement over my performance, felt deeply satisfying to hear… And yet all the same, I felt that I had not quite fully earned a single thing said about me. Even through the sudden impact of landing on the training pad, I could still feel the smarting bruises under my armor from where some of his blows had managed to strike true. There were brief flashes of the fight which prickled my mind’s eye like the queasy hindsight felt after a particularly nasty written exam. Moments that played out again in my thoughts as if to point out what could be considered glaring flaws in my form or technique. Always was there space in the self for further personal improvement, and our dear Archmaster had so graciously, and indeed inadvertently, brought further insights into the matter to my attention.

“Frejdá! Are you well?” Ludovic called down to me from the beam far above, the level of concern in his voice rather minimal as a gracious sign of his trust in my abilities.

“A-aye!” I managed to call back through my bout of bashfulness at the presence of so many others around me all paying keen attention to the situation. “I landed safely, thank you for checking!”

“My pleasure and duty, my friend! A thousand apologies! We must speak later!”

I gave him a half-hearted wave of acknowledgement in return and watched as his face vanished from off the wall and towards whatever messenger had seen so fit as to embarrass me in front of nearly half the School. Before too long, the communal interest in the moment passed and most of the assembled crowd suddenly remembered there was a rather strict timetable still in effect on their daily work. Filing away as they would to wherever they needed to be, I was quickly left alone on the upper landing with naught but the lit red lanterns and the line of training pads for immediate company. And in all truth, I much appreciated the sudden bout of isolation after such an embarrassing blunder, regardless of the fact it had been an honest accident. All I was able to think about were the flaws in my performance which felt all-too glaring in my mind. I had been giving it my all during our fight, hoping beyond hope that somehow I would’ve been able to best him at something whilst in front of so many spectators. However…I was not so lucky as that. Despite his profuse words of positive reinforcement, I still felt that my efforts could have been better. It was more than a little pleasing to hear such praise from him regarding my skill behind my weapons and techniques… In fact, even to this day I tried to deny the deeply rooted need within me to be praised and honored for my prowess and deeds, as foalish as it truly was. I would attempt to enrich my Soul off the bounty of his words as best I was able, yet I could still not shake the feeling of disappointment in myself. Honest sudden distraction or no, I had allowed my awareness to wax narrow in its focus and had received an immediate and fitting retribution for my mistake. Had any of it been a true fight, there was all the more chance that my continual brushes with Death would at last end in a catastrophic, pitiful end. All I could take credit for now was the fact I hadn’t broken my damned neck during my fall and end up a disgraced corpse interred in shame in the Viper’s section of the Grand Cataco-

“Oi, Frejdá! Fuckin’ beautiful shite up there!”

“Absolutely! I’ve not seen you in such peak form since we all endured the Archmaster’s Trial of the Fang to keep our ranks intact! Did he piss you off or something?”

“Gods, could you imagine?!”

With a pair of mares so loud and obnoxious anytime they chose to speak together, it didn’t take a bubble of awareness to know my solitude had been broken by Violet and Topaz. Turning away from extinguishing the second lantern, I observed the two of them ascending the stairs from the Great Hall side of the Garden wall. Despite a Witcher being hard-pressed to draw beads of sweat out during physical exercise (indeed I was only mildly damp with sweat even after what I had just done), the pair of them were positively dripping with moisture in the waning rays of the late-afternoon sun. All dressed up in their leather-and-chain Fox armor, and proudly sporting their slender paired estocs upon their backs, the pair had surely been up to some rather intense training of their own. Upon closer inspection however, it became immediately apparent both of them were soaked through by water. Only the troughs at the base of the Upper Courtyard’s balance beam were deep enough to fully immerse anyone on site. Either both of them fell in or, more likely knowing them, one fell and took the other down with her to continue the fight. At least I could take comfort in knowing I was not the only one falling from the beams.

“Quiet thy shite…” I grunted back at them with feigned disinterest. “You should be more worried about yourselves! I can see the trail of water from the Lower Courtyard all the way up here so I assume you two were having a hard time on the lesser beam?”

“Oh, of course. Deflect the topic and proceed to point out my flaws. Truly the best way to deal with criticism in this day and age, wouldn’t you agree Topaz?”

“Absolutely! Isn’t that what we’re doing right now, though?”

“Shut it!” Violet prickled in response, shooting her friend a poisoned look. “She’s the one with the bigger flub here, don’t let up! More people saw her fuck-up than ours so keep at it.”

“Ah, so you did fall off the lower beam!” I chuckled back with a smile of relief at the release of tension in the moment. “My, my…and do tel- .”

“Uh-uh!” Violet growled softly, shaking her head violently in response. “Watch this!”

With an overly dramatic clap of her hooves, she cast Quen about herself in our old trail technique, the water on her person falling away in sheets as if it were fleeing Hel itself.

“See? All gone and no more evidence! Us fucking up like that is nothing compared to getting your arse thrown off the Pendulums by the Archmaster. And now, you don't even have any leverage on us if you tried!”

“So were you watching us duel, or were you two dueling each other? I’m confused…”

“Well, both in due point of fact, Frejdá.” Topaz chuckled softly as she wisely took a chance to cast Quen on herself as well. “We started out by watching you two for awhile…but, then Violet here got the idea of following your example and trying to get some eyes on us too.”

“Yeah, except you two were hogging the Pendulums, and some damned arse of a Witchling broke the fucking Gauntlet so we couldn’t use anything actually impressive…” Violet continued for her with a scowl. “Had to make do with what was available, that’s all.”

“And what was within sight of the rest of the gathered crowd?” I smirked. “Please, Violet…you don’t need to play coy with me. I know you long to be the center of attention and I cannot blame you for it. Do any of us here know a single living Soul at this School, or any other for that matter, who joined our ranks for any reason other than hoping to become a legend? I will play the part of candor and admit I gave myself to the Vipers of my own free will for that very same reason. I saw the Second Born as the apex heroes to beat all other legendary warriors in the world and wished to attain such lofty heights as they.”

“And yet, the Archmaster kicked yer ‘legendary’ arse off that last bit o’ height didn’t he? What do you call that, eh?”

I rolled my eyes heavily towards the pair of them for continuing their verbal prodding despite everything that happened and scoffed, “Spare me that one, Violet…if you had actually been observing the entire fight, you would already know the circumstances around why I fell. I can stand for your typical jesting, but that one is borderline slanderous.”

“Oh…yeah, true. We eh, did sort of make assumptions since we…eh…didn’t exactly…see…it.”

“Vi, you had me in a headlock a meter underwater by the time her Guardian really started lashing out. We can’t even hope to salvage this one in front of her at this point.”

“Well maybe if some of us here stopped giving away everything about it, she wouldn’t have to know about it!”

“Ladies…please…” I groaned as I set about stopping the back-and-forth before it could get too far along. “I won’t say a word about your blunder if you will refrain from trying to point out mine. You have no right to criticism, nor played witness to the actual events as they truly happened. I would say that is a fair deal, wouldn’t you?”

Even as Violet opened her big mouth to retort something assuredly cutting and witty, she slowly closed it as her eyes fell and she sighed in begrudging defeat. Topaz for her part looked visibly relieved at her dear friend’s wise decision and cleared her throat in an attempt to coax Violet to say something. When she did not and instead glared at the wall of training pads, setting about lifting them back up and latching them in place, Topaz grumbled under her breath before speaking up to continue the conversation on their behalf.

“Yes, I would agree that is a very fair bargain. Shall we move onto something else? I know I for one would rather prefer not to spend the rest of the day pouting about something that’s already happened. Come on, Vi…hardly anypony was watching us up there anyway…”

“Humph…still too fuckin’ many eyes for my liking with a fuck-up like that…I’m going to be hearing about it for weeks now…”

“Well, in-lieu of raining down more shite upon your day, I would say we all deserve a hot bath after that experience, yes? Is that a more suitable proposal to your liking, your Highness?”

The mare in question stopped mid-motion at those fateful words she so despised, yet she found it fit to swallow whatever anger I’d kindled in her and finished up her distracting work in returning the pads to their recessed places against the wall. Once the last of them was raised and the hinged latch fasted in place, the second lantern being snuffed as well to finish off, she finally turned back to face us with a tired look on her soft purple face.

“I should slap you for that…” She grunted irritably underpinned by a tired tone in her voice. “Whatever…yes, that idea sounds fucking beautiful right about now…”

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Chapter Seven: Concerning Baths & Venom

Before long, we found our conversation placed on hold as our hooves became bound for the door to the Laboratorium directly below us in the most straightforward path to our destination. We all set off in a companionable silence down the stairs to the Upper Courtyard, doing our utmost to keep our eyes and ears to ourselves and away from any others nearby. With the School day reaching towards its closing hours, those who had gathered surely all had duties to return to and our watching crowd graciously dispersed. Before long, we had reached the relative safety of the shallow steps leading to our door and down into the steep underground stairway. Carved through the natural basalt and paved over with granite bricks, several passages diverged along the warmly-lit stairs down to the Laboratorium proper. Their paths snaked through the upper regions of the Holy Mount in order to connect with other passages, rooms and halls all carved underground. At the first landing, two paths diverged to either side leading to the private quarters of those auxiliary staff supporting the Instructors living at the School full-time. Additional rooms for those visiting Instructors who rotated out bi-annually, like unto the honorable members of the Knights of the Eclipse, were also similarly fashioned on this floor. The second landing further down was our intended fork in the proverbial road; the path to the right leading to the heated bathing pools as well as the Infirmary located beneath the Reliquary. The path left meanwhile led to an extensive Herbarium for the dry-storage of Alchemy ingredients, as well as lending access to the tunnel leading into the base of the pit of the Gauntlet. The stairs ahead led further down to a true Alchemist’s playground of glassware, tomes, charts, rare ingredients and professional equipment. The Laboratorium here in particular was most famous amongst our guild for being from whence the first Trials regarding the mutagenic Grasses took shape. Even with those forcibly taken from us, our Alchemy equipment had been left mostly intact allowing us to continually ply our trade with the highest-grade tools available.

In truth, there were two other lesser laboratories located on the School grounds, both lacking the size, prestige, and extensive range of expensive mastercrafted equipment as the primary site. One of these lesser laboratories was posted near to the Alchemy lecture halls meant for burgeoning students of the craft to use in the practical applications of their lessons. The second, and admittedly extremely specialized, laboratory was for the exclusive use of the School’s attending Arcane-users of rank for the private pursuit of their own projects. As to be expected, such projects were always in a great abundance with such brilliant minds igniting the sparks of experimentation behind them. Located in a pocket dimension of purely magical origin, this exclusive laboratory was tied to the School, yet could only be reached by those with the power and knowledge to open the portal. Of course, the equipment and supplies present in their lab were highly-specialized towards the matters of the Arcane rather than the broader natural sciences explored by our studies in Alchemy. As a result, one could still find the occasional Sorceress or Mage slaving away in the main Laboratorium before vials, tomes and other personal implements in the private chase after whatever it was in the natural world which had caught their interest. Naturally of course, these 'visiting' masters of the Arcane kept to themselves and were even known to project opaque shield spells laced with muffling charms about their workspace so as to prevent any undue interruption. Whether or not their pet projects were of any worth to the School or guild at large, we allowed them to ply their experimentations as they would. Within moral reason of course. Like the University further south of Kaer Solaris, we too entirely forbade what could universally be acknowledged as 'illegal' and/or 'immoral' by anyone with a lick of compassionate Sentience in them. Thusly, you were never to see cages of tortured lab animals nor enormous tubes of fluid pickling Sentients alive within their confines anywhere near our Valley. Our reputation with Equestria and her subservient allies was already sullied enough by bad actors. The last thing any of us wished for was to engage in such debauchery on our own sacred soil.

There were two further rooms even below the Laboratorium itself. Split into two-halves separated by a heavy Dimeritium-iron door, the space was now utilized far differently than it had in ages past. The Hall of Changes had been the birthplace of countless Wolf Witchers over our guild's many centuries of operation, yet had grown silent ever since the Cleansing. The half of the room into which the stairway immediately entered was lined on either side with small, simple bedrooms with iron-banded doors that had once played home to recovering Witchers who had survived their Trial of the Grasses. Behind the bulky door separating the two-halves, the true Hall of Changes resided with the majority of its floor caved-in, and its precious contents absconded with by the Empress and her Witch Hunters during 'negotiations'. Ever since the last true Trials were performed mere months before the Cleansing, the great door was sealed shut against all intrusion while the location of the key was likely known only to Celestia herself. With the Trial of the Grasses having resumed in a much reduced capacity in order to produce new Witchlings, the individual recovery rooms that had survived intact had been repurposed. Now, they each were the site of each Witchling's final round of mutagenic teas; the harshest round for any of them to survive as it was in that moment the strongest compounds were infused into their system. The chances of death were only two-to-three in ten which were comparatively better odds than the four-to-five chances in ten associated with becoming a full Witcher with the most perfected of brews. Still...lives were inevitably lost, even in the strongest of prospective Witchlings as genetics were never fully in our control to direct and reshape to our will. And...even with the great door to the old Hall of Changes sealed tightly shut for over half a century now, folks would still occasionally report...disturbances. The haunting, twisted cries and gut-wrenching shrieks of those poor, unfortunately unlucky Souls to whom the Changes did not proceed smoothly. Even I could still remember some of the twisted, horribly malformed bodies which had taken most negatively to the mutations reshaping their bodies... The Trial of the Sword and the many, many months of progressively mutating as a Witchling were all to give our bodies the best possible chance at survival. Yet in the end, it was always up to chance whether or not you made it through the other side. If only the Hall of Changes at Kaer Nathair had been so luxurious as those at Kaer Solaris...perhaps the School of the Viper would have seen better odds for survival.

All of these rooms and passages below ground had been expertly dug out by the Valley's local Clan of Direwolves prior to having the finer touches like brickwork and support columns being installed by Pygmy masons. Indeed, Direwolves excelled naturally at digging through solid stone as they, like their ancestors before them, dug out their own caves within the White Fang Mountains. Their mighty paws and nails yielded not to the stiffness of stone but made it fall away like it were chips of brittle shale as they dug through solid rock like it were mere dirt. So too were the multiple passages beneath the School no exception to this. The Solar Clan's most talented diggers had been recruited from the moment Kaer Solaris became Equestria’s last refuge for Witcher-kind while their efforts began and were completed with great gusto and enthusiasm. Within a matter of weeks, the new Barracks was fully carved out and ready for fine brickwork and other furnishings as needed to turn these caves into proper rooms and tunnels. Not only that, but numerous extra small bedrooms had been carved out as well for those Masters and Adepts as couldn’t be housed in the Master’s Tower. In less than six months after the last chunk of basalt was dug out by paw, the last stone was laid in its place and the field of tents occupying the Valley below began to vanish; their occupants moving graciously into their new lodgings inside and beneath the School. The arduous work had proceeded day-and-night entirely unabated, with hundreds of skilled and willing minds coming together to make use of the abundant real estate that lay in the sizable space below the School’s foundations. Geomancy spells had more than proven we had over a thousand meters of safe space in which to dig before we even reached the magma-laced heart of the volcano. Indeed, there was still yet more space they could dig into in order to further expand our capacity were it necessary sometime in the future. Like unto the rest of the School, there was a very homely feel even so far underground as the lighting was bright and the air was graciously cool, but not chill. Graceful brass lanterns containing glowing Sunstones occupied recessed alcoves at regular intervals along the walls, providing gentle light to the passage. They were likewise accompanied and augmented by small chandeliers of glowing white crystals like those in the Archives dangling from the vaulted ceiling above.

Like much elsewhere in the School, the walls had been thickly plastered over and played home to sprawling murals which filled in all the available space between each lantern alcove. In all, they formed an amalgamation of multiple Eldar’s personal histories woven into one interconnected story of our combined lives as they had once been long ago during the Age of the Moon. Others passed us by as we walked, all too occupied with their own conversations to give more than a passing apology if one accidentally bumped into us as they passed. Those who did take a pause to acknowledge us were returned a hurried reply of greeting as none of us wished to break pace, or sacrifice the rest of our afternoon to conversations which could drag on till late evening before we knew it. Needless to say however, every face we passed this far underground was in some way directly affiliated with the School itself, either as a Witcher/Apprentice or as one of the many serving staff who were allowed to mingle with us whilst off duty if they so chose. Graciously there were few efforts made to overly police behavior at Kaer Solaris as all who called it home took pride in what we had managed to salvage through the Cleansing. As a community, we each felt the responsibility to maintain the comfortable status-quo we had managed to establish after the sordid events of that fateful day. As a direct result, the School Guard were rarely, if ever, called upon to settle a matter of unruly behavior or otherwise; let alone the Archmaster from upon the Judgement Seat at the head of the Great Hall. After a minute or two of hurried steps alongside one another in our haste, pushing open a simple iron-banded wooden door at the end of the hall provided a right bedlam of noise with which to fill one's thoughts and ears. Indeed, few things were better in some moments for quieting racing thoughts and emotions than engaging in a public atmosphere that reeked of comfort and contented patrons.

Beyond its threshold lay the ever populous Hall of Pools, commonly referred to as simply the Baths; a multi-chambered grand auditorium dedicated to cleansing the body of grime and the mind of worry. Given our grueling profession, and the many daily stresses assaulting Apprentices and Masters alike from all sides, most with any amount of free time allotted them could be found down here participating in one of several amenities on site. Arranged around a sizable stone pool of lukewarm spring water were a set of six smaller chambers set into the walls, each sporting various temperate pools of their own based upon preference. These featured a range of temperatures from icy waters piped in from the White Fang glaciers in a pool to my left, to a pit of pure molten magma from the volcano below far to my right, reserved especially for those capable of enjoying such intense heat like Dragons and Direwolves with their fur blessed by divine fire-resistance. Around the central pool itself were over a dozen decoratively carved stone slabs, generously furnished as they were with padding for comfort. Their paying occupants were thus attended to by one of several professional massage therapists living on School grounds, plying their trade to a grateful clientele-base in deep, constant need of their professional services. A steam chamber existed here as well, though it was housed above the central pool as a freestanding room built directly off the ceiling and accessed via several rope ladders which dangled into the pool below. Occupants normally exited via a graceful dive into the water, while arseheads liked to ball-up upon impact with the water so as to rudely splash any caught nearby. Continuing the theme in Kaer Solaris, the walls here too were far from barren stone and instead were rendered the canvases by which many talented artists decorated our School with scenes and people from our great history. Murals of past Witchers of note were naturally by far the most popular subject of artistic representation, and one did not have to go far in order to find bits of our combined histories brushed in paint or chiseled in wood and stone.

The First Century in particular were honored here in the Hall of Pools as each and every original Witcher found their place somewhere on the abundant high walls; their visages still yet graciously known thanks to engravings from the day which survived in the protective walls of the Archives. All of them were heroes in our eyes, every last mare, stallion, Dragon, Örn, Direwolf and all the other Old Hunters as had survived the first ever Trial of the Grasses. Each vibrantly colored mural depicted them all in various acts of slaying Daemons, rescuing villages, bestowing cures on cursed individuals, guarding caravans of pilgrims through dangerous territory, and otherwise receiving triumphant parades and feasts in their honor amidst the glory days of old. The great domed ceilings of the central pool hall, and its surrounding smaller chambers on the other hoof were reserved for the celebration and honoring of the grand Cosmos, from which we all gave thanks for our very existence regardless of religion. Elaborate constellations of stars and distant planets wove several fantastic still mosaic images of the majestic night sky. A grand mosaic of cut moonstones formed the majestic Moon itself which took center stage on the ceiling above the largest pool, casting its reflection forever in the crystal clear waters below. Ever we tried to keep in mind from whence we came, and the Void which had once occupied the space we now lived in. The precious balance of life and death, Light and Dark…everything that had once been under the Age of the Moon which fewer and fewer of the Eldar could claim to have seen for themselves. Even I, at five-hundred and twenty-nine years of age, had still missed the tail-end of the Age of the Moon by a full century and a quarter. It was so long ago so as to be ancient history for most, with even biologically immortal races such as Thestrals now considering them fading memories of yore. The ancient wars and battles of those days which marked some pages of our histories now felt ever more insignificant compared to the scale of the Equestrian threat to our way of life. Petty squabbles over borders which had once swept across hundreds, even thousands of leagues of territory unbroken between our races… All of it meant close to nothing outside of how those events shaped our respective peoples during the Age of the Moon.

Some ways around and past the circular central pool of decorative stonework sat the changing rooms, as well as one of several lavatories found throughout the School. With the advent of ‘civilization’, the native fur, scales, feathers and such with which we were born oft found themselves covered by one or more articles of clothing so as to hide our veritable nakedness from sight. Whether it were the gold-stitched frock of a noble, the humble sackcloth tunic of a peasant, the silken robe of a Sorceress or the armor of a soldier (or Witcher), to wear clothing was to further affirm Sentience to oneself as well as to one's neighbors. Here in the Baths however, wearing clothing only made cleansing oneself far too difficult to do properly, and so we would ditch our robes, armor and otherwise in open cubbies lining the walls of the changing room. Once all was in place, a spectral shield of magic activated along the outer frame to protect its contents as, though rather uncommon, petty theft of personal property between students was not unheard of. Like the pools outside, the changing room was equally boisterous with the noise of friendly chatter as the folks around us conversed whilst in various stages of dress and undress. It was a rather socially comfortable atmosphere for what could otherwise prove an awkward situation, given it had long ago become a social taboo to ditch ones clothing in public. Those with lust in their hearts (which admittedly was most Witchers courtesy of continual rampant hormone production) could stare under tails to their heart’s content with consenting parties, yet sex itself was not allowed in the Baths. Rather, it remained the purview of a private bedroom with a muffling charm or within the confines of a brothel of ones choosing. We were all here to relax, socialize with friends, and altogether leave our worries at the door as we enjoyed the bounteous warmth provided by volcanically-heated hot springs. And perhaps the Baths acted as the place wherein interested parties for sex might enter into conversation with their next partner, yet it still remained an almost sacred space of sorts. Not one dedicated to any Gods or Goddesses, but merely to the broad concept of rest and relaxation as only the Baths could provide us.

By and large, there was little distinction made within the Hall of Pools regarding status or rank as Instructors, Mentors, students, various other staff and servants alike all participated in the joyous location and amenities. The cubbies were all first-come, first-serve save those in a private room towards the back reserved for the Archmaster, the Grandmasters of the Council, and the occasional esteemed guest of the School, as well as their entourage should one accompany them. As none of us, myself included, numbered amongst the Grandmasters of our guild, we were all made to be content with contending with others for open cubbies to use. In the end, we managed to find three of them all in an unbroken line beside each other that we opted to stop and use. Violet and Topaz…well, I would be most untruthful if I refrained from admitting they were beautiful mares in their own rights; a fact only made more apparent as they each stripped off their armor and other clothing. Not wishing to be caught staring myself, I quickly followed suit and began the process of undressing from my many straps and overlapping layers of defense. Before long, the light flush of redness to my face had faded into the concentration of taking everything off in the correct order as many pieces could not be removed until other specific ones were taken off first. One by one, my gear fell away from my body before being neatly folded and placed inside the cubby with my metaphorical name on it. By the time I had removed my under-tunic and pulled my boots from off my hind legs, the two of them were already fully naked and hovering their hooves in the threshold of their cubbies, bonding the individual shields to their lifeforce. With space enough for our longswords to fit as well as any abundance of gear we may be carrying, I at last was able to set the last of my equipment away and bond my signature with the shield to my cubby. All the while, other groups of friends and members of staff mingled freely with one another amidst the warm air wafting through the halls via the system of vents and pipes. We were far from the only ones spending time with the people we enjoyed the company of and indeed, the only truly missing element was an abundance of food and drink for personal enjoyment. Regrettably, these were forbidden from the Baths so as to save the cleaning staff the hassle as well as limit contaminates from being introduced into the various pools. Save of course one, yet nothing outside fire-blessed hides could survive the plunge.

Once we were all good and free of our clothing and armor, we obtained a set of towels each from a male Hippogriff in the white and red robes of the School, prior to setting off back into the main Hall of Pools. The noise of dozens of happy, friendly voices all conversing loudly echoed about the lofty rooms, complimenting the pleasantly warm, moist air. With our robes, tunics, armor and otherwise now removed, it neared impossible to try and identify student from Mentor from staff outside of recognizing individual faces. Everywhere there was to look was in some way occupied by smiling, relaxed faces and I gazed softly in longing towards the fully-occupied massage tables. One Griffiness in particular, a stunning pink Galah-headed masseuse by the name of Rosalia Rosefeather, I could not help but melt under when she set to work with her skilled talons. Regrettably, her time was already booked up by a large Lynx who dozed lazily under her kneading knuckles pressed deep into his or her lower back. Much as I envied them, I knew better than to pine away after something that was first-come, first-serve unless an appointment had been pre-arranged and paid for in advance. Whoever it was had beat me to my favorite set of talons and I would have to seek out her wondrous skill set sometime later. Indeed, as I glanced around I could easily see each and every single place was already in use and a visible cue of waiting patrons loitered nearby, barring me from finding quick service. Instead, I followed after the pair of Adepts as they seemingly picked up some conversation they had left on a table somewhere before I met them again.

“You still owe me for that game of knucklebones Tope.”

“And?? I'm gonna pay you, don't get your tail in a knot over that now of all times.”

“I hear that fuckin' purse of yours jingling every time we head down to Redclaw, so why haven't you yet?”

“You're just doing this because she's here and you're hoping she'll take your side in this.”

“Maybe, but the fact is you're in debt to me fifty Crowns and a few silvers. Anytime I bring this up, you always get after me for it ‘not being the right time' or whatever shite you want to feed me that day. I parsed you a loan and you promised to pay it back in full. Are you going to play nice or am I going to have to slit your purse myself and take what you owe from off the pavers in full public view just to get my dues?”

“Why are you…? Oh! This is for the clipped Arteria roots I gave you, isn't it?”

“...you know what, no. But now that you've reminded me about that, I'm going to up that debt to a hundred Crowns even, and not a fuckin' copper less.”

I hovered between wanting to interject in some way, if only to pose some very intrigued questions, and keeping silent and thus free of the argument on either side. Graciously, my attention was allowed to be diverted for a moment from the bickering duo as we approached the rim of the mildly scalding pool located in the fourth out of the six side chambers. Each chamber was roughly the same dimensions as the other and were no more than mere, shrunken down copies of the central hall. At roughly seven-meters in diameter and incrementally increasing in depth to six meters at the center, the steam slowly curling its way towards the lofty roof above was thick and easily visible as we approached. The walls surrounding each pool sported long sections of padded marble benches alongside a short shelf some ways above for the storage of towels and other personal items not already left behind in the changing room cubbies. As like everywhere else in the Hall of Pools, we were spending more than a few seconds in finding an open place in the pool we could occupy together. Most faces around us I knew all too well with the only unfamiliar ones belonging to those newer members of the serving staff I’d little contact with, or numerous members of the School Guard who came from all walks of life and rotated in-and-out of active service regularly. Between the pools were crisscrossing lines of shallow troughs which drained water shed from those who emerged from any of the pools positively sopping wet. Meanwhile, exceedingly hot air from the magma flows below was channeled beneath the stone tiles of the Bath's flooring in order to keep them comfortably warm underhoof. Likewise, more heat was vented into the Hall of Pools from multiple angles both high and low in order to maintain a comfortable temperature so far underground. When one chatty group was gracious enough to huddle their gathering a little closer together, we slid into the narrow space along the rounded stone rim of the pool next to one of several troughs feeding fresh hot water in through covered channels in the floor.

Immediately, a groan or gasp of pleasure and relief escaped from each of us as the hot water rose up from our hind-hooves as we lowered ourselves in; my own eyes clenching tightly shut as the feeling of grandiose, magnificent warmth enveloped my being and thoroughly soaked my coat. Shallow, angled grooves in the stone wall of the rim and a raised plinth which ringed the pool acted as a place to sit, allowing most bodies to recline somewhat in comfort against the warm stone. It was far from a mattress of down feathers, but with the weight of one's body reduced by its buoyancy in the water, I could lay my head back somewhat and sprawl out my legs comfortably. And indeed, I truly relished in the heat penetrating deeply into my muscles and joints which, while not overly fatigued, welcomed the warmth most graciously anyway. Violet and Topaz continued their little debt spat in a more hushed tone than before, given the others attempting to converse around us, but I had not the effort, nor the ears willing to listen in and take up a side as was their wont. I had come to the Baths to rest and relax, not to play the part of arbiter for their dispute nor to play advocate to one side or another. Fifty Crowns was a hefty sum by all accounts to owe anyone, though it was hardly life-threatening to either of them or their personal wealth. Violet was attempting now though to press her attack regarding some Arteria roots now that it had been seemingly brought back to her mind. It was a rare plant by all accounts that would keep itself eternally fresh long as it was pulled from the earth, root and all. The moment its flesh was cut by anything more than a sliver, the sap within would immediately begin to oxidate throughout, rendering the whole plant useless within a matter of hours. Whatever the exact issue was, I wished to be left outside of it and ensured so by immediately setting off towards the center of the pool and diving downwards towards the safety of the bottom.

By grace of our greatly expanded lung-capacity and diaphragm control, the average Witcher could spend upwards of five-or-six minutes on average underwater on a single breath. Naturally, larger species like Dragons and Örn could beat any Equine or similarly smaller species when it came to natural lung capacity, yet the expanded capacity was a terrific boon on its own anyway. With the aid of the Killer Whale Potion, whatever time the Witcher normally had would be further increased by a factor of three-to-five, depending upon the strength of the Potion brewed. I had a mind to sip some before climbing in, but I decided against it for now and rather dove several meters down to a shallow pit occupied by a second, smaller ringed bench. Down here, small intake vents in the stone floor peeled away old water which had pooled at the lowest point to make way for fresh water being piped in through the troughs above. As such, it made the perfect place for those of us who wished to truly scrub ourselves down from grime to go about doing so. With brushes, sponges and other implements in abundance around the seating ring, connected by golden chains to small stakes hammered into the stone, one only needed wait for a turn at the specially formulated soap in order to properly bathe. The formula used ensured a thick, cleansing lather could be built up on one's person, even when fully submerged, using a bit extra friction than would normally be needed for typical soap of lye. The end result this day was a flowery scent of carnations, one of many of their scents which clung to one's fur for hours afterwards. And all this was gently underbrushed by the sweet scent of apples and spice, all mingling amidst the soap that even our waterlogged nostrils could detect whilst underwater. The Soapers down in the Valley, which produced our fine personal hygiene products locally, took great pride in their work, and continually changed their offerings as new discoveries in perfumes and natural scents came to the fore. Not only that, but as well as anytime when new brews and spells which cleansed better than those already known were discovered as they dabbled in their craft. Popular scents could be restocked in the pools (save the magma of course) by popular demand, however they saw fit to bring us a new formula almost every week as their best testbed was a diverse populace which was most prone to getting extremely dirty in creative ways. Once finished scrubbing, lathering and all else that needed doing, one would then swim down into the center of the seating pit and wash it all away. After being thusly used, the formula ensured all soap which came off was ever-so denser than the water around it. And so, it would sink to the bottom and be whisked away by the vents through more piping to be filtered out and returned to the aquifer after some time was spent cooling it back down by mixing it with glacier runoff. The heat of the water also likewise grew somewhat in the depths of the pool, meaning not all who went below were there purely to scrub themselves clean. Instead, some would take their time whilst occupying a space on the bench with their eyes closed simply enjoying the all-encompassing warmth. Were it not for the others going about their business about you, one could almost imagine they were entirely alone with naught but the bounteous warmth for company in the watery depths.

Indeed, despite my earlier choice not to, I gave into the inviting warmth after giving myself a proper cleaning and coming up for a fresh gulp of air. I loathed having to leave the water so soon, yet the warm pervasive air of the Baths helped cushion the blow of clambering back out of the pool in search of the tall, fancifully shaped crystal flask housing the orange concoction. The brew…well, there was no getting around the (typically) all-encompassing taste of bitter dryness most Witcher Potions were accompanied by. Nor the urge to wretch each and every time one had to be imbibed, even those few such as Golden Oriole and White Honey which were comparatively much sweeter on the tongue. My eyes watered and my mouth was sapped of moisture as the slightly viscous fluid sloshed across my tongue and the taste/aftertaste reared their twined ugly heads one after the other. It only took a moment before a familiar thudding feeling began in my veins which was my sure sign the brew was beginning to take hold of my system. Each breath seemed to begin wandering into my lungs at a long, steady pace as the beat of my heart slowed so as to reduce oxygen consumption. With the Potions' effects now enacting their changes in my body, I found it fit to return to the water via a graceful dive; leaping over the heads of those sat in, or around the edge of the pool fearing not that I'd lose my Medallion in the splash. I, nor any other Witcher or Acolyte for that matter, needed worry about a strong current, gust of wind, or even an enemy hoof being able to snatch our Medallions or Pendants from off our necks or waists. Indeed, once a Medallion was activated and bound to a Witcher's lifeforce, it could only be removed by the Witcher themselves, and only if they so chose. Any attempt to remove the chain from around their neck without their consent would inevitably lead to the Guardian making a very wrathful appearance if there was any life still left in them. Of course...the Guardians of Acolytes and Witchlings were mere shadows of those bonded to fully-mutated Witchers with strength in abundance both physically and spiritually...yet, the effect was still the same.

Beneath the surface once more, the sounds of those around me were all pleasantly muffled by thousands of gallons of spring water and I found time at last to properly meditate on the bottom of the pool. It would have greatly disappointed my Mentor if he learned I had skipped my daily prescribed meditations thrice now, yet I was an aging mare with a growing appreciation for the comforts of sleep and relaxation. Since coming home to the Valley, a great pit of unease which set in anytime I entered Equestrian territory had finally faded back into memory, and restful sleep now came easily once again. Now however, I had a few minutes to truly calm my racing thoughts as best I could in the tranquility of the moment. For as long as I could hold my breath of course, yet having drunk the Potion I was ensured up to near a half-hours’ worth of air. It had been five months and a few weeks since I had last had the pleasure of enjoying such bounteous warmth. Even I was astounded at just how quickly it felt like my body had grown unaccustomed to the sensation as it wasn’t as if it had been years between my dips in the Baths. Indeed, the best alternative I had gotten whilst on the Path thus far in the year were the Springs of Shale, located off the High Road some ways before the village of Hollyhock. Had I not discovered Braxia’s remains and returned early, it would have likely been another hundred or so leagues before I found a suitable reservoir of water to relax in. That of course was barring any torrential downpours along the way which were becoming ever more frequent in correlation to the Abyssal threat disturbing our world. That said, I welcomed the isolation I could experience by merely shutting my eyes, and keeping my limbs to myself despite the others around me all moving about as they would. Thoughts of the fight crept back into my mind unprompted, tugging at my gut with feelings of inadequacy and shame before I was able to drift my thoughts along to something happier. I would be feeling the soft sting of that fight for some time...even if I had not been exactly at fault for what had happened.

Graciously, happier thoughts of the past came to me as I forced my mind to wander away from reminiscing on my fall from the Pendulums over and over again. Memories of days long past graced my presence like kind old friends I knew and loved, dearly paying a short, fleeting visit in the recesses of my mind. In fact, there were plenty of people whom I truly missed so dearly as that… Ghosts of the past who were robbed from me (and the world) far too soon for the caliber of people they were in life. There had been a long stretch of time wherein Witchers almost never fell in the line of duty to the swords and machinations of Equestrian hooves, but rather perished in the midst of a monster den or a Daemon’s Nest. I had even lived through the latter-half of that glorious era of Witcher expansion myself… Born physical witness to the tail-end of our Golden Age, wherein Hunts were regularly undertaken in the royal name of Kings and Queens as esteemed, respected experts in our profession. The feasts, banquets and public parades of triumph…the legions of auxiliary staff each School and Kingdom recruited in order to handle the sheer work-load heaped upon us in droves… Once our guild truly got its legs under itself and began to gallop out of the gate, the Abyssal tide had finally been stymied and its twisted denizens slain in heaps and droves. The monster population was undoubtedly somewhat worse in those days as there were fewer of us to go around…yet the last fifty-some years since the Cleansing had only allowed their numbers to swell like never before. The Solar Flares of that day had shocked Terra Firma to her core and even deeper beyond that… It was little wonder as to why the Abyss was swelling in strength beneath us and amongst us like never before. Try as I might, I was simply unable to fight off remembrances and visions of yore amidst the rambling thoughts clouding my mind. Without even meaning to, my thoughts, coddled by an extensive gulp of air courtesy of a dose of Killer Whale, drifted off truly into the well of memories like unto a waking dream.

‘Hail Fredjá! What news from the north?’

‘Oh, no more than the usual dour nastiness as we’ve come to expect from a region long-ago abandoned to its own devices. The Ravens are doing what they can…but they can only cover so many places at once. Did you receive my missive regarding the Cockatrice den which Master Ōnar and I happened upon whilst passing through the Bridgeshire province?’

The scene was almost as vivid as when it had occurred, sometime in the early autumn of 323 when I was still a Witcher Adept having yet to claim a Hunt worthy of the title of Heroic. In those heady days, Adepts could meet all other requirements such as having survived sixty-five consecutive years on the Path, and a passing grade on the Five Tribulations, yet find themselves short of attaining the rank of Master Witcher. A Heroic Hunt on official record was necessary in order to truly qualify for the lofty title. A magnificent performance in the line of a Witcher's truest duty to the benefit of the general populace, whether they knew it or not.

‘Nay’ Replied the faded image ofBarlgāl, the Viper School's Chamberlain in that time. ‘Praytell, of what scope is this den?’

‘Brood of nigh-on forty strong, over half of which were fully-fledged adults in the prime of maturity. The rest were hatchlings, hatched sometime within the last half-year or so based on the pinfeathers, and the underdeveloped eyes we accounted for after we had cleared it out together. Seems they had a habit of hunting the local wildlife and were slowly encroaching towards the town walls. Likely still a few months or years off, but we would undoubtedly be receiving a real Contract to take of them eventually. And likely more to us than the School of the Swan for obvious reasons.’

‘I see…wouldn’t be too much longer and they’d start preying on the townsfolk then it sounds like. And yes, I doubt the good citizens of that region would much like even one Thestral too many wandering about near their homes. Where was this den of Cockatrice found precisely?’

‘About…fourteen-leagues southwest of the Bovine Plateau? In a stretch of forest marked by many rocky hills some league or so off the High Road passing through the region. It is truly a wonder they never attempted to make any violent moves towards any of the caravans traversing the highway... I marked the map upon my Codex precisely where if you would like to see it for yourself.’

‘Nay, I dare say we trust you at your word by now dear Frejdá. That will suffice for now. If Master Ōnar is willing to co-sign on your behalf, then I will have drawn up a Class-3a Contract in your names and take down his accounting of the Hunt before sending one of the Scouts to witness the site directly. The least we can do is ensure you both get compensated something for your efforts for a brood of that size.’

It was such a different time in those days that it was rather difficult to even believe any of it had even happened at all, even in spite of having personally lived through it myself. Class-3 Contracts, specifically type 3a, were still on official record as valid documents by the Chamberlain’s Office of Kaer Solaris, yet had become quite rare indeed. Nowadays, to engage in a Hunt which was stumbled upon in the wild without a prior Contract, one obtained through the normal channels of Zamak communication, rarely came with any pay. Outside of what Alchemical or crafting materials as could be salvaged from monster dens and the corpses left in our wake, finely-minted coins fresh from a cozy Treasury were just not in the stars usually. That is just what was expected of a Witcher in most cases when happening upon a problem that went without documentation. We were to subdue threats like those out of the goodness of our hearts and our duty to the Path unless local affected parties offered a reward on their own. While it was not an inherently bad policy at heart, it did hurt our own bottom line come our other expenses both while on the Path and off it. If a particular chance-encounter Hunt occurred which one felt was deserving of some actual pay, the documents still existed to try and petition for it. Along with most of the other checks and balances in place to ensure said Hunt was worth a payment from the Treasury.

‘You are most kind to offer that service to me willingly!’ I had replied with humbled surprise. ‘To petition for one otherwise would have taken days, even with Master Ōnar’s name alongside mine on the appropriate documents.’

‘Likely more unto weeks than days…’ His words echoed in my mind and shrouded in tender nostalgia. ‘Her Highness Celestia has seen fit to further cut away at our monthly grant from her Treasury. Loans have naturally been extended with assuredly lenient rates of interest…yet this School cannot shoulder yet more debt eating away at our scattered income. The Archmaster’s Council has all-but dissolved since you two have been away. Many of the Grandmasters, and even the Archmaster herself, have departed the School for the Path in order to assist with bringing in more coin to better stabilize our dismal budget.’

Oh the financial woes of Kaer Nathair…and ever more so that of the petty Kingdom which first sponsored us. The School itself had been made the inheritor of much of the massive piles of debt the Kingdom of Āider took upon itself to fund the construction of the School of the Viper. With loans parsed from several Equestrian banking clans, the King saw fit to attempt to bolster his ego on the world stage and take his Kingdom to greater heights. While the true cost was never fully revealed to me by anyone with the proper knowledge, each and every Chamberlain who took up the mantle at the School reportedly blanched in terror at the number seen on the ledgers. A political stunt through-and-through by King White ‘The Braggart’ Birch, his application for his first round of many loans occurred during the same year the Order of Witchers were first displaying their prowess to the world. By the time of my Apprenticeship in the Viper's Bastion, the Kingdom had already defaulted once in its loans and for a second time only a few years after I'd survived the Changes and graduated. By the time I had seen my fifteenth-year on the Path, the Kingdom was entirely bankrupt top-to-bottom, and found itself the victim of a rampant, and very sudden, outbreak of Dragon Pox. By the end of 171, the Kingdom was entirely, and utterly unable to pay even a single copper to anyone; Witcher, soldier, farmer or debtor alike. Celestia's cunning banking clans had ensured ironclad clauses were written into the documents, enforceable by judicial and even military action if necessary. Though in our case, she saw fit to offer the Kingdom a deal. A pardon on most debts incurred (namely the interest which had accrued, not the principle itself), with King Birch keeping his private holdings and wealth, in exchange for the entirety of the Kingdom falling within Equestrian borders as a Dukedom. A fortuitous offer for the King, now-turned Duke of Āider, but one which caught everyone else violently off guard, even with the conveniently-timed influx of foreign medicine to combat the local plague. For once, the rage of both Witcher and the common peasant alike had aligned against the King for selling the nation out from under us. Yet…nothing was to come of it in the end, and within a matter of decades, even the memory of the former Kingdom had truly started to fade from everyone's mind. Equestrian laws took hold of the region, and a new ‘normal’ was once again established whilst the land around us changed very little. Still poor as shite and unduly burdened by the King's rampant debts.

The School had already begun to show early signs of age, even come my first approach to their modest Bastion in the summer of 156 to join the tail-end of the Second Born. I, like many others in that day, came seeking the path to become a hero like unto the First Century, and just perchance have my name penned amongst the greatest warriors the world had ever known. Yet, even with nary over fifty-years having passed since the last stone was set in place, the fortress was beginning to wither under the weight of time, and a lack of funds for broad maintenance. Whilst Kaer Solaris and several other Schools enjoyed a debt-free (and indeed highly-profitable in some cases) existence on the world stage, with low guild taxes and royal patronage, Kaer Nathair lacked such bountiful support being so far-flung as it was at Equestria’s southernmost province. The Treasury of Kaer Solaris as we knew it today had yet to fully take shape, having been specifically created in order to help other Schools with financial struggles. However, it was too-little, too-late as significant damage from wear-and-tear had eroded away heavily at Kaer Nathair by the time the Treasury began formal operations in the middle of the fourth century. Our debts saw fit to abscond away to Canterlot with almost every Groat earned on our Contracts, and the School's remoteness ensured few peasants wished to move closer in order to work and till the land. With few prospects for any domestic income production outside of our Witcher Contracts, there was very little the School could reasonably do to hold back the tidal-wave of debt engulfing it. We had unjustly had that burden placed upon us, rather than the bumbling arse of a King who was able to skirt it off onto the School which he himself had sold out his entire petty Kingdom to build. Try as all of us might, the walls of fiscal contracts closed in early like leaden weights dragging us all down to Hel where Celestia was more than happy to loom over us as we perished. The School of the Viper had its fate sealed for it before it had even formally began which was a cruel, cruel fate to the good people who dedicated their lives to the School.

Indeed…the more one mulled it over, the more it could be hypothesized that the entire Kingdom's downfall had been a manufactured event. One which had been cleverly orchestrated by Celestia's thuggish banks and greedy land barons seeking to formally expand their holdings. There was no definitive proof (after all, why leave evidence of such trickery?), yet the notion resonated with me with the hindsight of centuries in my favor. After all, many poor decisions had been made by King Birch along the path towards enacting the School of the Viper in his lands; most of them made with the deep hope of finding a greater standing in world politics. In Equestria's eyes, however…it was likely seen as a forcible family reunion as the Kingdom of Āider originated from Equestrian royalty, which sought to establish an independent nation far from Canterlot. That in and of itself was not at all unusual, as it seemed many of the noble families which accompanied Celestia during the Arrival chafed under the weight of their monarch. Once land began being offered up as token gifts by the Eldar to those Equestrian refugees, many struck it out on their own in the hopes of holding lands and titles they hadn't before. Naturally, they, and many many others since then, have been brought back into the fold as it were. Through strong-arm diplomacy, political intrigue, assassination, bribes, counterfeit, annexation, debt-purchasing, outright open warfare, and many other methods, Equestria's borders had ballooned over the centuries. From borders that today counted as a petty Kingdom, to that of its modern-day Empire. The drive of Celestia to grow her people was a…inherently noble one at face-value, however it was a fact most heavily brutalized by the reality of it all. Equestrians were now being taught an altered world history as told by the demented minds of the Cult of the Eternal Pyre; fanatics utterly obsessed with worshiping the veritable Goddess Celestia had become on that horrific day of the Cleansing. An entire generation of Equestrians had been through childhood already under the impression that these falsehoods were hardened fact and the one that was yet rising were growing to be even more deluded than their parents. The seeds of strife were being sown in the very soil of the rising generations who would have no other word but ours to contradict those things they had been raised to accept as truth. And after all...what was the word of so many worth when those who needed to hear it stopped their ears at every turn from hearing the truth.

My meditation, which admittedly had done little to clear my mind of all thought, was all the same disturbed by a sudden heavy rush of water. The source, as my startled eyes quickly spied upon looking around, was none other than the she-devils themselves; both floating in the water a few meters above me. The mischievous grins on both their faces were somewhat charming as they truly made for a matched pair, yet I still flashed my fanged teeth back at them in a sneering veneer that was sure to be understood. Though the water prevented proper laughter, the glee on their faces was also greatly exaggerating their motions and expressions with mirth. In a fitting response, I raised a casual hoof and sent a soft blast of Aard through the water, slapping them both gently in the midsection whilst they were distracted looking at one another. While I had expected one or both of them to continue to escalate it until we were thrown out for unruly behavior, they instead showed some surprising restraint for the situation. Like a set of twins, they seemingly were able to communicate entirely non-verbally, and what must have been a lengthy conversation elapsed between them. Their 'tone' was...mixed and confusing to try and interpret, even with all my time spent as their friend. The deeper meaning of their unspoken dialogue was lost on me, yet the general mood I was able to infer came away feeling hesitant and worried. All the while, I remained comfortably seated on the bottom while awaiting…whatever it was they were up to. After nearly a minute or two of them exchanging loaded glances and vague gestures, they both seemed to come to…some sort of agreement before waving down to me. It took a moment for me to interpret what they wanted of me, however soon enough I took their cue and swam up along with them. Upon breaching the water's surface, I was immediately set upon by a hushed question asked in a very serious tone, one which she rarely used.

“So…” Muttered Violet nearby my ear over the sound of the rest of the pool. “Word around the School is you managed to find some Shade Petals out there, are those rumors true?”

The conversation, going entirely not as I had been expecting given the circumstances, caused me to blurt out truthfully, “Oh, um…yes? And...why are you asking precisely…?”

“She's gonna say no, Vi…”

“Oh hush, you. I'm asking…because…”

“Yes…?” I asked dryly, giving her a soft, wet slap of my sodden hair against her cheek with a smirk.

“There's another relative…”

“For fuck's sake, Violet…another one?”

“Yes! And it's the former Chief Minister of the Royal Cabal, a real piece of shite too believe me. I have it on really good authority he'll be in Misty Meadows six days from now. Couldn't ask for a better opportunity to trim the tree some more.”

“Vi…the only reason I even let you speak to me on this matter is the fact that, despite your constant crock of shite, you actually know your targets well. Well enough to sift the good apples from the bad amidst that damned enormous family tree of yours…”

“Don't blame me for my family fucking like rabbits in heat…” She pouted angrily whilst we continued to tread water in the center of the pool. “Yonderland has always been a puppet Kingdom of Her Royal Arsehole. That's given ‘em time to sit on their wealth from selling out, and weave vast tapestries around the Dukedom of inter-family intrigue, lies and debauchery.”

“Indeed…so you seek a Venom.” I replied simply, to which both of them nodded furiously. “I should have anticipated this from the moment you brought them up…”

“Indeed you should have, lass!” She giggled softly with a soft poke at my chest. “What'll it be, help an old friend out one more time? You said it yourself, it's always been for a just cause that these ‘people’ fall. If there's one thing we've been able to agree upon together on the old ways of the Cats, it's the idea that the definition of what is a ‘monster’ should be judicially applied to certain Sentients which breach a finite level of basic decency.”

“And don't forget crimes against civilization as a whole, that bit’s important as well.” Topaz chimed in. “I can back up most of whatever she has to say about him…fillies are his indulging pleasure, he delights in the abuse of his serving staff, and he takes great joy in dipping his hooves into the piles of gold to be made in the illegal markets. Half of the Fisstech imported into Yonderland alone these days is via smuggling networks through his personal estate. He takes his weight of the product as the stallion in the middle, but he's been covertly supplying the upper class there with premium nose candy for many decades now! Took over right where his own father left off back when we lived there like nothing had even happened.”

“I don't doubt you, Violet…or you, Topaz.” I sighed regrettably, knowing already I was set to help her yet again. “Fine, I will assist you…but please, Violet… Let this be the last…at least for awhile.”

“You know I can't. Yonderland is infested with far too many pompous fat-arsed noble families who've been allowed to engorge themselves unjustly off the local people's good will and hard labor. Long as that filthy bloodline still calls itself my family, I can't rest until the lot of them are left rotting under their precious Sun.”

“Which makes it all the harder some days to believe you even came from the same stock as they…”

“I find it harder to believe that than you'd ever fuckin' know…” She gruntled angrily. “Well common then!”

“To where??” I asked bewilderedly as she began swimming for the edge of the pool. “We only just got here, damnit!”

“You said you were on-board, yes? Well let's get moving immediately! Six days is not a lot of time and Misty Meadows is at least a four-day trot with good weather. Could even be five if we're unlucky and get caught in a maelstrom along the way.”

Though I was loathe to admit it, she was right as to how long it'd take to make it that far west going around the White Fang Mountains. Passing well within view of Canterlot upon the High Road as a branch of it turned westwards, they would have to push on nigh-unto the Great Western Sea. Misty Meadows was hardly a coastal city, yet gulls from the Sea had still found roofs to perch on and streets to peck for scraps nary twenty-leagues inland. I had agreed to assist her in her…rather dour endeavor, and thusly had agreed to be bound to the time-table she had set for herself in this affair. As one we clambered over the decoratively carved lip of the pool, and back into the somewhat chilly air whilst we pawed around for our various towels and draped them about ourselves. Once roughly robed, the two of them set off immediately for the changing rooms while I was forced somewhat to dash after them, still attempting to properly tie up my towels around my shoulders and waist in a comfortable manner. Still yet when we reached the changing rooms did they deign to slow down even an iota, with Violet even rudely pushing some younger Acolytes aside who were standing next to our cubbyholes. I apologized on her behalf, though her leering glare in their direction sent the group of them scattering away anyway. Their armor likewise was rather quick to put on as, aside from the posh, padded arming doublets and trousers worn beneath, the rest of the leather-and-chain ensemble was put on as two large pieces; one for the upper body and the other protecting the lower. Like the Ravens, they hid their chainmail beneath a padded long-sleeved black tunic and thick black trousers to which the chain hauberk, supplementary chain defenses, and the sections of exterior studded hardleather were all anchored. Though the dark orange/brown dye of the studded leather clashed with the natural color of both their fur, Fox armor was exceedingly tasteful in my eyes; a spiritual successor to the design of the original uniforms donned by the Old Hunters over six centuries before. In a similar vein to fine brigandine armor riveted to high-quality canvas or velvet, Fox armor was designed to lend the wearer the appearance of a highly-sophisticated traveling swordsmare. One for whom an honorable duel with epees comes just as easily as a tumultuous battle with a Fiend.

Their graceful steel and silver estocs were already strapped to their backs by the time I was setting right the fit of my spaulders and attaching the protective squares of leather-backed scales over top. While the all-in-one nature of their armor most certainly sped them along, I was also not so intent on rushing my evening as they were. It mattered not that this former Chief Minister was only directly related to Violet, as Topaz was almost always in perfect consensus with her sister-in-arms on almost every decision they made. They had been on the Path together for nearly a century-and-a-half already, with a further quarter-century spent growing up in Yonderland and their time spent in the Bastion of the School of the Cat. They would do everything together through thick-and-thin, and indeed…I doubted not that they would choose to perish together when the time came. In this case, they were in firm agreement, body and Soul. A quick glance into both of their eyes showed all I needed to see as it was clear there was not an ounce of disagreement between them on setting in motion the death of this individual for crimes they committed even long after her departure from Yonderland. I of myself…I was merely acquiescing to their wants, as to say no would have only resulted in their attempting to brew a Hangmare’s Venom of their own using lesser ingredients and unrefined techniques which could possibly be traced back to them in a best-case scenario. Violet had already proven over a dozen times (and likely more of which I did not know about) that she was willing to bring those members of her family to justice as she saw fit. They had all thus-far proven to be more or less as she described them, depraved and debaucherous blue-bloods for whom money was no object and life (and its plentiful vices) came very cheap. She had been pruning her family tree for a very long time already, doing her best to strike whenever they left the Grand Duchy so as to better establish some sort of alibi for the whole situation. Poison had become her preferred method for its quick efficacy, ease of use, and the sheer fact it allowed her to get in some distance from the scene of the crime before the body had dropped to the floor. Then, via a web of sympathetic informants and the like still amongst Yonderlandian society, she would help fabricate someone else to blame for the whole event. And I agreed to help each time…because I could not also help but agree with the Cats on one thing in their waning years on the Path. One thing alone.

Our guild forbade the killing of any form of Sentient life, save in cases of the defense of one's self, or in the defense of other innocents nearby. The punishments were naturally severe and retribution was swift to execute justice according to our internal code. However, the Cats had long argued to the Council of Elders that there were plenty of not-so-innocent people in the world who could (and should) be classified as monsters themselves, worthy of a Witcher's cleansing blade just as they would any other Abyssal beast. Though the definitions of who was ‘good’ and ‘evil’, versus who is ‘innocent’ and ‘guilty’ are vague and subjective to the situation, I could be objective in seeing that the world would indeed be better off without these hideous Souls living within our midst. This was not to say that I myself had taken on any assassin's work of my own (the so-called Class-4 Contracts as the Cats called them), yet…I could not count myself as innocent of shedding, or in helping shed, that sort of tainted blood. Violet always turned to me as my talent for Venoms and other prepared toxins was the forte of my School, and I always ended up agreeing to brew them for her in the end. There was no gold involved between us usually, only justice dealt and favors owed between sisters-in-arms (and murder…of a sorts). The moral ramifications of what I did…they mattered little to me frankly. Violet had a keen sense for who could be universally acknowledged as a horrible person in Yonderland, at least within the confines of the bloated bureaucracy which consumed its nobility. To know I assisted in their destruction after learning of whatever nefarious acts which warranted such actions…I would be guilty of lying if I said it failed to bring me some satisfaction.

There was just something deeply gratifying in knowing that wickedly vile individuals bringing harm to innocent victims would bring about their misery no more. While it could perhaps be considered vile and wicked in its own right to gloat inwardly over such a bastard's timely demise, I considered it a guilty pleasure. One which I was well-trained to assist with and one which would help ensure my dismal finances from my half-year on the Path were restored to a far more acceptable level. As unfortunate as it was...the world of killing other Sentient beings tended to provide a far more sizable income while typically presenting an easier option for coin. It was a dangerous game to try and play by balancing the line between acceptable extra-judicial killings of select degenerates and cold-blooded murder. Yet it was one I felt comfortable walking. Bringing an end to any kind of monstrous behavior which brought disaster upon the less-fortunate and defenseless was at the core spirit of the Witcher's Code after all. To do otherwise was to deny our purpose was it not? The line had be drawn somewhere of course, yet Violet had proven true time and time again that those she sought to cut short were foul beasts in their own right. And though there were countless of such people plaguing the world as terribly thick as the monsters in our Bestiary, I found myself happy to assist in such matters. Something had to be done to end their heinous acts...it was simply in bad taste to leave such beasts roaming free. Like a particularly heady pipe of hashish shared amongst friends, the occasional indulgence in such an act was hardly a bad thing for the world. For the Soul perhaps...yet we were Witchers. Half the Continent believed we lacked one to begin with thanks to the mutations which steeled us against the Abyss. At nearly six-centuries old myself, I could give a flying fuck less about how much more sullied my Soul became after my years fighting back the Dark. If the removal of a den of monsters or Nest of Daemon was an act of good towards the general populace, so too could the removal of the occassional monster from within their own midst; hiding like a Changeling of old in plain sight ready to feed upon the lifeforce of any hapless victim as was to weak to fight them off themselves. And with how terribly despondent most folks had become within Equestrian borders...they needed all of the help they could get, whether they knew it or not.

* * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Eight: Brewing Up Death...

Making a path back to the Laboratorium was a rather swift affair from the Baths as the underground passages beneath the School allowed for quick access back to the main stairs leading further underground. With evening slowly approaching, the light produced by the alcoved lanterns in the passages were beginning to glow brighter to compensate for the dying ambient light outside, and we approached the bottom landing of the stairway in amicable silence. Given the sheer value of all the various contents inside, the door to the Laboratorium was made of one solid-cast plate of steel sporting a small shuttered window in the upper center behind a mesh cage of sturdy steel bars. During active School hours, we would’ve been able to simply knock on the door (fairly hard of course) and speak with Paladin Thistle Briar, Chief Alchemist of the School, through the barred window to gain entry. The exterior was further studded by thick, ‘dead’ doornails made of a blue-green Dimeritium alloy to ward off any attempts to blast the door with magic, while the mighty locks lining near either door frame neither required, nor even used a physical key. As such, one needed to present their Medallion to the enchanted locks and have their Guardian reach out and touch them in order to unlock the door; something Violet saw to as the orange glow of her Fox Guardian manifested from her Medallion and batted each of the locks individually with a paw. With the locks storing a registry of which Medallions were currently active and valid, each one clunked loudly as the deadbolts were turned and unlatched from their armored housing in the doorframe, much like unto a vault safe being opened. As the last of them softly shuddered the door as they were unlatched, we each took a step back as the hefty object swung outwards to receive us; an acrid smell already in the air which stung the eyes somewhat and softly pricked at the nostrils. Someone was hard at work it seemed, and whatever it was did not seem to be going particularly well for them judging by the smell. Unless of course, it was an acidic compound they were working with/on, in which case that likely was the desired result, or at least close unto it.

The Laboratorium was more than one single, large hall as found in most other Schools, but rather a collection of smaller rooms all gathered around one massive central hall reminiscent of the Hall of Pools we had just come from. Some of these side rooms were closed off behind further reinforced doors for private and/or specialized use, while others remained open, acting as extensions of the main lab for extra workstations, equipment, or storage. A permanent portal, much like unto the smaller, temporary one cast by Vivian for the Table of Testament, hovered as a swirling vortex of black trimmed in orange at the peak of the vaulted ceiling. Tasked with the same purpose, it remained always active when the room was occupied to whisk away all foul fumes as might be produced by any harsh recipe or a brew gone particularly wrong. The spell gathered its strength from a colossal polished sapphire which was regularly charged with Arcane power and embedded into the ceiling as one with the stylized architecture around us. The hall itself was home to the most expansive (and expensive) Alchemy laboratory within a thousand leagues, save perhaps for whatever elaborate laboratory Her Royal Arsehole had secretly arranged in order to mutate her Witch Hunters using our methods. The finest glass-blowers amongst the Dragons had been given custom commissions to fabricate our exquisite borosilicate-crystal glassware in centuries past, and one would be hard-pressed to find some piece of expert-level equipment which we lacked for the craft. Of course, we had all the standard equipment any private lab or University would possess and many more besides; test tubes and boiling tubes, multiple types of flasks for storing, boiling and the titration of fluids, beakers, funnels, pipettes, condensers, extractors, burretes, graduated cylinders, alembics, and so much more. Of equipment, each work table came standard with a sizable crucible and a selection of cauldrons for brewing, a mortar and pestle of solid white marble, a small sectioned wooden chest storing all manner of metal and glass tools, a set of finely-tuned brass weights, and various stands, clasps, tubes, and other infrastructure as needed for the support and connection of up to dozens of pieces of glassware at once. And indeed, though most glassware had been cleaned and stored away in various cupboards from the day's work and lessons, one massive workstation still yet functioned on like nothing had happened; likely more than ready to burn the midnight oil judging by the scope of glassware present even this late into the day. Indeed, it seemed that half the Laboratorium’s entire inventory of equipment was currently being heavily used as part of some grand-scale experiment which comprised so many ingredients even my nose could not name them all.

“Who goes there?!” Called out a haughtily-accented mare's voice from behind a wall of dangling glass filled with colored, bubbling fluids. “Who disturbs my precious research past School operating hours??”

“Is that…?” Topaz groaned under her breath behind me before our suspicions were proven correct as Rosemary, the Sorceress Supreme herself, poked her head out from around her work with a look of fury in her gaunt face.

“You! How dare you enter here during my allotted time alone in the Laboratorium?” She scoffed towards Violet in particular, jabbing an accusatory hoof in her direction. “Whatever petty Alchemy you lot wish to perform with your mediocre talents shall have to wait until my work has come to full fruition! I have this space reserved until tomorrow's lessons begin and not a moment less! Begone with ye already!”

“Oi! Have some respect for your elders, Rosemary.” I huffed back at her indignantly. “I was brewing Potions and casting Signs before you were even conceived in the womb, so spare me thy prattle on this matter.”

Her silver, cat-like eyes narrowed somewhat upon catching sight of me tagging along behind Violet, who herself was absolutely dead-set on her objective which lay ahead. The Sorceress Supreme and I had yet to see eye-to-eye with one another on much of anything, yet she knew better than to parse specifics and bog us down with semantics over what I'd said. To the inexperienced, Thestrals were somewhat unnerving beings to stand in the presence of as their appearances were like that of a typical Equine, yet their bodies were gaunt and bony, with high cheekbones, sharply pointed chins, and an overall somewhat emaciated appearance that had them routinely be mistaken for being Vampiric in origin. Looking far more alive than any corpse however, Thestrals nonetheless appeared nigh-unto walking, talking skeletons that still yet possessed skin and some lean, yet surprisingly powerful, muscle mass. As the seeming nocturnal counterpart to the day-worshiping Highland Valkyrie, they too were possessed of a pair of wide, leathery wings which shared a similar appearance to that of a Dragon. Despite having them however, one could be forgiven for forgetting their existence entirely as few found regular use for them outside of their dedicated martial class. They also possessed such short fur that it blended with their natural dark blueish-purple skin coloration, making it seem that they were almost entirely devoid of hair. In stark contrast however, their tarnished silver manes and tails, always lusciously long and thick by comparison, often trailed along the floor if not held back. Their eyes likewise were usually the hue of polished silver or pale sapphire, though some could also be born with midnight blue or dark violet; their irises naturally cat-like like unto any Witcher due to living beneath deeply shaded woods with a more nocturnal lifestyle.

Rosemary herself, as per her esteemed position, was generously robed in an illustriously embroidered silken dress of plum and burgundy, complimented by an exquisite black lace around the neck and cuffs. Along with her voluptuous dress, which admittedly complimented her natural complexion, she also sported multiple kinds of enchanted jewelry at once; graceful earrings of silver and jade, multiple necklaces and bangles of gold and assorted gemstones, and a graceful enchanted diadem of moonstone and platinum in a place of prominence upon her narrow brow after the fashion of her people; an artifact imbued with Lunar power which allowed the wearer to walk beneath Sunlight unimpeded. Instead of continuing to overreact however, she coolly dropped her tone and seemingly tried to act as if our presence now meant nothing to her. Much unlike before, wherein she was ready to cast some mighty bolt of otherworldly lightning, or whatever other punishment she saw fit to inflict on any would-be intruders. It was far from a convincing display, yet if she was able to delude herself with her performance…we could have frankly cared less.

“Ah…well, at least one of you three are qualified to be in here after hours without Paladin Thistle’s supervision…” She sighed with an exaggerated roll of her eyes in contempt. “Very well…by what leave do you escort these…troublemaking fillies…?”

She was making her distaste for Violet and Topaz exceedingly apparent, with only the vaguest amount of begrudging respect held in reserve for me. Still, I refused to engage the testy Sorceress in any form of verbal sparring as all we needed was a quiet room far removed from her and her precious experiment. Whatever it was…

“By my own goddamned right as a Master of this guild, thank you very much…” I responded flatly, nodding towards the shut doors hiding one of the private work rooms. “Or need I remind you that the School hosts Masters of the Arcane as guests here and you are not officially counted as Instructors, but advisors in a paid capacity given our limited grasp of the Power. We only need one of the annex stations for what we're doing. Outside of collecting the glassware, we'll leave you and whatever it is you're working on well enough alone. I believe that should be fair enough for all of us, yes?”

“Humph…” She huffed again whilst glancing back towards her experiment. “Very well…but keep your voices down, dammit. If this alembic boils over because I had to deal with you lot I-”

“Will shut the fuck up, and deal with it like a big mare.” Violet groaned with a bored sigh. “Why don't you go and do that already, or that shite's going to boil over anyway. We'll leave you the fuck alone if you leave us alone. Deal? Deal, we're done here. Common, let's get going…”

A pale pallor slightly hit Rosemary's dark complexion and the vertical slits of her irises became pencil-thin slits of restrained anger, yet…she was able to somehow keep her cool in the moment. Rather, she promptly stomped away back towards her expansive workstation which was actually three separate stations all being occupied at once by her expansive undertaking. While any such experimental project as undertaken by one of the truly Arcane-gifted was surely to be a spectacle, I had little interest after she had seen fit to immediately ruin the mood with her behavior. All the same however, she kept her mouth shut (outside of muttered grumbles which were drowned out by the noise of her equipment) and allowed us to proceed in peace towards one of the closed rooms along the walls. I was also likewise grateful she failed to inquire after just what it was exactly the three of us were attempting to brew in private outside of School operating hours. While I might have been able to bluff our way out of direct suspicion for plotting someone's death with clever word-play, if she knew what lay sealed away inside my Alchemy satchel…

Of the six private workstation annexes, we opted to take one nearest the exit door and farthest away from Rosemary and her precious project. These smaller rooms acted as independent laboratories prearranged with a simple, yet extensive selection of glassware already in place attached to various clasps and retainers built off the ceiling and walls. Likewise, several brackets had been installed for the sole purpose of hanging various charts and diagrams for open display whilst working; small wooden stands likewise at the ready to hold open any tomes as might be required. From the moment we opened the door to our somewhat cramped space for three, a small version of the fume-extracting portal ignited from another polished sapphire set in the peak of the ceiling, whilst recessed crystal lighting sprang to life to greet us with soft white light. With the doorway directly behind us, the rest of the rectangular room was taken up by a set of tables beset by multiple small, tiered shelves which were already bulging with various bottles of prepared substances for our possible use; dried, fluid, gas, and solid alike. Shelving likewise cramped every available space on the walls as larger jars, flasks, and bottles occupied them all, including as well various tomes covering Alchemy in all its forms depending on the direct topic of study. This fine evening, however…we required something not stocked on the shelves as I retrieved the small, battered leather-bound book from a hidden pocket within the depths of my equally well-worn Alchemy satchel. Though rather tiny, and fairly unassuming like unto a humble traveler's book of prayers, it housed my own notes on the subject of brewing Venoms. The other Master Vipers likewise had their own private copies, each personalized to how each of us approached the art and typically written using Alchemical symbols to save on space. Any trained Alchemist would be able to glean much from these markings, yet the personal approach to notetaking would ensure a private code was developed which only the writer could translate. My own enjoyed using Dwemish and Dragon runes in the margins so as to further confuse any else who might read it and not be so readily familiar with their alphabets.

The broad strokes of the art of Venom brewing had already been shared with Kaer Solaris for the instruction of all present, student and alumni graduates alike. Though it had been one of our most dearly guarded secrets, the Cleansing had necessitated we all share what we could in order to improve everyone's odds of survival in this turbulent new era. Not only that, but the extra advantages provided by our collective exchange of knowledge were especially necessary for our poor, young Witchlings and exceptional Acolytes. Aside from the simple priceless value that can be placed upon the physical life a Sentient Soul, there had been countless hours and mountains of coin which had gone into all our respective training. We were living investments by our Schools who had been willing to take a chance on each and every one of us who came to their gates seeking training and glory. The quality of the education had hardly faltered nor failed our modern-day, under-mutated students...it was simply that we were unable to make them like we used to, as the saying goes. Try as these newer Witchlings might, they simply were not mutated to the same level as I and my fellows were. And thus…sadly…they tended to join the ranks of the Fallen far too soon. And that was to say nothing of the Acolytes who carried a silver sword and brandished a Pendant by their side. They could fight circles around the average career soldier and cleave many lesser monsters in two, yet they would most definitely struggle and perish against more major threats. And the general threat level across the world was notably on the rise, continuing a sharp upwards trend set by the day of the Cleansing. The Abyss had simply ramped up its efforts too goddamned much since the Cleansing and we were waging a losing war…

Once the door shut tightly closed behind us, the pair of them made their best effort to be as minor of nuisances as they could be whilst I, the most ‘qualified one’ as Rosemary had put it, set about getting all ready. Such a highly potent Voidkissed item was surely bound to bring all of us tantalizing results, no matter what projects I set about experimenting with after I had finished their Venom. In truth, the last time I had the opportunity to even handle such materials was a long, long time in the past when I’d even yet to activate my Medallion, nor even finished my studies as a Witchling on my way to graduation. Voidkissed items of all sorts were considered to be viable Alchemical ingredients if one could manage to grind it into a fine paste with reagents in a mortar and pestle. Not every item which was Voidkissed could be so prepared for Alchemical use (such as a weapon or or other object which were better left whole), however we were lucky that I carried with me something as could be so dried. With some very careful preparation of course. As I glanced over my small tome of Venoms, I was quickly reminded as to the complexity of the task these two had set to me so on-the-spot. Our private lab was well on its way to being adequate for a quick, if careful, concoction of Hangmare’s Venom for them. Typical Hangmare’s Oil was already a somewhat controversial topic of historical debate amongst the Council of Elders given it was exclusively brewed with the intent of inflicting extra harm upon Sentient beings; something already heavily frowned upon and punished harshly. Needless to say, the exceedingly more potent Venom incarnation would have been suicidal to offer to more students at large. As it stood, the recipe instead only occupied my notes and the Venom satchels of the other Vipers who could yet call themselves a Witcher. The Council of Elders knew we had them, knew we even brewed them on occasion...yet no punishments were doled out so long as the Venom was not used in a manner that was against guild regulations. Being exceedingly toxic and full of Dark energy, I withdrew the sealed crystal tube housing the Petals very gingerly from my satchel and placed it upon the table closest to me. Naturally…all our eyes were drawn as one to the tantalizing purple-pink Arcane glow emanating from the plant and flowers within.

“Damn…even the colored etchings don’t do that thing a lick o' justice…” Violet gasped softly as she gazed deeply into the entrancing glow. “Ploughin’ shame something so beautiful has to be so…evil.”

“Well, you cannot say the Petals themselves are evil as it is merely a plant and an ingredient in a NightShade’s creation to boot. No more capable of evil than the carbon, sulfur, nitrogen or any of the other elements which make up you or I.”

“Oh now you spare me the lecture, Frejdá…” She groaned loudly in the somewhat cramped stone room. “Still…I wish I could make that into some sort of light I could keep on a shelf or something…have some lovely ambient lighting come nightfall.”

“Hmm…you know, given the potency in even one of these Petals…that might not be the dumbest idea you’ve proposed yet, Violet. I’ll need to upgrade the canister containing what we don’t use tonight for something more long-term, and with stronger runes for such a display piece. Perhaps as a chandelier of sorts dangling from the ceiling so its light may better be cast about the room?”

“My, my! You’re taking ideas for decoration from me now are you?” She giggled something fierce. “Oh if only I had my own room…but no, I still have to share a room with Tope and four other smelly dumb arses… ”

“It isn’t my fault they still mandate a Heroic Hunt for passage of rank into Masterhood.” I chided back softly whilst doing my best to glance between my booklet and the many, many ingredients already on hoof. “Don’t forget, I took almost two whole centuries to even experience my own. Something that gave my Mentor conniptions as I was almost tied with the longest-standing perpetual Adepts in the entirety of our guild. At the time at least, heh…that was quite some time ago.”

“There she goes, reminding us just how old she is again.”

“And there you go trying to deflect the topic with snarky jests. All I'm saying is a Heroic Hunt can take centuries to manifest for some Witchers. And maybe never at all if Fate deems them the most unlucky of bastards to not have died on the Path already.”

“Ouch…you truly do not have to make it so personal, Frejdá…”

“I didn't, given I waited 187 years for my own and it just happened to be a small problem which only hid above a much bigger issue. Like a cascading avalanche caused by the toppling of a but few rocks at the peak...there was little indication that Hunt would be the one. Regardless, please let me have some time to prepare all this shite for you, alright? Unless you're purposely after making me waste a Petal on some elaborate private joke between you two...?”

“Fine…guess we deserve that… Don't let us keep you then.” Topaz laughed sheepishly whilst Violet rolled her eyes at me and stepped away towards the corner of the room in sulking silence.

With their yammering ceased, I set the specialized capsule containing the Petals upon a small rack to one side of the central table while I continued pulling out and preparing the necessary equipment. The wooden rack had been purposefully-built to the exact dimensions needed to hold these canisters for easy reach and access as other dangerous Alchemical specimens could be safely stored inside one until needed. Ultimately, the goal of all of this was the extraction of potent natural cardiac glycosides as found within native Digitalis plants found naturally in the wild or the stately grounds of a fine estate. Acting as a tremendous brake on the natural rhythm of the heart, digitoxin and digoxin could be used to induce artificial heart attacks in most beings that actually possessed such an organ. As a tool of assassination…one could scarcely ask for better, given the sheltering layers of plausible deniability associated with a naturally occurring medical emergency. Ever more so if the target in question was obese given heart disease was already a well-known taker of lives amongst the laziest of the world’s nobility. To use something like arsenic or cyanide in quantities sufficient enough to kill quickly would induce too many other symptoms which could be recognized and called out by a trained coroner as foul-play. To administer the same in smaller, less noticeable doses until they slowly succumbed would require extensive contact with the target which was simply unfeasible most of the time. Hangmare's Oil was a recipe most Witch Hunters knew all-too-well, and would know to recognize it by scent and sight. The far more deadly Hangmare's Venom recipe however, was unknown to all but myself and those few Vipers as were trained back in Kaer Nathair. And like unto the Specter Venom still residing in my satchel, only a miniscule amount would be needed to bring about the desired results on any given target. Given they had immediately seen fit to rush me onto an accelerated timetable, the end product they requested would hardly be of utmost premium quality…but it would be more than enough to put an end to another of Yonderland’s many bad apples hanging from high places. Once I had finished gathering the necessary ingredients/implements for the task, I took a moment and appraised the lot to see if anything was missing before we began brewing. For something such as this, I refused to use pre-made Oil like the two of them might have attempted as a short-cut to success. Rather, I intended to brew everything from scratch, take it through its maturation cycles till near its peak of base potency, then use that Superior Oil as the base for the Venom proper. It was going to be a long process…but I refused to deliver a half-arsed product, even if it were for an assassination.

“Hmm…filtered Canine tallow, Arenaria, raw Ursine fat, Han fiber, fool's parsley, mandrake root, high-grade Alchemy paste, Bloodmoss, an eye of a Nekker, green mold of the Aspergillus genus, arterial blood of a Devourer…ah, Quebrith. Cannot forget that… I would absolutely prefer that particular ingredient be as fresh as possible... Hel, I would take it all as fresh as possible if we so had the time…this isn't one of those things you wish to rush or produce with cheap ingredients.”

“Are you seriously brewing all this shite from scratch??” Violet whined in dismay, as if she had expected such perfection to be performed within the span of an hour. “We have provisions to prepare and alibis to conjure up! We don't have time to waste watching you all night!”

“Then you should not have pushed for something that requires expert-levels of skill and many days to brew properly. And who said you had to stand and observe the entire time? I am older than both of you combined so I think I am capable of brewing Potions alone and unsupervised. You do know that what you are asking for tonight would typically take three-to-four months to brew to peak efficacy, yes? And that isn't even to mention that timetable is for basic usage, let alone the aging process something like that deserves. I would spend week alone preparing each and every ingredient to be used with utmost efficiency, and then another full month to brew the Hangmare's Oil through its tiers of potency. And all that until it reached the height of clarity and potency before I even began thinking about using it as the base for a proper Venom like this. You are asking me to condense all that into a single evening, and even less than that besides. Just in case I have failed to mention this to you before, that is not a wise Daemon's tail to tickle with bravado.”

"You have, but I don't get why you can't just use a bottle of that prime Oil you're talking about and shortcut it. Surely you still have a stash of your own leftover, yes?"

"I do, yet I am intentionally choosing not to use it because I want to make you a fresh product, Violet! You expect me to use last winter's brew as a base for a fucking Shade Petal? I apologize my friend, but you are daft if you think I will use old Oil for something like this, no matter how well I produced it. I want to control every loose end that something like this could produce while they are tiny and more easily correctable. The potency won't be quite like what it could be if all its stages had the proper time to mature, but a fresh brew of every stage of the process would ensure less possible fuck-ups."

“Look...I get it, you're not getting an ideal deal here.” The purple former-royal pouted ever further. “Can you do this, or not? I'll just take a simple yes-or-no answer for this if you please.”

“Ugh…yes, I can do it, but I won't be proud of how it turns out. Even with the fresh preparation.”

“Will it kill the fucker? And I mean kill. Not wound, not hospitalize, kill.”

“Short answer, yes. But before you cut me off, let me at least warn you that rushing these steps can have any number of unforeseen consequences that can prove most nasty indeed. Even with my best precautions in place and an otherwise perfect brew, there's always going to be an unknown factor at play with something this Voidkissed. Even more so with the short turnaround time you're giving me.”

“That's all I needed to hear then, get to brewing and we'll leave you in peace to work away as you need to, to get rid of as many of those things as you can. That sound fair?”

“Hold up, Vi…what sort of consequences are you talking about? I’d rather be better informed on any potential problems that could arise. We should have a contingency for everything we can.”

“A wise proposal I would say, this is a Tier-1 Voidkissed item after all. As an item that can be infused into a living body with some assistance, that means it will have far wider reaching effects on the victim's biology which introduces its own tangled web of possibilities. With proper refinement and distillation, most of those scary, random effects can be removed, but I simply cannot make any sort of guarantees that none may occur with this one. Out of the list of things I'm aware of…the worst case scenario the Void enveloping the Soul of the victim from within and Warping their minds and bodies into something akin to a Daemon in power. Yet, at the same time, they are also rendered more mindless and violent than even the most crazed Feral in the wild, ready and most willing to kill anything caught nearby.”

“And the School of the Viper knows all this nasty information...how…?"

“Do you really think every science simply spawned into existence on the pages of tomes, charts and dissertations? Please, Violet…trial and error is the great revealer of hazards and triumphs alike in equal measure. Yet…failure tends to make a more ready appearance for most who experiment with the unknown, even if it reveals the flaws in our approach. In the case of my fellow Vipers…let's merely sum it up as some bad experimentation undertaken in the late second century, not too many decades after I survived the Changes. If you have ever seen an old map of Equestria from around that time, you might notice there's a little walled town called Mulberry Dale that used to be near the border of Āider and southwestern Equestria. That region used to be the Principality of...Marshy Meadows was it? Or...did they call themselves a Duchy...? I'll admit it has been quite awhile, but all the same, this town has not appeared on any official maps since around 201, perhaps 202 at the absolute latest. Given what I have already said regarding my School's earliest experimentations, I will let your minds fill-in the rest with everything else that goes without saying…”

“Oh my…” Topaz gasped softly before asking. “Was the victim a Sentient…?”

“Graciously, no. In fact, I cannot say with any certainty if there is record at all of a half-baked Hangmare's Venom using Shade Petals being used on anything, let alone a Sentient. Our Souls are different from Feral species for a reason, and we've all seen what the Abyss can do to mutilate one of our own. Tainting one with something Voidkissed is far from the only means we know to corrupt a Soul to Feral madness…but, it is by far the one with the most violent results that we know of. Picture Lycanthropy, but the victim is unaware they are cursed until it happens and the timing of the transformation is exceedingly sudden, without warning and absolutely everlasting after that moment. A Lycanthrope that immediately becomes an irreversible Feral Werewolf for a tortured eternity until a silver sword cuts them down. Whoever that person had been in life immediately vanishes forever, and an exceedingly rare type of artificial Daemon takes their place they called a 'Qlippoth', a sort of Husk-like shadow creature technically categorized as a 'Cursed' being. However, they are far more pissed off and unpredictable than even blood-mad Fleders, and capable of intense bouts of Dark magic they can and cannot control. Needless to say…I will do all in my power to ensure this brew comes with as few of those sorts of effects as I can manage…but, I refuse to offer any 100% guarantees on this. It is just simply not scientifically possible under the present circumstances and time constraints, I'm sorry.”

“Alright, that’s fine. I can work with that…" Violet muttered softly with a nod of acknowledgement. "We'll leave you alone then to work in peace. Will it be done by first light you think?”

“Gods will you just shut up already, Violet? What you’re asking for is a lot more than you usually do for these little jaunts of yours. I think by this point, I have the right as the brewer and owner of the crucial ingredient to demand some compensation for all of this.”

“What??” She asked incredulously as if I’d cut her at the hamstrings. “You’ve never asked for coin before, why now?”

“Hey, Vi…she’s got a point you know.” Topaz graciously came to my aid as a second voice of reason. “I think she’s right, it’s the least you could do for her. We asked her right at the start of the evening and we’re pushing a really fast timeline on her with little time to prepare.”

“Very little.” I emphasized earnestly. “What you’re asking for will take hours at the very least…I’ll miss the evening meal, midnight snack hour, and a good night’s sleep in my own bed I’ve paid a lot of good coin for. Let us also not forget you cut my warm relaxation in the Baths short as well. That is quite a lot for a mare to give up in one night in exchange for a simple ‘favor’.”

When Violet hesitated to respond, Topaz again came to my rescue by prodding her across the room and sighing, “Oh come on Vi…you told me yourself you’re in this business for the fame, not the money. The trust fund is still earning 15% bi-annually…it’s not like paying her an honest wage is gonna gouge us out of house and home anytime soon.”

“Ugh, fine…” She grunted before pawing around at her waist and retrieving her money purse which, given the sizable fortune they sat on in a secure bank in Keldagrim, was rather hefty to say the least.

“I don’t have a clue how much is in here, but it’s probably enough for whatever this job is worth. Hopefully you find some back-pay for some of my past bullshite in there too. I’ll just close my eyes, toss this your way and leave. Sound good?”

I glanced between her, the purse, and Topaz before shrugging my shoulders and nodding in response, finding her choice a bit of an overcorrection yet I wouldn’t dare say no to a sudden cash injection for honest work. Well…somewhat honest…from a certain point of view.

“I know better than to look at the proverbial gift in the covered basket, deal. As for when to expect it…I’ll do my best to be done by daybreak. Although, by then...I might be considering upping my fee some more if I am particularly haggard come the end of it.”

“If it allows me to kill that pompous sack of shit…” She sighed as she moved past, tossing the purse onto the table before me with a satisfying symphony of jingling. “I’ll double whatever’s in there and maybe some more besides. You enjoy beautiful jewelry like any Lowlander, right?”

“Oh...well, yes.” I admitted somewhat bashfully as I rarely wore any outside of my Medallion. “Though I am more partial to the actual jewels themselves, both rough and cut. The metal settings are nice as well, yet I find myself much more interested in them in an ingot form than a jewelry form to be honest.”

“That so? Have you ever considered you might be part Pygmy then? Hmm…well, I’ll let you take one or two things from my collection if all this goes well. I know that one with the fire opals always catches your eye.”

“Heh, you noticed my wandering gaze eh? Very well, this is sounding much fairer than it was before. As for having any Pygmy blood in me…I highly doubt that. My kind have always had a deep, fond love of gemstones right from the start. Mares and stallions alike will adorn themselves with many of them if they are able to afford them, or find stones as fit their tastes. Thestrals too are of a similar mindset and we trace our lineage back to them just as strongly as we do Highland Valkyrie, who themselves have a light obsession with gold and jewels. Regardless...I digress. I will try my best not to let you down with this brew, Vi. For all our sakes...the last thing we need is the bastard surviving the attempt and tripling the watch from here to Yonderland.”

She smiled as she raised a hoof to open the door leading out and replied, “You’ve come through every time before now, Frejdá. I’ll only start doubting you when you give me a damned few good reasons to stop being so trustful. I will see to the particulars regarding the actual application of your product, just leave it in the usual place when you're finished. Good luck, and I mean it. We’ll have someone send you down some food and drink too, it’s the least we can do for taking you from a good hot meal.”

“Send for some Mother’s Lacquer too while you’re at it.” I smirked softly. “And a jug of something to cut it with so I’m not brewing half-drunk.”

“How about we just send one of the serving staff and you can give them a list of what you’d like? As a Master, you’ve some right to that every now and again.”

“Indeed I am and indeed I do. However, given I took my own laundry down to the Servant’s Courtyard this morning, I don’t think I wish to bother one of them with something so petty as fetching me some food. I think you two are more than capable of doing it on your own, the young, big, strong mares that you are.”

Violet rolled her eyes again, saying nothing as she brushed past me and out of the small annex lab. Topaz gave a mouthed apology before tagging after her leaving me entirely alone at last. If…somewhat regretting my decision to help given my body now fully remembered the comfort of my own bed and subsequently craved it. Once the door shut fully closed behind them, I once again took stock of all my supplies and equipment as, once I started, I wouldn’t have many opportunities to dash away in order to find one small item or another. With the two of them no longer taking up space in my attention span or workspace, it soon became clear that the lab was severely lacking in the proper amount of Void Salts I would require. An unusual substance, and indeed heavily associated with the so-called ‘occult’ used to refer to anything Abyssal by the unlearned, it nevertheless was paramount to the safe handling and processing of Voidkissed items. Given these Salts were a dangerous Arcane substance in their own right, it took exceedingly advanced equipment to produce which even we didn’t possess at the School. Rather, was the purview of the Arcane University of Tir Ná Liá and their trained team of Arcane Alchemists who prepared many such items for us. Merchants supplied them regularly with the necessary base ingredients, whilst Witchers and Arcane users outside the Valley collected the needed magically-charged items and bartered with them at the University. Even in spite of the centuries of cooperation between the School and University, the former of which bringing in the coin needed to build the latter, the University remained eternally haughty and loathe to do business with the outside world. They needed us just as much as we needed them, and yet Thestrals seemed intent on remaining stubbornly unchanged since their beginning.

The cost for all these ingredients, amongst the literal hundreds of items we used in our Alchemy, was taken out of the School’s annual budget. Our current Chamberlain had ensured stability and even a return to some of the prosperity the Valley had once seen, yet if we could supplement ingredients ourselves with something fresh from the Gardens, or directly out of our own supply, we were strongly encouraged to do so. Of course, that was not always feasible as in the case of burgeoning students, or affordable for a cash-strapped Witcher in need of higher quality than a roadside campfire brewing session could provide. That said, a box for the deposit of cash donations towards ingredients used was posted right beside the door leading back to the Upper Courtyard. It was not necessarily mandatory, but with Paladin Thistle’s impeccable skills at inventory, most who failed to pay for their ingredients yet had the means to were quickly sniffed out via the rumor mill. With the hefty purse left behind by Violet, I felt some peace-of-mind in knowing I could comfortably afford the costs of all ingredients used; especially the Void Salts which easily cost an entire Crown and two Orens per-gram by themselves. I was easily going to be making use of at least a half-to-one full ounce of this Salt by the time I was finished. Given it was a rush job, a full ounce was the more likely estimate as I would need more of its mystical effects present to avoid complications during processing. Very few materials were at once Dark enough to easily interact with Voidkissed items, yet safe enough to handle using one's own magic for short durations. It was hardly a common ingredient in most Witcher's Alchemy, yet its niche uses were paramount to my endeavor if it were to proceed smoothly with little risk to myself or others around me. With all my more mundane ingredients all collected and ready in the wings to fulfill their purpose, it was time to depart in search of my more potent necessary items.

Closing the door to the lab behind me, my Guardian seeing fit to seal the lock to my signature, I emerged back into the central hall of the Laboratorium. Once again an acrid stench hit my nose and eyes as the Sorceress Supreme slaved away behind her mountain of glassware, heavy equipment, and metal implements. Graciously, she did not seem to notice me as I passed close by in search of the large cabinet made of pure Thestral crystal bound at the seams in silver with polished doors set upon hinges of pure gold. The tall, glass-like icy-blue object was used to safely store Alchemical agents which possessed particularly strong Arcane signatures which could be potentially damaging to any items around them. Sang into form by Thestral magic from a tiny crystal seed, the majestic storage device loomed somewhat over my head as I approached its opaque doors sealed by a large golden keyhole with fanciful engravings carved into it. During School hours, Paladin Thistle acted as the guardian of the enchanted crystal key, and keenly oversaw any and all items leaving this particular space. Of all the varying ingredients, solvents and other chemicals found in the Laboratorium, the contents of the crystal cabinet were considered the most precious and dangerous to use; their use carefully monitored and logged by extensive ledgers. After hours, those deemed qualified to work unsupervised (such as graduated Witchers and masters of the Arcane), could simply gain access via their Arcane signature which was resonated onto official School records for multiple similar uses. My Guardian was so kind as to tap the lock with its tail for me as I approached and the softly gleaming blue-white crystal doors swung open to welcome me with its bizarre contents. The bottles and flasks used by other substances in Potion brewing could be fairly fanciful in their own rights in order to help distinguish them more by sight. However, those housing potent Arcane substances almost always took further liberties with the craft: blurring the line between mere containers and decorative works of art with iconic distinction.

Little of the glasswork on the shelves before me had any true rhyme or reason to the flamboyant shapes they took. The aesthetics of the piece was often the sole purpose of the design rather than having any practical purpose; save of course a few truly exotic items which required particular shapes for proper containment. Amongst the mess, there were coiling, knitted tubes, sharp hollow barbs and rounded horns, fantastical bulbs and dimples, symbols of powerful magic or aspects of Nature pressed into the glass…there was creativity in leaps and bounds behind the minds which first blew these pieces into shape. Within lay items such as Aonian Butterflies, Miranda Power, Void Salts, Sanguine Maiden Hearts, Crimson Glowshrooms, Golem Cores, Warped Death Bell, Glow Dust, Lunar Shards, Solar Sand, Giant Angler Lures, Hespori Sap, Demonic Ashes, crushed Xelosani crystals, and so much else besides. With magic of all forms and persuasions positively dripping off the planet itself, there were many ingredients out there which were touched by Arcane forces. The strongest of these tended to be stored away in this special cabinet, either due to their danger of use, or the exceeding cost associated with the procurement of more. This evening however, all I needed was a large jar of Void Salts, a couple of sealed vacuum tubes of Warped Death Bells, several grams of Leshen Resin, four grams of Vyre Dust, a half fluid-ounce of Warped Basilisk Venom, and a sealed ampule of Dark Essence gathered from a Nightwraith slain at the height of the winter solstice. With an additional pause to stop and get another vial of Devourer blood, after quickly exiting out to the Gardens to acquire what fresh ingredients I could muster, I returned in silence back to my chosen laboratory ready to get to business.

My Petals gratefully sat safely still and untouched within the confines of the specialized container, its enchanting glow emanating from the corner to softly welcome me as I entered. The bulky money purse, weighing easily close to a kilo in precious metal, was tied at my waist alongside my own; the drawstring necessitating many more loops around my belt to hold fast compared to my own purse with its much lighter contents. The table now properly cleared, my Arcane-laced ingredients could finally be set safely down for preparation. When all was arranged in a logical order so I could work away on as minimal brain power as possible, a spark of Igni caught the enchanted coals of the assembled cauldron stand alight. The first step amongst many to follow was the preparation of the progressive series of Hangmare’s Oil forms so that I possessed a base of suitable quality for the Venom. This began with the simplest form of the Oil which only required an ounce of finely-rendered tallow from a Feral Canid species be slowly melted in a cauldron, along with half an ounce of Pygmy spirit with a high ethanol content. The tallow and suet of multiple Feral species could be utilized as quality bases for rendering any form of Blade Oil used in Witcher's work. They worked so well as the substance readily melted under heat, could blend seamlessly with multiple other ingredients, and still retained the correct viscosity to cling to one's weapon even whilst wildly swinging away at opponents. Once the fat had been set to melt at a low heat, a small bowl was filled with an ounce of extremely pungent Pygmy spirit. Following in after were five Arenaria blossoms, the flowers having been lightly bruised by the mortar and pestle immediately prior to being added to the potent liquor. All that remained was to sit and wait for the tallow to simmer and the flowers to soak and dissolve away. The spirit would fully absorb what chemicals I needed, whilst at the same time unlocking their full, lethal potential.

Whilst normally non-toxic on their own, Arenaria flowers contained a compound which, when exposed to the trace ingredients present in high-quality Pygmy herbal alcohols, became a lingering, mild poison in the veins. Given the toxins acted on organs shared between most Sentient species, it was effective against most anyone with enough wits about themselves to wield a sword against you. The time spent awaiting the flowers to entirely dissolve themselves in the alcohol gave me a chance to peel, dice and otherwise prepare what ingredients as would be immediately needed next. Though the base recipe had rather dull fangs compared to the highly toxic formulae utilized by proper assassins, it had been deemed sufficient enough against Sentient opponents. As the recipes had first been penned down in ages past, they had seen no changes to the ingredients listed or the process of preparing and brewing them ever since. The Oil had the benefit of being excessively hydrophobic with a long biological half-life, meaning a blade could be coated once and left that way for days afterwards without any loss in potency. As for leaving such an Oil on your blade for such a long period, that was an entirely different conversation, yet the efficacy of these blends were not to be underestimated. Of course…such a basic recipe was foalsplay, and the resulting brew was only typically given to Witchlings and Acolytes still in training. Sometimes though, it would be produced by a Witcher on an exceedingly tight budget caught with extreme need in the wildlands. Like any other Oil, the ingredients used were specific to the category of opponent one was facing; monster, Daemon, Feral or Sentient alike. Hangmare's Oil was only effective against fellow Sentients and thus was only applied to one's steel sword, being otherwise useless when applied to beings cut by silver. To have but one Oil be universal across all creatures was the dream...yet one as illusive to Alchemists as the so-called Philosopher's Stone. One grew quite used to rotating out which Oils and Potions were needed for each Hunt as it unfolded before them and was honestly part of the fun of preparation.

The bright, forest green Pygmy spirit turned a few shades darker by the time the last remnants of Arenaria had fully dissolved away in the shallow bowl. The tallow itself had been a creamy, off-white color whilst at room temperature, yet now had turned near-clear when melted down and readily accepted the green coloration of the other ingredients. Compared to what came later, producing the basic form of Hangmare's Oil was a rather quick process from start-to-finish. The initial recipes for most Blade Oils were intentionally kept short and required few steps or ingredients by design. After all, they were to be so simple that any student worth their salt could produce them in the wild with nothing but the raw ingredients, a campfire and anything bowl-like that could be heated without breaking or burning. If a Witcher couldn't scrounge up even those, or functionable facsimiles out of whatever was available to them, they could scarcely be fit to call themselves one of our number. There were entire semesters of wilderness survival lessons dedicated to applying those survival techniques to in-field Alchemy alone. Despite the quality and scope of equipment we were issued, we could never be guaranteed to have immediate or direct access to it all at all times during our lives. Grave injuries, capture, freak accidents, formal occasions where such equipment is not allowed, and various other means could ensure a Witcher was cut off from most of, if not everything, they grew to rely upon. Even our very blades could be stripped off us by calamity and misfortune, yet all the same we were expected to overcome the odds with the talents we had been taught and survive through to the bitter end. Unless of course multiple streaks of bad luck had rendered all of this utterly impossible for some reason…but that was rarely the case, even for Witchers constantly plagued by foul odds.

Once the softly simmering brew had turned a soft, clear forest green giving off curling fumes of a similar color did I suspend the cauldron some ways above the stand, making use of a built-in apparatus which could be locked in place. The so-called ‘Enhanced’ recipe for Hangmare’s Oil used the basic incarnation as a base, whilst a prepared paste of raw, unfiltered Ursine tallow, Han fiber, mandrake roots, fool’s parsley and yet more Arenaria was added into the cauldron one small scoop at a time. All the while, I stirred a small glass rod in long, slow circles around the cauldron with my magic, making sure to keep a steady pace so the added ingredients disseminated evenly throughout the mix. As the rod made its slow rotations around the circumference of the cauldron, and I made it towards the last of the paste in the mortar bowl, the concoction began to morph a shade noticeably darker than before. Likewise, the scent coming off the brew was beginning to make the eyes water and nostrils flare, if only faintly. It was a sure sign that the Oil had begun to render fully, and all ingredients had dissolved properly to impart their Alchemical effects into the viscous substance. Having achieved the desired hue of green, I proceeded to finish with the last ingredient necessary to qualify this Oil as an ‘Enhanced’ brew. Drop by drop, taking care not to think about the smell, the large, slimy Nekker eye was squeezed in the grip of my magic adding every last drop of natural fluids the organ had to offer. All the while, I continued to stir the cauldron and watched patiently as every rotation brought about an ever darker hue to the bubbling light emerald liquid. This step itself took well over five minutes as every last drop was squeezed from the desiccated organ before the remaining, mangled mass was mashed into a paste itself, along with several drops of pure ethanol as a solvent. Unlike the first added paste, this one could be dumped in all at once, but required a much faster mixing pace with the stirring rod to disseminate it more evenly. Almost immediately, the brew turned another shade darker, and the scent grew even harsher on the nose and eyes than before. Despite blinking a light film of tears out of my eyes, I smiled in satisfaction at a job well done. It had been a bit of a rushed job to be sure, but the Enhanced Oil had come to life most beautifully in the cauldron in the second major step in a four-step recipe.

Removing it once again from near-direct contact with the enchanted coals, this Oil had to simmer on a very low heat for a period of at least thirty-minutes. More than enough time for me to prepare for the third, ‘Superior’ version of the Hangmare's Oil recipe which was amongst the high-quality formulae used by learned Adepts and Masters alike. This step required the most (and highest quality of) ingredients, particularly when taking into account the fresh Quebrith I would be creating from scratch especially for this brew. Like with the Enhanced recipe, an emulsified paste of multiple ingredients suspended in a mostly inert, lipid-heavy viscous substance could be prepared ahead of time. Not all of those ingredients needed for Superior Oil would immediately be added to the paste but were rather needed at a later stage like the Nekker Eye. Immediately, I set to work scooping half an ounce of fine Alchemist's Paste into my freshly-cleaned mortar bowl, followed by two-to-three grams each of finely diced Bloodmoss, fool's parsley, and plaques of dense clusters of budding green mold spores. Into this, an eyedropper was used to apply a quarter-ounce of dark magenta arterial blood to the mix collected from a dangerous species of Necrophage called a Devourer; which itself was the superior variant of a typical Rotfiend. As a being of quasi-living carrion, found feasting anywhere there were easy corpses to eat, their blood was positively soaked with the essence of Death itself. From multiple noxious diseases and vile bodily fluids, to the inherently putrid and rancid nature of these corpse-beasts themselves, these killer traits thus made it perfect for use in a Blade Oil such as this. While again, nowhere like unto an assassin's poison, the purpose of Hangmare's Oil was to inflict toxins on any wounds as pierced or cut open mortal flesh. These were to ensure any shallow cuts that otherwise would have only been minor flesh wounds became a debilitating source of damage beneath their armor from within their own bodies. It was...not the most honorable form of combat and as such was reserved for dire situations where such an extra edge was necessary.

The vent overhead whisked away the majority of the noxious fumes and scents of my work, yet all the same I had to swallow a gag or two whilst adding in the horrific stink of the foul monster blood to the mix. When the paste beneath my pestle was beginning to turn blue with a sickly-green tinge, it was prepared enough to allow me to immediately turn my attention to the production of a small but powerful batch of Quebrith. Acting as a major catalyst for the Superior Oil in order for the necessary precipitates to form on the surface, Quebrith was the name given to a sulfur derivative used in many high-tier Alchemical formulae. The recipe used to produce it called for six ingredients; a paste formed from two-to-four grams each of Longrube and Puffball mushrooms, several Pingrape berries, some leaves of Nostrix, and a few blooms of Verbena flowers. Once properly emulsified like the other pastes, the recipe then called for an entire fluid ounce of White Gull to immediately be added, stirred thoroughly, and then heated until the mixture was free of absolutely all moisture. White Gull was an old Witcher's name for an intensively powerful blend of multiple high-quality spirits, typically steeped for months or even years with a diffuser of potent herbs; much like unto a traditional Absinthe, but with much stronger intoxicating effects when consumed. Whilst only drunk by Witchers, and those with exceedingly hardy livers who were intent on forgetting the past and present alike, when applied to Alchemy it acted as a premier base for the most pristine of Potions, and a beautiful solvent in all other cases. The mashed paste of other Quebrith ingredients dissolved readily in the noxious spirit, and after a minute or so of stirring, the pulpy mixture settled in the bowl ready for transfer to a crucible for heating.

Under normal circumstances, a rushed boiling off of the water/ethanol content could result in a less-than-stellar end product, however I knew how to guide the process along without any undue loss in quality. With the coals of the crucible furnace already set to a rough temperature of 105° Centigrade, the mixture swiftly came to a roiling boil within the fiery chamber. Keeping the door open so I could closely monitor the process, I watched as the liquid making a mire of the paste swiftly boiled off leaving a soft bluish-purple mass behind. The moment a dark black hue began to hit the substance, did I remove the crucible dish from the furnace with a pair of long tongs. Afterwards, I allowed it to cool for a short time on a stone stand built out of the workbench nearby the cauldron for observation. Once the substance stopped softly smoking did I promptly reignite it with a miniscule spark of Igni, burning it all thoroughly through until a thick, oxidized black crust formed atop. This crust was then gently picked away by a metal tool to reveal the dark golden crystals of the complex sulfuric compound underneath, a substance early Alchemists had dubbed ‘Quebrith’. After chipping away as much of the oxidized byproducts as I could muster with the tools available to me, a quick rinse with watered-down acetone, followed by distilled water and a quick firing in the crucible, ensured as pure a bed of bone-dry crystals as I could get. With a bit more work with my metal tools, the golden mass was chipped free from the ceramic bowl and into a freshly cleaned and dried mortar dish. From there it found itself repeatedly pulverized and ground into an exceedingly fine sparkling golden yellow powder which smelt strongly of sulphur's iconic spoilt eggs aroma.

With my fresh Quebrith now prepared, it was coming time for it to be added to the simmering cocktail of now almost two-dozen individual ingredients of varying levels of rarity and complexity. The purpose of the powdered Quebrith crystals was to react with trace pollutants within the Oil, and precipitate them on the surface in order to be skimmed off and discarded from the cauldron. Forming most of the impurities to be found in this stage of the concoction, these precipitates were the Alchemist's equivalent to the slag produced whilst smelting and refining raw ores for forging. Given all but a few Alchemical substances could be destroyed by a hot-enough flame, a small chute built under the desk, and triggered by a lever mechanism, was used for the disposal of all waste products. Like the contents vacating the lavatory plumbing, and unlucky assailants within the main gatehouse, these too were ushered down a carved channel down to the heart of the volcano to be buried in the molten heart of the planet. Almost immediately, the lack of those earlier pollutants brought a clear hue to the liquid which had been missing before, and the stinging, smarting feeling prickling at my face was the tell-tale sign I was looking for. Without warning however, a set of three solid thuds rang out through my door as someone attempted to get my attention for whatever reason. Graciously, I had nothing in my grasp at the time, else an ingredient surely would have been spilled or otherwise ungraciously disturbed. As quickly as I could, I disposed of the waste products from the reaction, wiped down my used equipment in ethanol, and suspended the cauldron far above the coals to keep the mixture warm and just barely simmering. With nothing further keeping me, I turned back towards the door and tugged aside the small shutter embedded in the window in the center of the door to address my visitor.

“Uh…occupied?” I said with more than a little confusion through the mesh of steel bars protecting the portal but spying no one outside.

“D-down here, M-Miss!”

Even with my height, I needed to balance upon the tips of my hooves in order to get the angle needed to see the top of the bright golden-furred ears crowning the head of Sorceress Rosemary’s personal Dwemess assistant. Rarely known to stand above a meter tall, the Dwem (or more properly, Dwemari) were the polar opposites to the Örn and had more in common with their equally-short-of-stature compatriots who dwelt below ground, the Pygmies. Preferring mostly the cozy comfort of elaborate underground Kingdoms over living in the open air, the Dwem mostly kept to themselves and their various Underkingdoms scattered about the Continent. Some like her dwelt above ground under the open sky unlike their kin for one reason or another, yet, like unto the Pygmy, their passion was for the bounties of the mountain roots. Being the largest exporters of exquisite gemstones, and known for their astounding mastery of delicate gold smithing, they all managed to do well-enough for themselves. They were quite friendly towards outsiders who gave them no pause for concern and welcomed all guests to sit and join them for food and a cup of a strong, bitter brew of theirs called 'qahwa'. Given she, like many of her people, was such a gentle Soul, I felt no hesitation in promptly opening the door for her so that we could converse far less awkwardly. It was simply rude to do anything otherwise for the little lady and her sense of dignity.

“Miss Habaara! A pleasant surprise, but I do not recall sending for you. Or…anyone for that matter. Is there something the matter?”

“N-No!” The diminutive Griffiness squeaked softly with a bashful hue to her golden cheeks, shuffling her short wings against her white-and-red School robes. “M-Masters Violet and Topaz requested I a-assist you with your endeavor t-this night if I am at all a-able.”

“Oh for the love of…Miss Habaara, I apologize for those two she-devil Adepts dragging your poor beak across the pavers for this. I am alright as I am tonight, I will find a way to compensate for the lengthy hours ahead of me, don’t you fret for a moment dear.”

“O-oh, that’s quite a-alright, Ma’am. Mistress Rosemary is in absolutely n-no immediate need of my assistance for her important work, so my time is f-free until she calls for me.” She replied with a small smile. “If I could make your e-evening here more pleasant, p-please give the word! You are near unto my Mistress so I-I will never be far away if you should so n-need.”

“Heh, well I thank you profusely for your generous offer. If you are to bring food down for your Mistress, could I perhaps request a portion be sent for myself as well?”

“B-but of course! I would be most pleased to be of assistance to you, Master Frejdá! I-if I may so inquire…how long do you intend to tarry down here with us in the Laboratorium?”

“Well, the next couple steps in my process are going to take up the rest of the evening easily. There will be a couple hours here and there where I will be able to leave it to simmer for stretches of time unattended, but that will not be for some time yet. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just sheer c-curiosity is all, heh. I was going to s-suggest I fetch a t-tome or two from the Grand Library for you in o-order to keep you company through your journey, if you so w-wished.”

“Well that is exceedingly kind of you to suggest, my dear! I suppose I would be unable to say no if you happened to bring by a copy of Of The Void: Kissed By the Abyss by Lord Antonius Dupé...?”

She cocked her head inquisitively at that and I immediately recognized that a studious reader such as her would recognize a memorable title like that, and could possibly make inferences as to what I was doing. Or, more likely, be able to hazard a proper guess as to the contents of the sealed crystal container just out of her view. It was easy to forget such a gentle person was in the employ of a gossip-worshiping Sorceress who was known to use such knowledge to her advantage. A field of traps had suddenly spawned into being in our otherwise pleasant exchange, it was just unfortunate that she of all gentle people was tasked as an underling to such a pretentious bitch.

“I-interesting choice of reading for an e-evening of Potion brewing.” She laughed nervously which only prickled my apprehension further. “W-well, I’m sure I can s-scrounge that one up for you! Is there anything else you m-m-may be needing this evening, M-Ma-am?”

She was usually of a fairly nervous deposition, but even this was a bit much for her normal realm of behavior. Indeed, I questioned how such a soft Soul such as hers could withstand the overwhelming, commanding presence of her Mistress. All the same, I did my best to play it cool and find a natural way to end the conversation without being abrupt or rude to the little Dwemess. The field had been set and now I was to dance my way as far away from it as I could without catching her attention, or worse, insulting her in some way through my haste to retreat.

“No, heh.” I replied with a hint of sheepishness in my voice, though there was some kind of…hopeful gleam to her eyes for a moment as I spoke. “I think the meal and book are more than enough to ask of you, dear Habaara. Thank you most graciously for your offer of assistance!”

She squeaked again softly and gave a deep curtsy in response, doing her best to hide her glowing pink cheeks from view as she replied, “T-think nothing of it! Mistress Rosemary keeps my leash s-short, yet has no present use for m-me. I…find myself r-rather miserable when left without a task which needs d-doing. I thank you for g-giving me some extra purpose this e-evening, Ma’am.”

“The pleasure is mine, heh.” I smiled back at her, causing her to stumble back a tad over her rear paws and blush even harder. “Though I best not tug on your leash too hard lest Rosemary have a pressing need you are unable to immediately attend to as is her wont.”

“Y-yes! That…that would be most w-wise!” She giggled nervously as she glanced over her shoulder towards the mare in question who had yet to make another fiery appearance. “I will return with y-your requests post-haste!”

I gave her my best curtsy in response as well as in recognition of her willingness to serve, even if I wondered in the back of my mind if she were sent here to try and covertly spy upon my brewing process on the behalf of her Mistress. She then took her hurried leave, moving immediately towards the Laboratorium exit as the evening meal was likely already beginning. Regardless of whatever Rosemary had said as to leaving us (me) alone to our Alchemy needs, it would have been highly out of character indeed if she weren’t at least some level of nosy. Truly, Rosemary almost thrived off the juiciest bits of intel she could pluck from the whispering grape vines infesting the School, and the Valley at large. To use her poor, dutiful little assistant for such espionage would hardly be beneath her, and I prayed that she wouldn’t dig too deeply after the subject found in the particular tome I had requested… As if I hadn’t laid it out clearly enough already that I was needing a sudden refresher by the leading (authored) authority on the subject of Voidkissed items. Of course, I could hope for a chance at bluffing my way out of the situation through clever word-play…yet, if she was already cued in, it would be next to impossible to conceal much of anything from her. If anything, I felt terribly sorry for the little Dwemess for being caught amidst the spider’s web of intrigue surrounding her Mistress and her conniving ways. All the same, hushed words beseeching the Gods for mercy from Rosemary's curious ears formed in my breast as I peered across the otherwise-empty Laboratorium towards our Sorceress Supreme. Her fortress of Alchemy was yet unbroken and trickled its various colored fluids down many coiling tubes as some grand process beyond my understanding took shape. Despite my inability to understand her project however, that would hardly stop her from piecing together what my own was all about were she to learn enough details. Only time would truly tell if she would find the time to do so before too long.

* * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Nine:...All Through the Night

I would be a liar if I said the curve of Habaara's ass failed to catch my eye beneath her School robes. It was far too hard not to pause a moment longer than necessary to stare before I returned to my small laboratory and sealed the door back shut behind me. Barring myself against any possible further incursions by our nosy Sorceress Supreme was my only immediate priority, followed immediately by attending to my brew. With the Superior Oil now properly brewed to full perfection, all I had left was the careful task of extracting what killer compounds I needed from a Shade Petal. That, and slowly adding those extra ingredients I had gathered from the crystal cabinet in order to render out the potent Venom in its fullness. Given Habaara would be returning before too long with food, drink and a hefty book, I decided to sit and await her return whilst going over what information I had on Hangmare’s Venom. Despite the recipe penned amongst my very own notes on the subject, Hangmare’s Venom was an exceedingly rare Oil variant to find in any Viper’s satchel for the very same reasons alluded to previously. Given our steel blades were only to be drawn in self-defense, or in the defense of innocents in grave immediate danger, it was simply seen as being in exceedingly poor taste. Our reputation was nowhere near as befouled as that of the School of the Cat, yet the term ‘Viper’ had done little to inspire any more confidence in our kind.

In a tale as old as time, a few rotted apples had gone and spoiled the entire harvest through selfish, short-sighted decisions at times when too many watchful eyes and wealthy purses were all-too-keenly aware. Treacherous snakes with their Fangs of toxic Venom…slitting the throat of King Mindaak and poisoning his royal court that lay in rest nearby for fifty-five Crowns a head. Their Contract, to the surprise of few, originated from none other than the King’s own princely son who sought the throne, and his inheritance, far sooner than was planned. Of course, his patricidal plot would come to naught as word of the true events spread far and wide, and the Prince found his neck lengthened by a bit of rope and the castle’s stoutest elm tree. In the chaos that followed, the region was gobbled up by an ever-expansionist Equestria who moved themselves right in and paved over the old Kingdom’s memory within a few decades. Much like unto the Kingdom, now Duchy, of Āider during its own unofficial annexation into the clutches of Her Highness. Indeed, a new Duchy, that of the Crescent Coast , was erected in its stead with Canterlot overseeing the installment of a loyal, noble family to rule over their new province. Another Yonderland in the making, granted the expansive shipping port they owned which saw them do trade up and down the west coast of the Continent as free Equestrian citizens.

The murderous bastards were intercepted, praise the Gods, by a crack team of the Council of Elders own detachment of ultra-loyal Grandmasters granted license to Hunt those of our own who wandered too far astray of the Witcher’s Path. Referred to by the honorific title of Justiciar, these enigmatic ‘Hunters of Witchers’ as they were, were the most feared members of the entirety of the guild. From whence they operated, not a Soul outside the Council knew as none of their order actively dwelled amongst us from what I knew; likely as an intended measure to further emotionally distance themselves from any friends that could one day follow a path of darkness. They dressed like us, fought like us (if to a wholly new degree), and knew all of our secrets…yet they walked a wholly different Path to ours, wearing a small placard on their chest bearing the insignia of the blood-red paw print of a Wolf. I had only seen a copy of their badge denoting the singular purpose it represented...but that was only in tomes and etchings. I had yet to meet a Justiciar in person, which...was a good thing in the end. I adhered to our Path as faithfully as I could every year. Far as I knew, I was of no interest to them and their hunt for wayward Witchers. Whether they still existed, or if the Justiciars had been dissolved in the wake of the Cleansing…I personally hadn’t a clue. Whispers of them hissed their misinformed secrets in the Barracks amongst the younger blood; the Justiciars acting as a Witcher or Witchling's greatest fear amidst a hurricane of other horrible fates our guild was privy to. After fifty-five years, it felt like those of us willing to join Celestia's delusions of grandeur had already long ago done so, making their intentions to betray us and the Eldar quite clear with acts of violence or furious words bellowed in anger. Those who remained were dedicated to our duty and our way of life, whether they were a new burgeoning student of the Bastion, a fully-fledged Witcher wandering the path, a Guardsmare standing watch over the Valley, or a humble citizen of the Solar Valley we cherished both heart and Soul. Hardly targets worthy of a Justiciar's heavy hooves of grim justice.

In regards to the Great Betrayal of the School of the Cat, also known to some as The Anathema, a fair few of their traitorous members were indeed caught and put to the sword by their hooves. However...so much secrecy had grown around and amongst the Cats so that it became near-impossible to distinguish from the outside those still faithful to the Path from those who wildly strayed. When the Council and Archmaster Grimpaw fell into open disagreement is the moment they began to isolate themselves from the other Schools, if only to distance themselves from the scorn of the rest of us. And while the overt killer could be adequately ousted from amongst them with enough investigative evidence, the Justiciars were typically just as in the dark as the rest of us were as to their inner dealings. Attempts had been made to infiltrate their own self-made Council, yet these efforts rarely succeeded as they would exile or execute those of their number who held the faintest whiff of doubt regarding the School's direction. The Class-4 Contract became their bread and butter, a constant source of high income which allowed the Cats to expand their number of minor fortresses tremendously without any need of the Kaer Solaris Treasury. If these Hunters of Witchers still yet roamed Terra Firma, it was all I could hope that they sought out each and every last former Cat as still breathed another cursed breath. If anything, I would have been more than honored to produce a Hangmare's Venom for them as well for just that purpose if they so asked. No one knew precisely how many Cats had chosen to abandon the Path, nor how many yet lived as none but they mourned the loss of one of their number… My trailing thoughts must have seen me through quite a spell as in no time at all, my door was once more given three gentle knocks so as to rouse my attention.

“H-here we are, Master Frejdá!” Habaara beamed proudly as she expertly balanced herself upon her hind legs, further balancing plates of food in her talons and upon her outstretched wings. “D-dinner of roast m-mountain goat, rye b-bread, Koviri cheese, and roast p-potatoes! I-I knew not as to which beverage you p-preferred, so I took a flagon of ale and pale cider just to b-be sure.”

Seemingly very well-aware of the massive appetites Witchers possessed, the two wide platters in her talons were piled very heartily with the food she'd just listed; her pinky talons curled around the handle of one sealed flagon each. The two other plates, those balanced rather expertly upon her wings and meant for Rosemary, bore mostly fruit, bread, cheese and just a little spot of roasted meat. Meanwhile, the whole ensemble was to be washed down with what I assumed to be a small, decorative bottle of Highland Valkyrie Hurricane Gin with their famous Alpine Juniper. It was known as the preferred beverage for Thestrals seeking a drink with much more fire behind it than their silky-smooth elderberry moonshine possessed; the wax-sealed cork poking out from under the flap of one of the satchels by Habaara's curvy waist. I was more than grateful at her kind thought as to the difference in appetite between Rosemary and myself, and thanked her profusely for her thoughtfulness as I took the platters from her with a wide smile. She became flustered again at that, and almost timidly offered up the tome I'd requested once her talons were free to retrieve it from her other satchel. This too I took with many gracious words of thanks before she took her leave once more to return to her Mistress’s beck-and-call. Of course, the poor little Dwemess failed to leave without yet another nervous blush of crimson to her golden cheeks as her baby blue eyes gleamed softly with that same, curious hopefulness I'd spied earlier. Whatever was the cause, I was still all the more wary of the thoughts and opinions of the mare who so ordered her about. Rosemary would undoubtedly go into conniptions if she learned of the Petals, let alone the Venom and whom it was intended for. How would I handle it all if she were to learn of my own project…? I hadn’t a single clue… All the same, I had been assigned (and actually paid for) an Alchemist’s job and I had no further excuse keeping me from the task ahead. All was ready to proceed, except my willpower. Rosemary be damned, I had a purse of beautiful shiny coins to earn and earn it in full I most certainly would.

Setting my evening meal upon a nearby middling shelf cleared of clutter, I at last turned my attention upon the Arcane ingredients I had brought from the cabinet. The first and most important step ahead was the preparatory phases of the Venom, wherein each of the special items would be individually prepared by various means before being added to the brew in stages. Wherein Oils could be brewed within minutes-to-hours with the proper equipment and quality ingredients, Venoms could be seen much in the same light as brewing fine alcohols, requiring months or even years of careful aging through finite corrections until the perfect concoction had been achieved in the cauldron. Venoms such as those were of the most premium quality, and indeed could fetch lucrative prices between Witchers as the skill and patience needed to perfect the art always resulted in money well-spent. The broader art of brewing Venoms was no longer exclusive to myself and my fellow Vipers, yet few had learned to produce them as well, nor as efficiently, given the additional steps required. There were shortcuts through these long, excruciating wait periods which neither of them knew how to perform, let alone properly. And even then, I had clearly told them as best I could…art was not something to be rushed, nor forced if it was to come out looking any good. I could render out the requested Venom over the course of the night, yet I was absolutely mandated by the recipe to be at my best attention for large stretches of time. There would be some pauses in order to leave for some periods of time, yet whenever the recipe demanded it, I was to be entirely devoted to the altar of Alchemy.

I had already brewed similar Venoms in the past, acting as hefty favors for friends on the Path, and produced in massive batches so I could fulfill all possible requests with one large effort; preferably over the course of our winter’s rest before the first thaws. However, again, none of these had been Hangmare's Venom. I had grown accustomed to brewing up batches of Beast, Necrophage, Specter, Hybrid, Ogrid, Elementa, and even Vampire, Vyre, and Relict Oils, only to transform them into their respective Venoms for my fellow Witchers. But to brew up a Venom exclusively for an assassination enacted by a personal vendetta by Violet against the Yonderlandian royal family…? It was dangerous indeed to be brewing this using the School’s own elite equipment, yet the intended Venom was similarly intended to be as blame-free as conceivably possible. The target, with a miniscule pinprick to the flesh or a drop in their food, would theoretically find themselves the victim of a rather sudden, yet exceedingly convincing natural heart attack. The time between envenomation and the enactment of its deadly effects was…entirely random as far as I knew. Many factors were thought to have a part to play in the time of effect from general metabolism to their overall state of physical health. In light of the absolutely immoral headspace of research it put one in, little hard science was in writ on the exact effects of a Hangmare’s Venom such as this. Some existed, yet it was ancient by the metric of our guild’s existence, from a time rather early in the Viper School’s tenure when experimentation was the only path to knowledge and our recipe tomes were being transcribed. There was a damned good reason these particular studies were put to rest so early on in our School’s existence… Putting these nagging thoughts from my mind, I filled my grumbling belly with some delicious meat and potatoes before settling into my workstation for the next push in the whole process.

Here, I was prompted to break the sealed glass ampoules containing the Warped Deathbells which formed a foundation for multiple companion ingredients which used it as a foundation. The large deep purple blossoms, much alike in general appearance to massive hop umbels, were already natively packed with a multitude of toxins with debilitating effects if consumed constituting a mainstay ingredient in most poisons of any quality. Warped via close contact to Abyssal energies, yet not to the degree so as to be Voidkissed, these Deathbells were now a darker, mottled royal purple; enwreathed in a similarly purple glowing haze of enchanted pollen. Were I not preparing these ingredients as a Witcher with telekinesis under a fume vortex, gloves and a specialized breathing mask capable of handling the pollen would have been absolutely necessary. Each flower was then carefully cut and peeled apart, first by separating the many layers of overlapping rings of petals from one another, then by cutting each individual petal apart via use of a sharpened sterling silver knife. Afterwards, an amalgam of naturally occurring (if exceedingly rare) imbued arquerite was heated with specialized Arcane flame until the mercury content melted away from the silver half of the amalgam, forming a shallow pool above a dense pocket of half-molten silver. Some light skimming needed to be performed to remove what impurities had begun to be 'sweated' out of the arquerite ore, leaving behind a clean pool of quicksilver in the dish. A polished mass of silver which mesmerized many of my kin for countless centuries untold in both this Age, as well as the one which came long before.

Indeed, I typically found myself helpless when the urge to peer down at its mirrored surface struck me and I smirked softly upon seeing one of my dark violet eyes reflected within. The urge to have a mirror entirely of such a lustrous liquid metal was something to be found in Lowland Valkyrie and Thestral blood alike as basins of it could be found between both our peoples in places of worship for the Moon. They would only be filled with quicksilver during nights wherein the face of our glorious Moon would reveal itself to us here below and grace us with its Light. Come daylight, they would be replaced by fonts of water sprinkled lightly by a decorative dusting of powdered gold and silver so as to beautify our primarily nocturnal temples and shrines. We paid homage to the Mother of the Sun like unto any other Eldar Race, with some of my kin having learned even to tolerate the Light of Celestia's Sun...yet it simply was not the celestial body which held us most in sway. Dangerous and killer as mercury fumes were, there was a majesty to it when Moonlight was captured on its surface. And on Solstices and Equinoxes, it would be imbued and blessed with remnants of Mother Tsuki's power causing the substance to glow and shine from within. Once thusly blessed, it was to be used in the Ceremony of Youth to baptize the Night Maidens of the Cathedrals of Stars, our emissaries with the Cosmic Divine. Gods...how many centuries had it been since my last viewing of those sacred, ancient rites...? Three? Four...? Long enough for the memory to have faded in quality in the back of my mind amongst other similarly hazy memories of my long-distant youth.

The same mercury mirror as sent my thoughts spinning readily gobbled down the individual petals I fed into the rather small amount of hot, liquid metal simmering in the crucible. One by one the small pieces of fragrant flower fluttered from my magical grip above the dish, only to sizzle and hiss something fierce as they made contact with the pool below. As each petal reacted with the already naturally Arcane quicksilver, all organic compounds were destroyed in the molten heat whilst the dense, toxic compounds I needed sank below the layer of mercury. Due to their Warped nature, they were resilient enough to be spared from destruction in the heat of the fire and instead survived to mingle itself with the silver. The high silver content below neutralized what Dark energies emanated from these molecules like unto a barrage of antibodies against an infectious agent in the bloodstream. Yet, as it was not Lunar Silver, it did not fully denature the enchanted toxins. Rather, it put them into a form of light hibernation which would allow other Dark compounds to react with it without risking a Blackout, a sudden surge in Abyssal energies which were known for flash-mutating Ferals and Sentients alike into monsters and Daemon-like Husks. I shuddered anytime I even had to imagine such creatures as Husks...Soulless beings held to an unnatural undeath which sustained their forms to the last. Their mind-piercing shrieks of anguish would only fall to perfect silence upon the last molecule of its wretched being being consumed by exceedingly hot flames.

Of course, such a thing as Blackout mutations were hardly a terrible concern to a Witcher, let alone one with a sturdy Soul within her breast and a devoted Guardian resting not much farther away. There were ways to further mutate a Witcher, yet the Trial of the Grasses and the Trial of Dreams ensured our bodies, minds and genetic codes were forged from crucible steel. Any additional mutations were things we had to seek out for ourselves at our own risk and coin with very, very few professionals qualified or brave enough to attempt it Facing such potent Darkness was exactly what we had been reborn by the Changes for, unlike the average mare or stallion of science who, while strong of mind, were not typically strong of body or genetic resilience. One could not ignore the occasional story which surfaced regarding daring Alchemists biting off more than they could chew when studying Abyssal substances. Such things happened amongst every Sentient race on the planet as far as I was aware as great minds wondered after the confounding mysteries of the Abyss. The Church of the Eternal Pyre and Witch Hunters alike had both seen fit that such a thing almost never occurred under their strict supervision of all subjects which dealt in the Arcane. Indeed...many Alchemists, Herbalists and other reputable professions familiar with the natural and Arcane worlds have faced exile and even execution for their knowledge and possession of so-called 'foreign methods'. Equestria had its own approach to magic, Alchemy, religion and what constituted 'proper thought and behavior'. Anyone, even Celestia herself were she so blasphemous, would be subject to the judicial rights of the Church were they to be found engaging in anything other than that which they had deemed permissible.

As the highly targeted Arcane heat boiled off the mercury content, which was gathered in a cooled condenser above for cleaning and reuse, what was left behind was a small lump of silver with a purple iridescent gleam. This new substance likewise ever-so-softly glowed with that same dark violet energy I needed as part of the melody of toxic compounds at play in this Venom in the making. Once the contents were cooled and transferred to a high-necked flask, the silver content was allowed to fully dissolve in a bath of lightly heated Aqua Fortis, or acid of nitre as some scholars referred to it as. The process was rather slow given I was attempting to liquify a near-solid ounce of pure silver rather than a more-readily dissolved powder of some sort. All the same however, eventually the acid bath began to eat away at the silver in a very visually impressive chemical reaction. This somewhat violent reaction produced a dense, noxious orange-brown gas which smoked forth vibrantly from the flask and graciously into the waiting vortex above, transporting it somewhere safely far beyond the Valley. This process required constant attention as a cook with their most-prized stew, and I watched carefully whilst balancing the speed of the reaction with the production of nitre precipitates in an aqueous solution. Using such a large piece of silver was far from ideal, yet I was facing a battle against time down any path I took and this one required fewer steps. I was already set to perform even more grinding work with the mortar and pestle before the night was out and powdering silver by hoof was no quick task. I had the requisite quern stone somewhere in a tool cupboard nearby with which to grind my imbued silver...but such a manual task was hardly something I wished to waste any time on.

The Aqua Fortis, on its own as clear as spring water, began to quickly to brown as the silver dissolved in the acidic solution, bubbling heartily as it did so. Constant stirring via a glass rod was required in order to properly distribute the silver particles throughout the solution. Indeed, my attempts at stirring was to continually coat all surface area with acid so as to speed up the process for convenience sake. My own impatience saw the addition of further small doses of fresh Aqua Regis to the mix in the continued pursuit of speed, at the expense of some of the quality it would have otherwise had. Once the reaction had fully run its course, the silver, and its accompanying Arcane toxins, had been successfully infused into the Aqua Fortis itself. Even before my very eyes it was beginning to form a new substance within the aqueous solution. The resulting fluid, which had been a dark, orange-brown during the reaction, had since turned back towards crystal-clear once more although this time sporting a decidedly purple note to it. Even as I lifted the flask from off the table and swirled the solution around, noticeable precipitates began to form on the bottom forming a rapidly expanding crystalline lattice. This was ample sign for me to slowly submerge the flask in a cool bath of water and bring down its temperature as gradually as my timetable would allow. As the solution gently cooled down from the heat of its own reaction, the normally pure-white precipitates were beginning to turn into purplish-white crystals along the bottom of the flask. Once they began to form, the reaction was just as unstoppable as the first, and soon the majority of the clear flask was filled with softly glowing violet crystals of silver nitre. Some liquid yet remained, but overall I was left with a great mass of crystals.

Unfortunately, the process was still not done as I needed to then quickly douse the mixture in an ice bath which froze the crystals I needed. What remaining water could be skimmed off was, and a careful application of extremely-low heat and an increased air current from the vortex above allowed the crystals to evaporate the rest of their water content away. At the same time, I used my magic to shut off the crystalline lights of the laboratory temporarily as the violet silver nitre was known to lose its potency that way. In fact, I found the wait far from tedious as the lack of ambient white light allowed the purple glow I had imbued into it to truly shine as it were. Such freshly made nitre...it was a dazzling sight for the eyes to behold and frankly rather enchanting like unto the unnatural glow of Shade Petals. Finally, what remained at the end of all this work were pure, unadulterated violet crystals of silver nitre infused with hibernating, Dark toxins from Warped Death Bells. I was certainly aware that some of this powder existed already in tiny vials within the cabinet from whence the Death Bells themselves had originated. And yet, as in all else, I was seeking the freshest items I could obtain or produce seeing as I had the means and the equipment necessary. The sheer speed of my brewing process was to be compensated for by the highest quality ingredients I could muster up. With the sizable resources at my current disposal, even with an obnoxiously nosy Sorceress Supreme nearby, I was privy to Alchemical luxuries I could scarcely find anywhere else.

With the violet silver nitre now prepared, the comparably far easier second, and third ingredients could now be prepared before the brewing process truly resumed once more. The reddish-orange Leshen Resin contained within the small tin had been somewhat recently gathered from the border near the Thestrals and the Kingdom of Misthalin, likely somewhere near the Bitter Fens which were in that general region. These undoubtedly Sentient creatures were not inherently evil in-and-of themselves, and much like unto Changelings, Higher Vampires, Succubae, and other Daemons as had higher Sentience, they only wished to be left alone to what they considered theirs. In the case of Leshens, that included all manner of ancient woodland soil as they could spread their rootlike limbs into. Their presence was somewhat of a boon to the local flora and fauna as these ancient guardian spirits of nature deeply cared for the woods in which they chose to dwell. However, they are amongst the most fiercely territorial of creatures and, lacking the ability for communication, enacted a policy of treating all Sentients as hostiles if they happened upon its territory. Thus, they unfortunately, and inevitably, found themselves regularly at odds with Equestrians who sought to clear woodlands for development, and other Eldar as hated being assaulted in their own woods.

For my purposes however, the thick oily Resin which oozed from their ‘corporeal flesh’ of bark, wood and animal bones was saturated with their unique essence. While more-than-likely not at all affiliated with the Abyss prior to being brought from wherever their home world had once been, they had unfortunately experienced a Warping of their own, having grown wilder and darker in mood and response to territorial intrusion. As a result, it was becoming more and more common to hear tales of Leshens taking over old dark forests that’d yet to be touched by civilization. The topic of nature spirits and their ilk was one of the more contentious ones amongst Bestiary scholars as they were as much a blessing as they could be a curse to whatever lands they affected. One the one hoof, the world immediately around them would grow lush and strong under their care, yet on the other hoof...the world around them would inevitably grow more wild itself. Darkness had touched them deeply, in such a way so as to ensure we had yet to meet a 'friendly' Leshen. The elder ones were known to extend their powerful blessing of enrichment and fertility to tiny Sentient villages which lived neat their woods and respected its master. Yet, the younger ones which were far more plentiful by comparison to their ancient peers were not so capable of mutualism. Instead, they were much more interested in the violent removal of potential threats. Much like the tallow used in the previous stages of brewing the Oil, the Leshen Resin was to act as a substrate for other powerful ingredients. In this case, it was one particular item that otherwise seemingly did not enjoy being used as some mere casual ingredient that could be dusted into a cauldron like any other powder.

Lightly tinged by the madness of the Abyss as it was, this tar-like substance made it the perfect binding agent for the next agent required which was Vyre Dust. To the uninitiated, the difference between a Vyre and a Vampire was unimportant as both categories of Daemon voraciously fed on blood, yet in multiple ways were they different from one another. Vampires by definition in our Bestiaries were unable to turn other beings into Vampires like themselves via a contaminated bite. Rather, reproduction was in fact still possible for them via traditional sexual intercourse between male and female Vampires. Though many Vampire-category beasts were of questionable levels of intelligence, all remained quite clever by Sentient standards...and all the more deadly for that fact. To feast on blood for the so-called Lesser Vampires was to satiate their bellies with sustenance as was their animalistic wont. Meanwhile, to others of a higher intelligence, blood was an intoxicating delicacy to be enjoyed (or devoured) much like unto an exceedingly strong wine of great repute. Indeed, for some, blood was merely a delectable indulgence of life rather than as a sheer necessity for sustaining it. If Higher Vampires could in fact even be considered to be 'alive' despite being known to possess a full body of vestigial organs like any other living being. Lesser Vampires could all be defeated through cunning combined, strength-for-strength, with lightning-fast reflexes and a proper knowledge of their methods of attack. They were still Feral beasts at the end of the day, and beasts of any sort could still be Hunted by a strong enough individual. Highly intelligent and cunning beasts in some cases like the Fleder or Ekimara, yet beasts all the same. And for every beast, there were tried-and-true methods for slaying them.

Those Higher Vampires, the ones in full command of spoken language and possessing a ‘civilized’ culture, were rather remarkable in that they are capable of impregnating each other like unto any of us comparatively much lesser beings. Even the smallest of beings mated when in-season after all, and Vampires of all kinds were just as in need of a good rut like any other race in order to propagate their respective species. However, this was within an exceedingly short window very early in the immortal lives of these Higher Vampires; their numbers always remaining rather miniscule because of this fact alone. Natively, they had a grotesque, bat-like form which could be bipedal or quadrupedal at their will and leisure, along with long fangs, claws, wings, and overwhelming psychic and Arcane powers. As they possessed the power to change their forms at will, and had no natural need to eat nor drink (yet could process foods via odd vestigial organs), they could walk and dress amongst us with absolute conviction without detection. Indeed, these beings wielded a type of magic that was far beyond anything we had yet to be able to put to official writ; capable of shifting through multiple forms, clothing and all if needed, amongst multiple other powers. All of this and more they attempted daily in order to live amongst us unmolested and free to live extensive lives of luxury with the many pleasures of the flesh. Indeed, even our Medallions which were attuned to the flow of all Arcane forces in our near-vicinity were entirely unable to detect these beings when they chose to take on a more Equine form. Though most had some rather chiseled features to their faces, they were able to get by with claiming ties to old Canterlot, Trottingham, or even Thestral blood if so needed. Though they too were despised in this world, it was better to be thought of as an odd bastard descendant of an Equestrian-Thestral union than as a Vampire hiding in plain sight.

The Vyre, by stark comparison, diverged by being natively Equine-like in form; the product of an entirely different world and God(s) to the various species of Vampires. True Vyre were rather Thestral-like in appearance, save for their ashen, sickly white-or-grey skin and fur, and a short pair of thin horns which curled somewhat behind their heads like Dragons. However, they too possessed gaunt bodies, long bat-like wings and ears, cat-like pupils of crimson red, and long slender fangs which far exceeded the length of any Thestral or Lowland Valkyrie. Sporting a very high society of their own which was becoming of any great culture, the Vyre had staked out for themselves a great empty expanse of swampy marshlands far to the southwest even beyond the borders of Trottingham. Named the Darkmire, their horrid influence twisted the very world around them as they had some control over the Abyssal forces which spurred them on. Indeed, they seemingly had brought with them their own form of potent blood magic which was only further empowered by the Abyss, and was a type of magic which outsiders were in fact capable of learning through great effort. They, by further comparison to Vampires, also lacked any ability by which to sexually reproduce, and altogether lacked any sort of lurid drive to mate at all. Rather, they carried in their cursed blood a transferrable plague which mutated those intentionally bitten and not fully fed upon into something akin to one of their own. Any Sentient species could thusly be bitten and, with similar chances unto surviving the Trial of the Grasses, be turned into a Vyre version of whatever species they had once been. As such, one had to be wary of Sentient beings of multiple species being thusly transformed. It was not entirely known if these beings could be classified as ‘living’ as they too defied traditional anatomical norms like Higher Vampires. Yet, all the same any being that was transformed by a Vyre was typically doomed to remain one. The Knights of the Eclipse had found a way to bring individuals back and cure their affliction…yet it was far from foolproof and only worked if they had been recently turned.

Much again like unto the Grasses, those who did not outright die from the Changes wrought upon them by way of the Sanguinare Vampiris virus, yet were not fully mutated, tended to come out more Feral than Sentient. As such, a class-system of its own had emerged within their ranks as to the purity of their Vyre blood (determined by who had bitten who), how recent their transformation occurred, and the level of intellect they had gained or lost during the transformation. Thus, much like their compatriots, they could also be loosely categorized into ‘Lesser’ and ‘Greater’ kinds of Vyre by their own conventions. True Vyre, as mighty as they are, tended to lounged about in their looming castles of dark basalt, dining upon fine blood and acting as the nobility amongst their kind and impossible to kill by even a Witcher’s means. Meanwhile, those other species as having been successfully turned by the virus were arranged in rank of relative maturation as the transformation, once successfully begun, took centuries to fully enact. Those freshly-turned within the last few decades were referred to as ‘Juveniles’ and were used as the second-rank forces of their strong-armed tactics. These possessed great strength, speed, and regeneration much like unto a top-tier Witchling student, yet could still be killed even by steel weaponry, were weakened by Sunlight, and had an insatiable appetite for blood to sustain their powers. Those having survived their first fifty-years or so would find themselves counted as a ‘Juvinate’, and begin finding their greater Vyre powers beginning to manifest. Powers such as a greater immunity to the Light of the Sun, immunity to steel weapons, resistance to even weapons of fine silver, and the ability to turn their bodies into an unassailable mist they could thus escape by. Past a full century, they would begin to grow the more distinctive features of True Vyre such as their wings, ears, eyes, and horns. This stage came with further boosts to their natural regenerative abilities, as well as all other strengths both physical and magical as would be befitting such creatures. Lunar Silver even found itself beginning to struggle to truly pierce their hides and a devilish talent for telepathy allowed them to anticipate the movements of their opponents. Even when fully committed to a chaotic rhythm of attack, a Witcher could still find their opponent moving to block and counter them before their blow had even struck.

It was unclear at what age one of their kind grew into full Vyrehood, yet it was guessed to be somewhere past three centuries. Were they so lucky as to not have been Hunted already of course. These frightful beings possessed all the distinguishing features of True Vyre (if in a more diluted form) and were capable of their peculiar Sanguine Magicks which we had few defenses against. Having essentially fully weaponized their blood tithing, blood and its accompanying lifeforce could be sapped directly out of victims bodies and absorbed directly into their own. That was to say nothing of their tremendous physical strength and proficiency with many weapons, as well as any claws they might have grown or already possessed prior to their transformation. They also possessed a full immunity to conventional silver weapons, and Lunar Silver could not even pierce their hides without the aid of Blisterwood Sap. The sacred tree of pure-white bark was exceedingly rare in the wild, containing an inner wood and sap of scarlet, bloody red. Its origins were lost to time, yet its efficacy against the Vyre was one of many early discoveries by my forbearers. Not that it did many of us any good anyway as their power was far beyond a mere Witcher's…but the knowledge was some small comfort all the same.

When one was (very rarely) successfully killed, a Vyre would immediately disintegrate into a hefty pile of appropriately-dubbed Vyre Dust. These unconventionally cremated ashen remains were all that was left of their immense power over their blood magic, and formed something between ash and crushed crystals. As such, it glittered softly scarlet under bright light when lightly shaken in a dish or other container. Taking a little over a half-ounce of the potent gray-white powder, I proceeded to very carefully work it into the red-orange Leshen Resin already occupying a freshly cleaned mortar dish. Here, tiny shards of amethyst touched by Lunar magic were also ground into the mix as, though opposed to the Darkness which the Vyre delighted in, they too also held the Moon in great respect and Lunar power came in many forms, just like Solar. As such, the Lunar Shards found themselves readily accepted by the volatile Vyre Dust, whilst at the same time, gradually reactivating some of the Sanguine Magicks as lay dormant within the remains. I had to pay my thanks to those who came before me as processes like these would have been impossible for me to solve on my own. Even as it was, I was peering through my notes at every hint of uncertainty as these were all processes I had done before, yet not necessarily in conjunction with each other in this order. After all...I had not had the pleasure of producing a Venom from such a prime Shade Petal in many, many years, it wasn't as if the entire process had been committed to memory for that long.

The tedious process of adding in the Lunar Shards had to be handled extremely slowly, utilizing only a few Shards at a time as to revive too much Vyre Dust at once could summon the remnants of its spirit to assault you. As I added in miniscule numbers of individual violet crystal grains to the mortar dish, it began to remove any former hint of orange there had once been in the Resin, turning it instead into a violently bright crimson. Indeed, the viscous fluid as was being mashed under my pestle was much in appearance and texture as to freshly-spilled blood which had heavily congealed in contact with the air. The smell likewise was very reminiscent of the potent iron-rich sweetness that accompanied freshly spilled viscera, on account of both the Resin itself, as well as the now-charged Vyre Dust. When the paste became too dry to properly work further, moisture was introduced in the form of viscous drops of Warped Basilisk Venom via another eyedropper. Sharing a similar pronunciation, yet a different spelling from another species of lizard-like monster called the Baslysk, these twisted, venomous ‘Chicken Dragons’ were amongst the Dracnoid-category of beasts. Given this one's emerald venom had been greatly Warped by the Abyss compared to its other compatriots, it made this toxic fluid perfect for reconstituting the paste as it would not dilute nor pollute the mixture like other agents might. Drop by drop, I slowly worked it in until the moistened paste could be easily scooped into the cauldron one bit at a time. Like everything else...my patience was being tested by the bud of antsy panic building in my chest as I felt the hours trickling away on the tiny clock in the corner.

As the last drops trickled from the dropper and into the mess of red beneath my pestle, I knew the paste was ready when it went from a shade of bright scarlet to that of blood that was several minutes old. A quick test using a dried Blood Rose petal only solidified my certainty, as the desiccated bloom absorbed the blood content beneath it and rehydrated until it looked freshly picked from a live plant. It was only then with a heavy sigh of genuine relief that I settled back from my work and into a collapsible stool found in a slim cabinet nearby. Three of my main ingredients, four to a certain point in regards to the Basilisk Venom, had been successfully utilized and prepared without a hitch. Whilst the Warped Venom would be needed again, drop by drop, for a future step, the remaining two ingredients were not needed until it came time to handle a Shade Petal again directly. With some time now to allow the brew to simmer along as it was for further clarity, I finally had a more proper chance with which to eat and rest from my labors. I had produced some rather fine products with all my hard work, and while they were nothing like unto what I could prepare with the appropriate time needed to work, they were worthy of far more than a simple passing grade. As such, I felt a sense of well-deserved pride as I repositioned my stool closer to my now-cold plates of food and closed tome bound in an ominous black velvet and silver. The Kitchens had ensured the meal would still be delicious to the taste even when cold, and so I set about consuming the rest of my meal with great gusto, pulling the tome towards myself and opening to Chapter 13: Of Void Salts, Dark Essence and The Proper Handling of Voidkissed Items for Usage in Alchemical Substances. There were still hours yet of further brewing ahead of me, yet some of the most tricky catalyst substances were successfully ready to be added to the cauldron. I had earned the break, and still had yet to even count the purse of coins Violet had left for me.

* * * * * *

The time to carefully simmer my burgeoning Venom to ¾ of the way complete took several hours as each of the ingredients I had prepared needed to be added to the mix one tiny scoop at a time. The glass rod had to keep rotating the entire time, yet I could not have the luxury of setting a spell to keep it stirring like other brews as the speed varied wildly depending on which ingredient was being added and when. Indeed, even adding these ingredients to the cauldron was an intense game of balance as subtle changes in color, viscosity and scent were all I had to use in order to know how much of each was needed. The amounts prepared all needed to be used, yet the pace at which I could add them was excruciatingly slow to experience. Habaara's gracious gift of food had ensured I had the energy needed to stay up so late through the night, hunched over my cauldron with wary eyes and a discerning nose. Hangmare’s Venom was normally given months to make these finite adjustments under controlled circumstances and I was having to actively correct these all in a single evening. Even some miniscule amounts of previous ingredients used to brew the Oil made a reappearance in my efforts to further control the balance of humors. This of course resulted in more contaminants that needed to be removed via more Quebrith, and other more minor reagents, yet it was unfortunately necessary in order to maintain the clarity of my brew. If anything, I felt like an amateurish juggler with the number of items constantly shifting in my telekinetic grasp and one slip-up would ruin hours of work.

Each time more of the sulfur compound was added, a dash of exceedingly fine potash was added as well in order to counteract the majority of its effects so as to not spoil the entire cauldron. Likewise, more waste product precipitates formed on the surface which needed to be skimmed away. Truly, having to add more of the base ingredients, and especially the secondary doses of Quebrith, was a dance with disaster as even a few grains too much of any one ingredient could go and spoil my entire time spent brewing. The emerald fluid simmering softly in the black iron cauldron before me was burning the eyes and nose ever more as I continued to brew, growing only darker in color which was my wont. Indeed, the desired outcome was a shade of green only a few hints above truly pitch black; full of an illustrious gleam that shimmered with a soft silvery-purple iridescence in the white crystal light. Every tiny scoop of violet silver nitre or the activated Leshen/Vyre Resin brought about subtle changes in order to compliment, or counter, the one added before it. Of course, this all was highly dependent upon the mood of the brew itself and whether it was feeling cooperative or stubborn. Truly, any Alchemist could attest that the more complex the recipe, the more likely it was for the resulting product to have a seeming will of its own that was both temperamental and infuriatingly vague. Attempting to balance all factors involved, along with battling one's own lapses in attention from boredom across so many hours, was a taxing chore. Even buoyed along by the delicious food and drink brought to me by that charming little Dwemess, I was fighting off sleep born of boredom come time the small clock in the corner alerted me it was midnight.

By the time the final chime had struck twelve, I was gloating over a near-perfect brew with a notable headache developing from lack of sleep and the pervasive fumes I was breathing in. The vast majority of my ingredients had successfully been added until the last grains dissolved and suffused the concoction with their potent effects. What I had now was a beautifully dark emerald, viscous fluid which emitted soft trailing streams of equally dark, dense smoke which seemed to drag along everything nearby with miniscule claws. As a result, I had to slowly increase the level of vacuum provided by the portal up above so as to better whisk away these dense fumes. With extended exposure, harm would inevitably befall even a Witcher fully mutated with enhanced chemical resilience like myself. I was quite pleased with the result of my hard labor and extensive years spent hunched over similar cauldrons during my attempts to perfect the craft whilst still attending School. Indeed, I dared to even think that perhaps my own Mentor would have been pleased with my current efforts, even if the resulting product was intended for a personal assassination vendetta on a fellow Witcher’s behalf. A stickler for details, I prided myself somewhat over my ability to follow after the manner of his teachings and hoped my brew would have received his blessing all the same. After all, a good few of the inscriptions in my own notebook on Venom recipes had been penned by him personally when he found my first attempt at conveying the information insufficient. I was sloppy and he knew it. Gods did he know it…

Though I had graduated as a full Witcher within the normal 6-8 year window expected of Bastion applicants with prior combat and physical training, Master Nozgath had seen fit to call himself my Mentor for nearly thirty years in total. Rather than out of some headstrong sense of self-importance, he had insisted on the continued relationship as he said he, 'simply couldn’t bear to leave a student such as me unpolished’, as he had so quaintly put it. And polishing did I require in those days in spades… Growing up amidst an ever-shrinking population of Lowland Valkyrie I had been raised with a fairly respectable physical regimen like the rest of my Clan, that of the House of Réaltín; or ‘Little Stars’ as my mother had once told me in centuries past. To ensure our people remained fit to defend our small piece of territory at any time, a rigorous schedule of exercise augmented with basic-to-advanced training in combat was administered across all who lived amongst us. Whilst such a practice was graciously never seriously put to the test, it ensured our people were physically fit and perfectly poised to apply ourselves further in the deadly arts if we so wished. And indeed I had so wished to expand my abilities thusly, seeking out the School of the Viper for its closeness to my ancestral home squished between Trottingham and the old Kingdom, now Duchy, of Āider. With my prior training, the Trial of the Sword was not the hardest challenge I had encountered, yet what came after most certainly would be. My path to graduation was rather slow in its own right as several classes had to be repeated until my Instructors/Mentor thought I had grasped the lessons and earned a passing grade. Fighting with a sword or other such weapon had always come easily to me, whilst the magic of my people had only lightly graced me before the Changes. What had truly taken the most attempts to master…were the arts of Alchemy and bombcraft. I was not the best, nor the wisest student Master Nozgath had ever Mentored, yet he always liked to say that he saw in me the potential for something special.

As…to what exactly it was he had seen in me…I’d yet to learn. Even after so many years past my Trial of the Grasses, and his very own death at the bloody claws of a horribly Warped Sanguine Maiden, I had yet to learn much of what he had seen in me. I had performed at-or-around average in most of my studies save for history and Medium Doctrine defensive techniques, failing miserably at my first and second semesters of Alchemy during the practical examinations. The Trial of Grasses had nearly utterly destroyed me as well, had it not been for the expert skill of a visiting Direwolf Healer who had boldly stepped in to rescue me from the clutches of Death. I knew of myself from what memories remained of that excruciating experience…I would not have survived if left alone to my own, pitiful strength. The pain of that week-long process…it was near-impossible to try and replicate in any amount of words that failed to include a long, excruciating shriek of anguish and terror. Regardless, I had been nothing truly exceptional amongst my fellow Vipers. I had met the age requirements for Masterhood long before I had garnered my first (and only) Heroic Hunt on record. I performed my duty as a Witcher to the best of my ability, and yet all the same I was just one amongst thousands of others just as capable as me. Or, even more so like in the case of Archmaster Ludovic or my own Mentor.

Not once had I been able to best him with a blade during our entire multi-decade training experience together at Kaer Nathair…nor even past that time, prior to his demise. He had students before and after me who were faster, stronger, smarter…and yet I always seemed to be his personal favorite for whatever reason. So much so that he had seen fit to insist my first twenty-or-so years on the Path were only half-years, with the other half spent further studying alongside him at the School. It would likely bewilder me even unto my own death…. The old Dragon had never once elaborated as to why he felt that way about me. Try as I would, his scaly lips had remained sealed outside of a playful grin of amusement at my expense as it was not a lesson that could be taught. It was simply something I needed to discover for myself of course…which was the most infuriatingly slow forms of learning. The most impactful and meaningful perhaps, yet one that required a literal lifetime to understand in its fullness. A lifetime of attempting to polish ourselves down to our best selves, or as close to it as we could muster in good conscience with self-respect. I of myself...well, I felt I had discovered my good self and even burnished out to a decent polish for others to see. But my best self...? I was still searching for that.

Regardless, my efforts towards mastering the Alchemist's arts through those arduous years had indeed begun to bear fruit. The last of my tertiary ingredients had been prepared and added successfully to the brew, leaving only one major ingredient, and two vital secondaries remaining. The most important was of course the Shade Petal itself, which unfortunately required its own specialized procedures for safe handling and processing. Following closely behind were the Void Salts, and the highly specific Dark Essence type which helped to facilitate these safety measures for me. The Essence was perhaps the most important of the two as it allowed me to suffuse my telekinesis with enough Dark energy so I could safely handle the Petal directly. The Salts on the other hoof acted as a strong desiccant which would remove all organic moisture from the Petal, whilst at the same time preserving those toxic, Voidkissed molecules. These, of course, would then be extracted, further refined, and then finally added as the quintessential ingredient of the Venom. Even as it stood now, the brew was sufficiently potent as to kill most mortals within minutes were a wound to be laced with it…

However, the deadliness needed to be refined and channeled into a more covert path of effect, wherein sufficient time for the two to escape could be provided. The Digitalis was precisely for that purpose as the toxic compounds suffused into the silver nitre from the Deathbells were too denatured to fully enact their own poisons into the brew. Were they merely seeking to kill him outright, the Petals would not be needed at all seeing as the Deathbells and Warped Nightshade would have been more than sufficient for such a role. These toxins were needed, yes, but it was the Dark nature imbued into them which was absolutely necessary. After all, something had to be present in the Venom to bond with the much more raw compounds that were to be introduced via the Digitalis. The burgeoning Venom had very little in the way of such Dark compounds as of yet, thus the careful introduction of the violet silver nitre and the Leshen Resin infused with activated Vyre Dust. The Dark was infused into the brew via the Deathbells, and then coddled into perfect equilibrium with the rest of the Oil via the not-so-Dark infused Resin. With the high acidity of the concoction, the Resin was soluble in the Oil and acted as the perfect substrate, so-to-speak, for the residual energies within the silver nitre. The high acidity from the Basilisk Venom would likely come out in the final product, yet it was something I would have to risk and try to remember to mention to Violet. The very least I could do was provide another modicum of warning regarding the short list of possible issues I would be unable to fully squash out of the recipe with so little time. I'd offered one before, yet with her...it never hurt to double down on the affirmations when it came to her approach to risk assessment.

Due to the organic nature of the Resin, itself infused by the Arcane blood of the Leshen which shed it, it acted as a sort of mediator between the highly organically-based Oil, and those Dark Arcane energies I was hoping to make use of. The Sanguine Magic inherent to the Vyre Dust was also there for this mediation in some capacity, yet it fulfilled another much more primary role. Given the Dust had been very gently coaxed into a mulled state of semi-activation via the Lunar Shards, the enlivening effects of blood magic could be likewise coaxed into any elixir; Oil, Venom and Potion alike. For my purposes, I needed it in order to act as a brake upon the speed of envenomation enacted by the toxic glycosides found in the Shade Petal. Seeing as these molecules assaulted the natural rhythm of the heart, the Vyre Dust would be there to artificially enliven the heart for a period of time. The glycosides would remain ever present, yet they would be engaging in a slow conquest of victory over the effects of the Dust. Interacting with so many organic compounds however, the Dust would have a biological half-life of only so long…and after a period of time, it would run itself dry of power. After that, the Digitalis would finally be allowed to work in full and a fatal heart attack was sure to set in within seconds to minutes. With the length of time granted between envenomation and the actual death itself, the heart attack would look all the more convincing for it. Especially if they managed to do so during a feast as it would be a fitting victim to blame for such a tragic, yet not unheard of event. Of course, were the royal entourage in tow so inclined, those poor Souls as prepared the meal might find themselves killed for the event in retaliation. Even if gluttony had been the true murderer in such a case, there was always the chance of ‘righteous anger’ being turned upon the most easily visible pool of possible candidates for blame. The Eldar had endured such a response for centuries now…

As to how I knew all this? Well…in all truth, much of it was inferred speculation on my part, as well as what research survived from the original period of Venom experimentation and documentation. As I had explained somewhat to Violet and Topaz, the School of the Viper had spent more than a few decades working towards attaining the perfect Alchemical toxins as could be used against our enemies. The Venoms brewed from the Oils meant for all our monstrous foes had allowed for, and necessitated even, extensive rounds of testing which needed to be performed. As such, dabblings with Voidkissed items in Alchemy naturally found their way into the rounds of experimentation being performed during the early second century. Learning how to harness the Darkness within these items had been a rather arduous affair, at least according to the old surviving records of Kaer Nathair; now safely housed within the Grand Library of Kaer Solaris. All the same, steps and procedures had been slowly formulated by my predecessors, and items even as rare as Shade Petals found their time under their microscopes. The potent glycosides contained within all Digitalis species were already known from studies in natural philosophy and native herblore, thus applying them to poisons and medicines were also subsequently learned in conjunction. The enlivening effects of activated Vyre Dust had likewise been discovered during the course of similar Alchemical studies, using what new ingredients had been presented by the arrival of these Abyssal creatures. Indeed, the odd substance was used in even the healing draughts brewed in the School’s own Infirmary, granting the drinker swift recoveries from all manner of malaise of the blood and increased tissue regeneration. Likewise, all other ingredients being used to turn my Oil into a full Venom had been similarly researched in isolation from each other. All that was needed was to combine these isolated bits of useful information together towards one specific end. Much of the groundwork had already been laid by my forebears, all that was left for me to do was piece it all together; something I had meditated on in private many times already in my continued pursuit of knowledge.

The recipe for ‘traditional’ Hangmare’s Venom called for Deadly Nightshade as the primary toxin, entirely pure and unadulterated by too many other secondary ingredients. However, the desired outcome was not to cut the bastard where he stood and kill him openly via poison, as even Violet was not entirely devoid of all rational brain matter. She and Topaz both knew better than to be conspicuous in their pursuit of friendly fratricide, which explained why they sought me out the moment the School’s rumor mill circulated word of my Petals past their devious ears. They had paid more than enough attention during the toxicology section of their natural philosophy and knew what could be possible with them were they fully rendered. I had brewed more than one vial of poison for their endeavors, brewed and left in a potted plant near unto the entrance to the underground Barracks wherein they dwelled. Yet, none of them were to the same complexity as what they had requested this time around. Poison was the preferred method for many a kill throughout history for the layers of anonymity it immediately introduced into the investigation. If anything, the pair preferred to use middlemares anywhere they could in the process and limit their direct involvement in the whole affair if they were able to manage it. Their go-to was to hire a lone agent hired through the black markets to whom my poisons would be delivered whilst they performed the assassinations themselves so as to leave Violet and Topaz further insulated from blame. By what means these assassins would make their kill varied by the chosen style of the assassin themselves, from poisoned crossbow bolts and darts to delivery via ingestion through their food or drink. Of course, the manner of death could also be prescribed ahead of time if there were a certain tale she wished to weave around the murder. Any time as might further point the hoof of blame down the wrong paths of thought.

The most unfortunate victim of theirs…ours…had been the first they had sought my help in eliminating. The toxins guaranteed absolute lethality if introduced directly into the bloodstream via some sort of laceration. Such had been my anticipated use of the product after all as it had never occurred to me that circumstances might permit one method over the other. However, the chosen assassin himself chose to apply it to the target’s food as the location had presented an opportunity for greater stealth. He had rather skillfully applied the toxic brew by slipping a few drops down a strand of his own tail hair, using the rafters of the dining hall to poison a chosen platter of food below. The poison had most certainly ended up killing the ex-Minister of Internal Defense… Unfortunately, that was not until several agonizing days in the lavatory had already elapsed, and he had shat out most of his insides whilst begging for Lady Death to take him. It had been a grand banquet held during the Feast of Harvests, and also coincided with the Naming of the Minister’s esteemed grandchild. Needless to say…there were a great many witnesses present to those horrid events which played out afterwards. Various mobility from both Yonderland as well as other Equestrian holdings had all shown up for the pomp and circumstance of such a day. Some had even had the misfortune to be close to him once the poison took hold…and his digestive tract began exploding from both ends. The assassin escaped unmolested and undetected, as was our combined hope, yet word of the death spread with a dangerous speed across the Continent due to the finer details involved. It was a frightful mess we had to endure, yet we had all managed to survive such a terribly close-miss similarly undetected and unharmed.

Since that time, I had grown to be much more wary regarding the possible ways my poisons could be administered to their targets. Tales of the Yonderland noble who shat himself to death were still in the public’s eye unfortunately, even after a few decades had elapsed. After all, something like that was prime tavern-fodder for getting a good laugh out of those who heard it; old and young alike all finding something to laugh at in such a ridiculous death. Though the death itself was never ruled a murder, but rather a deadly intestinal infection, I had grown to try and be more cautious at every stage of my own involvement in the whole affair. As such, I took the proper time to wake myself back up by doing some light exercises as could be performed in such a confined space. After a hundred press-ups, my blood was sufficiently pumping alertness back into my mind and I rose fully upright to begin the final stage in the process. The vial of Dark Essence was rather small when compared to the average amount of material left behind in a typical Nightwraith’s remains. Yet, having been collected during the most recent Winter Solstice at the height of that special, hallowed day, it was positively dripping with latent Dark powers that could brush over my telekinesis. The odd, dark violet ectoplasm-like substance which was left in the wake of a Nightwraith’s demise was bizarrely a liquid, a solid and a gas, all at the same time. Sections could be cut into smaller chunks with a chilled silver knife and transferred about with a set of frozen tongs like any solid. Yet this same amount, when kept within a vessel of any sort, seemed perfectly capable of being poured down the neck like a watery tar.

The vapors which emanated from this substance likewise were rather queer as they were far denser than air, seemingly flowing more like unto a fluid than a simple gas. Thus, all I needed was to simply pour some of the confounding purple substance into a shallow dish of black porcelain, sprinkle on a fine dusting of powdered electrum, and then attempt to grasp the fumes within my magic. Though sensation was rather minimal whilst normally grasping items in one’s telekinesis, a cold chill could be felt in my bones as my sparkling green magic made contact with the Dark Essence. The odd combination of Magicks turned my telekinesis a sickly shade of lilac grey. It also visibly gave off a smoking, ghastly aura of its own as I lifted my altered mass of magic away from the dish. Like an itch too deep to scratch, the chill of the Essence tainting my magic was profoundly deep within me, like the dull ache felt on shore that follows a long, frigid swim under a high mountain lake. Thus prepared, I unfastened the four small latches at the mouth of the silver-and-crystal container and reached in to pluck but a single flowery bell from the stem of the plant.

The air within the room noticeably grew colder the moment the canister was unsealed and the Petals were exposed to normal air; subsequently being allowed to eke out their presence somewhat into the room. Similarly, the glowing purplish-pink haze of enchanted pollen began to dust the small laboratory, graciously being whisked away by the swirling vortex above before it had a chance to settle. All the same, the effect was short-lived as I resealed the canister the moment my lonesome Petal was free of the rest of the plant, keeping its Abyssal tendrils restrained. Once I was satisfied the four latches were tightly secured, I set the solitary Petal gently down in a second, black porcelain dish I had already pre-filled with a shallow bed of powdered Void Salts. Immediately the desiccating effects of the hygroscopic substance began to take effect as the bottom face of the Petal, which was in contact with the Salts, immediately began to shrivel up whilst an acrid black-purple smoke was produced. The real trick to this part of the process was attempting to keep as much of the original structure of the flower preserved despite the caustic Salts eating away at the organic matter around it. As its named implied, the Salts had been moderately steeped in the power of the Void, having been mere Lunar Shards prior to whatever ritual the University performed to obtain such a substance. Its applications were rather niche, yet the roles it did fulfill were eternally useful when needed, such as what I was currently attempting.

With a miniscule spatula spoon and fine manipulation in my magic, I proceeded to dust the rest of the flower in the tiny, ink-black crystals which themselves gave off a black, smoke-like aura of their own. It was a painstaking process so as to not destroy too much organic tissue at once, else there would be nothing left to hold it all together at the end. What was left in the wake of the rather caustic powder was what remained of the Petal’s internal circulatory system, itself heavily steeped in the Abyssal powers I was after. While opening the canister holding the entire plant was a task only done with utmost haste, the Abyssal powers steeped into one single Petal were relatively safe to work with in isolation. The sprawling network of dark violet veins formed a waxy approximate of the flower which had once been there as a result of the caustic powder. The twisting, curling veins of dark cherry purple were mesmerizing to watch slowly release themselves from the fleshy confines of the flower it supported and was supported by. Even when removed from its host plant, these veins still lightly circulated their contents about the beautifully delicate piece of organic matter I was attempting to free from its original form. Indeed, Shade Petals could retain their freshness for an unnaturally long period of time even when entirely removed from their host plant which would continue to endure until the last flower was plucked from its stem.

My efforts yet continued to deliver satisfying results as I exercised all patience as I had available within me to give to the situation. It was hardly the thing I wished to spend the rest of my night working on when I only got a few, meager minutes in the Baths...but at least I was getting paid for it. There was a light at the end of this dreary cave of mine and the hour of bottling up my hard work was drawing ever closer. What was left behind of the blossom looked as if it were a small bit of delicate lace in the shape of a bell-shaped flower. Truly, the fine weave of dark veins was a delightfully gorgeous piece of art which seemingly could have been created by a Thestral Weaver as a fine decorative piece for formal attire. Indeed, once complete and suspended in the air to lightly shake off any remaining powder, the flower was as if a delicate piece of fashionable dark purple lace. One whose color would have made a suitable compatriot to the ensemble taken on by Rosemary herself, were it not so delicate as to crumble at even the softest wrong touch. I had been surprisingly unmolested thus far by her incessant nosy nature, yet now that the cat was out of the metaphorical bag...that was likely to change. There was simply no way that even with the work she was undertaking out there that she had failed to feel the surge in Dark energy from when I briefly opened the container to retrieve my flower. Even in my gut, I knew that I had yet to see the last of her...

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Chapter Ten: Midnight Voidkissed Negotiations

As if on cue when her name was brought to mind, a loud series of bangs echoed through my door that were far more demanding than those produced by Habaara earlier. I had found a moment to set the preciously fragile bloom down upon a clean dish a split-second before the knocking rudely disturbed my process. The only explanation was the brief, but certainly noticeable, leakage of Abyssal energies once I had opened the canister to retrieve the Petal. Being so close by me, regardless of whatever it was that had been previously occupying her, she was bound to have felt a sudden disturbance of Dark energy. Indeed, it was likely that a few nearby who were not involved felt a shiver in the Arcane world through their Medallion or Pendant. It would hardly have been enough to cause more than a millisecond's worth of concern for them...yet none of them would be as near unto me as the ever-watchful senses of Rosemary. And so, I once again turned back towards the door and slid back the shutter in the center to address who could only be the Sorceress Supreme herself outside.

“You promised not to bother me if none of us bothered you, Rosemary…” I sighed quite irritably through the cage over the window. “I do not recall even getting a hissed warning that one moment I emerged to obtain some further ingredients from the crystal cabinet…so please, do tell, what gives?”

“Oh how dare you try and play coy with me, Frejdá.” She growled back at me with fanged teeth softly bared. “Whatever it is you are working on in there is highly Abyssal and should not be allowed on School grounds! Whatever are you thinking you daft mare?! Are you trying to bury us like the School of the Dragon?!”

“Go plough yerself, Rosemary.” I scoffed back through the window with utter disdain. “As far as I recall, the Dragons attempted to summon an Arch-Daemon directly in their own keep using unholy rites as a combined force. You yourself have brought and experimented on Voidkissed items aplenty in both this Laboratorium, and the Magus Domum alike, and no Chasm has opened up to swallow the School. Spare me any lectures on ‘danger’ and ‘daftness’ and give them to yourself first why don’t you? It would spare my ears the hassle...”

“Why you…!” She bristled most aggressively as soft wisps of sparkling midnight blue curled off her mane. “I demand to know what it is you are working on! I will not tolerate for a moment a single word of any smoke-and-mirror tactics. Whatever it is you have in there gave off a signature far Darker than anything I have ever dabbled with here, and I think I of all mares would know that form of personal information best. Would you not think so as well? Or do you truly think that little of me and my superior intellect?”

I sighed long and hard as an initial response before I replied, “Fine…I suppose it was inevitable you would discover it whilst being so close by… I take it you have yet to catch wind of what I happened upon whilst on the Path?”

“Oh please, you are hardly that interesting of a mare to keep such a close eye upon amidst the hundreds of other ignorant savages here… No, I have had my muzzle buried deep into this project for the last month at the absolute least! I am a busy mare full of fascinating ideas far beyond your comprehension! There is always more to be explored in this majestic world of ours! Exploring more about you? Bah! What a waste of time that would truly be…”

“Truly a bore, yes…” I somewhat agreed with her as she indeed led an arguably more interesting life than I did by some metrics. “If I tell you what I have, will you leave me be? Don’t you have an alembic to watch over?”

“Darling, that was hours ago! My precious albumen is now incubating my custom elixir now as we speak, which might I add, has taken me years of adjustments and fine-tuning to get it to what I have now. With my great labor complete, for the time being at least, I have all the time in the world to press you on this matter. It will be many, many years until the current stage even begins to show signs of progress towards my next predicted step, so fret not over me dear Frejdá. The other half of tonight’s experiment can wait a little longer as it is but a trifling period to wait in comparison to the first stage which has already come to fruition. As to your offer, I suppose that all depends on how much of my curiosity you pique with whatever it is you have in there. It had better be worth my while...”

“I cannot even begin to express how asinine those last words of yours are…I slew a NightShade Spectre near unto Hollyhock about a fortnight ago. You should know what follows from something like that.” I said simply, her eyes shooting wide open with recognition for what that implied.

“Shade Petals??” She gasped with equal parts terror and unbridled excitement like I had never seen in her before. “Oh what a glorious day be this! I demand you share in your quarry this instant! So many possibilities…and such fresh Petals?? Dear Gods I could swoon from the stress of this moment! There is simply a plethora of experiments just waiting to be discovered and documented you daft mare!”

“I seem to be failing to recall you being by my side during that particular Hunt...” I replied coolly, raising a hoof to touch the shutter on the window. “All those fumes from that alembic must have rotted that illustrious brain of yours if you think you have any sort of right to fucking demand anything of me that you have not rightfully earned any part of.”

“And what of those two laughable Foxes you had in tow? Surely they asked you to brew something for them, yes?”

“Perhaps, but all the same I was amply paid for any materials being used. If you’re willing to do something of the same, then I might be so inclined to…ahem…‘share’, as you so mislabeled it.”

“...You dare try and barter for coin with me over something so fundamentally important to an entire burgeoning branch of Arcane Science?!” She softly shrieked through her gasp for breath as if my words had clobbered her abdomen. “How dare you even thin-”

Her cutting, parting words were themselves cut short by the shutter sliding firmly closed into the seal at the opposite side of the guide rail which restrained it. Instead of returning back to my work however, I remained waiting by the door for her pride to erode away with time until she gave into the temptation I’d dangled before her. Indeed, within a matter of moments the last of her stubborn pride seemed to melt under the intensity of her burning passion to experiment and her frantic pounds upon the metal door resumed. There was…one other thing she was more than likely to ask for as well…yet thanks to her actions, or lack thereof, the possibility was now rendered entirely moot. I was not to be held responsible for her entirely blowing me off prior to setting out on the Path…

“Fifteen Royales per Petal.” I said matter-of-factly through the window as I slid the shutter back open to see her angry, pouting face still standing outside. “And yes, I am deadly serious about that price. In case you don't care, I have something I have to get back to which someone has already paid for in advance with interest. So...either propose to me a better deal, or you’re shite out of luck on getting your hooves on a Petal.”

“FIFTEEN?!?” She shrieked with restrained rage given the time of day and the echoing walls. “That is absolutely outrageous! In no universe is a single Shade Petal worth 375 Crowns apiece!!”

“And you know that price point across multiple unknowable universes simply off the top of your head just like that? A mare who has obviously never had the opportunity to experiment with a Petal before if your desperation is anything to go off of? Please…perhaps I am a bit overpriced, but can any of us really put a price on such a rare item? Digitalis Purpurea is not a common choice for NightShade formations as you may already be aware. I should be charging four-hundred apiece if anything now that I am pondering over it more…”

“...Just…please…Frejdá…” She hissed painfully through a strained whisper after taking another moment to desperately gasp for air. “I beg of you, be merciful upon me at this juncture! They…they could be what I have been missing for all these decades…you have absolutely no idea the sheer need I have for this.”

“Do you witness me shutting the window on you yet? Fifteen platinums or your next best offer of a similar value in either hard coin, or in sheer utility to a Witcher like myself. Keep in mind that again, I earned these blooms by Hunting down its owner on my own, and brought it all the way back with me from southern Equestria. With that kind of labor involved, you are paying for that level of convenience. After all, I brought these to your metaphorical front door. If your need is so great, I’m sure you will find it in your own personal coffers to properly compensate me somewhat for your abundance of shite. Both tonight and many places and times elsewhere between us.”

Tears began to visibly form in her eyes as she reluctantly raised her sagging head to look back up at me as she gasped out, “V-very well…you leave me no choice then… I have not mine purse with me as it is back in my exquisite quarters in Tir Ná Liá. However…I could send Habaara for it if you would be most…magnanimous…in waiting for that to occur...?”

“I would hate for you to force that poor girl to do anything that you could just as easily do yourself with your own four legs, Rosemary. And yet, you seem to find yourself far too important for any task so mundane, do you not?”

“But of course! Did she attend University at Ban Ard? Has she walked amongst realms of existence far beyond imagination? Harnessed the power of the Cosmos to enact colossal acts of sheer will over the Arcane? Hardly! Her place is to serve those who have made something of themselves like myse-”

With that, I shut the window firmly shut once more as her arrogance was growing unbearable, especially with such harsh words towards her dutiful little Dwemess who answered her every beck and call with her utmost best effort. I could only hope the poor girl was conveniently out of earshot on another errand so she would not have to hear her Mistress berate her for merely having been born into far more mundane circumstances. Rosemary had been so lucky as to inherit most of her mother’s Thestral genes so she was able to mostly assimilate herself into their high society. And yet, her Equestrian father, long-since deceased, had always stood in the way of her full acceptance as one of their own. Their union had supposedly been one born of love rather than it being in any way advantageous, or indeed even wanted, by their respective sides of the family. All the same however, both sides of her family came from notable wealth and nobility giving their one and only child whatever she desired most whilst growing up. And, while the Equestrian side had disowned her Baron father for his choice in brides, he had still brought the wealth of his personal estate with him into the marriage. As such, Rosemary, despite being somewhat of a pariah amongst her own, had never known any form of poverty save for the stench and squalor associated with it whenever she had to pass it by. To be born under a family name with diluted or, worse yet, no ties to royalty…such a person might as well not exist to her as they could never amount to much more than servitude to those with wealth and talent. Hardly a suitable way to approach a fellow Sentient...yet it seemed to come standard with most blue-blooded individuals and their tangled web of families and their varying honorable titles.

I suppose it went without saying, but her own obnoxious attitude was more than likely her own attempt to make up for her ‘tainted’ bloodline. Despite her irritating behavior, it was plain to see that she wanted nothing more than to be seen by her peers as one of their own in full. Of course…that same bloodline was likely part of the reason she was refused permanent lodging within the Thestral Dominion and found herself ‘forced’ to live in the Valley. Such a thing was a burden others of her kin were experiencing here as well as rare was the Thestral who was openly willing to leave the shady boughs of their ancient Forest. The Thestrals dwelling amidst the Scarlet Pines south of the School were not all exiles of the Dominion per-se, yet many amongst them found themselves in a similar position to herself. Technically accepted by their society for being one of their own kind...yet, something about them, their bloodline, their pursuits, or something else entirely, was responsible for them finding solace amongst us instead of under the protective shade of their Forest. As such, they saw fit to make a veritable little Dominion of their own amidst the towering redwood trees planted as ancient gifts in the southern end of the Valley. There was something ironic about this fact as said trees had been planted by highly-esteemed members of their own race in ages long past during the founding days of the School of the Wolf. Scarlet Pines was naught but a glimpse of the deepest forested regions of the Dominion, where redwoods many thousands of years old loomed like the Spire both in height and width. The trees in the Valley by comparison were still exceedingly young, yet the magic inherent to our home spurned their natural growth tenfold with healthy roots and lush boughs fit to live in. A veritable palace of living wood of majestic red, absolutely perfect to replicate but a timid glimpse at their great city of Prifddinas with its seamless blend of crystal and living redwood.

Dear little Habaara, by stark contrast, was a Dwemess of no real renown outside of being known as Rosemary's personal assistant. Having been born a member of the Copperbeak Clan, she had dwelt in the northern reaches of their expansive Underkingdom for some time before choosing to live topside. She was reportedly of a family of common masons and simple household potters as far as I knew; certainly no esteemed position within a society founded upon those trades amongst many other physical crafts. And yet, she had still found a place for herself at the School as one of our many serving staff which kept the daily cogs turning smoothly. She had even been bold enough to volunteer to act as the aide to Rosemary upon her ascension to the position of Sorceress Supreme of the School. Though my contact with both ladies was infrequent due to our differing stations and duties, I knew which of the two I much preferred interacting with if given the choice. Habaara was a sweet, gentle being seemingly incapable of malice, but rather easily given to giving her all towards those she seemingly respected. Part of me also wondered if she might have taken up the post in order to try and learn magic for herself, as absolutely nothing precluded a Dwem from being touched by the Arcane like any other race. If anything, the Dwemari at large seemed just as capable of magic as their larger cousins the Griffins and the Örn, with several of their number being found amongst great names of Arcane history. Assuming she had even an inkling of the Power, it was only the coin necessary to afford a University education or a private tutor which stood as the only true preclusion in her case. Regardless of her personal reasons for taking up the post, Habaara had proven dedicated and loyal to her job to the last and was deserving of kinder conditions from her employment.

For twenty-odd years now, all that was asked of her had been undertaken with speed and gusto as the little Dwemess only sought to serve and do her best by all accounts. In all ways did her earnestness in this endeavor shine through, what with her countless hours spent doing whatever it was that bitch of a half-breed Thestral demanded. Every beck and call was swiftly answered and every request fulfilled as if her life depended upon it. She truly deserved far better treatment than being ridiculed purely for coming from a middling family. Rosemary's only saving grace was that species had nothing to do with her constant superiority-complex as well, otherwise Rosemary likely stood to lose her position if she were so openly bigoted in our Valley of so many species and cultures. Whilst bias against wealth (or the lack thereof) was one thing, bigotry towards any given race was simply unneeded in the Solar Valley. We had naught but one another to rely on in our ever changing world, and by sheer necessity alone had to try and ensure cooperation with one another over petty disputes that have spanned literal ages of the world. After all, we actively stood atop a very holy space. We only endured in the center of Equestrian territory by grace of our unity and cooperation with one another. We simply had to be better than Equestria with its overabundance of malice and bigotry towards everyone, including themselves. We may be at peace with them, yet they still warred amongst themselves to this day and seemingly sought to try and drag one or more of us along by the neck with them with a weighty spiked chain.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Her knocking resumed. This time much less frantic, yet far more deliberate with raps which lightly rattled my glassware attached to the ceiling mountings. I knew I had her by the tail now with how insistent she was on obtaining what she desired. As to whether or not the mare behind the knocking was sufficiently humbled by my abrupt denial from earlier…it remained to be seen. I was willing to negotiate, if she was willing to not be so far up her own arse about it all.

“One last chance, Rosemary. And apologize for what you said about Habaara before anything else. You can trash my name all you wish at this juncture, but I will not stand for you degrading such a wonderful little assistant as you are so lucky to have in your employ. If only every Sorceress and Sorcerer were so lucky as to have someone like her to do all the menial tasks and duties that you all are so clearly above performing yourselves. The fact that I need say anything and that you cannot see it for yourself through all your self-righteous vanity is no surprise whatsoever...”

“Excuse me?!” She growled angrily before she noticed the window sliding shut and she hissed out, “Fine! Fine. I apologize…”

“To...?”

“To Habaara…Daughter of Hinduri Bronze-Talon…”

“For...?”

“For what?? I’ve said my apology have I not? What more do you want from me?!”

“For fuck’s sake, Rosemary you truly have no idea how much of a self-centered bitch you are…if you are incapable of even a simple apology, then we have nothing left to discuss here.”

“Fine! I am sorry for being a self-centered bitch of a mare! Do you want me to prostrate myself before thee in sackcloth and ashes?! Just let me have a damned Petal…please…!”

Before I even had time to respond she immediately opted to do as she said and knelt low before me, risking her pristine dress against the stone floor as her head hung low. It was…well, I simply had no idea how to respond to such a motion coming from the likes of her. Not once had she even displayed a capacity to bring herself so low before someone she herself saw as below her intellect and station. If the tears in her eyes and pleading in her voice had not been sign enough of her need…this had entirely sealed it in cold, hardened fact. She was desperate to get her hooves on a Shade Petal for whatever reason and I had her wrapped around my hoof however I wanted. And yes, perhaps it was only due to us being the only two occupants of the Laboratorium which allowed her to grovel so openly before me… Yet who was I to not acknowledge it and stand to gain something valuable in exchange for it? I had already set a rather lofty price, even for such a rare item, and I would be willing to negotiate it down somewhat for the sake of her desperation…on one condition.

“Alright…ten Platinums apiece.” I finally replied after I felt she had been one with the floor for long enough. “And add the other five from the first quote I gave you to Habaara’s salary for this month as a compensatory bonus.”

“T-that’s har-”

“It's a ploughing bargain, Rosemary and you know it. Unless, of course, you've got something of equal-enough value that might do in lieu of hard coin? I am more than willing to hear any counter offers you might have in store, as long as they are around the same price as what I quoted you.”

“...Two ingots of Lunar Silver harvested in the heart of the Dominion, one ounce apiece.” She whispered in a tone that was almost too quiet to hear over the noise of the vortex above and behind me. “And…two…no…three Royales to her wage, spread out over the next three months. Is that…ugh…is that a suitable enough counter-offer in your eyes?”

Lunar Silver? I had been after coins of solid platinum, but this was a rather unexpected counter-offer which had real genuine value to me. Two entire ounces…now she was the one setting a hefty price with her counter-offer, and it was still in my favor. Her desperation was showing its truest colors in this moment and I would have been entirely brain-rotted myself were I to even give her a moment to question her offer. If anything, she was offering me a tidy discount on the rare metal, and Habaara would be properly recompensed somewhat for how hard she worked every day. Everyone got something they wanted from the situation...so even if it was not at the cost of Rosemary's expectations of free, she was not entirely cut out of the deal for bad behavior yet. My poor luck on the Path was steadily being compensated by hearty gains made at home like a short line of golden dominoes cascading against one another from one good stroke of luck to another.

“Deal.” I said quickly, before feeling a tad merciful in light of her genuine show of desperation and adding, “Two ingots and Habaara gets the full five Royales. Do that and you'll get two whole Petals for your troubles.”

“T-two…?” She asked hesitantly with restrained excitement. “Y-yes! Deal it is then! I knew all along that you could be a reasonable mare to bargain with!”

“Hmph...I'm not so tempted to say the same towards you but that is neither here nor there…”

In lieu of further wasted breath, I slid the shutter closed once again whilst letting my Guardian unlock the latches holding the door closed. I was going on the assumption that she would hear the bolts unlatching through the door and would wait patiently, rather than assuming I had cut her off once more. I wisely also took a moment to hang several sizable charts to hide my ingredients and cauldron from her prying eyes, lest I give her more indication as to my own project which was best left hidden. With the short seconds I had to hide my work, I did what I could and turned to face the door as the last of the bolts retracted into the door. The charts were from two different, rather contradictory schools of Alchemy, yet the point lay in their size rather than their contents. If anything, it would further bewilder her efforts to snoop about for new gossip to share with the other Sorceresses in the Valley. Either that, or she would think me mad...or perhaps simply guess that I was being deceptive towards her, yet I had every right to be. Whether or not she would actually deign to be so rationally thinking...was entirely a gamble I would have to take my chances with. To further my cause, I even retrieved the canister with the Petals from its small stand and placed it atop a cabinet close by so as to even further reduce her need to look inside the room. I did have the advantage of her attention being solely focused on her promised prize so keeping the entire plant on close retainer was simply smart business planning. Once she had gotten her flowers, she was not to infiltrate even an inch further into my personal affairs for the night. I could only hope her thoughts continued to stay solely focused...

“At last! I was beginning to fear you were pulling me by the tail with that offer…” She sighed heartily with exaggerated relief once the door swung open.

“I’m not in the business of recanting my words unless I am clearly in the wrong.” I replied coolly whilst holding the canister before me for her to observe. “See the product for yourself before you purchase if you so like. As if the aura you felt earlier wasn’t already confirmation enough.”

Her silvery eyes went wide with curious, fascinated wonder as I passed it over into her sparkling royal blue magic. Immediately her voice fell as she began to mutter away to herself in the incomprehensible Thestral language, turning over the crystal-and-silver canister before her eyes as she gazed inside with longing. Missing only a single Petal from a stalk of nearly a hundred-strong, the rows of glowing bell-like flowers were just as entrancing and seamless as ever before...and the poor Thestral Sorceress seemed hopelessly ensnared by its allure. I did not blame her for becoming another victim of its beautiful, enchanting powers as Violet and Topaz both had been equally captivated by it. I myself couldn't help but stare again into the entrancing glow for a few moments as well, feeling tingling sparks of mulled joy firing off inside my head through my enchanted eyes. However, there was only so much staring that I would allow before I had to rather roughly pry it back from her lest she be entirely ensnared by greed and try to claim it all to herself.

“Let’s make this quick. Would rather not let out any more of this thing’s energy on School grounds than we have to.”

“Y-yes…that…would be wise…” She hummed back distractedly as the cogs of her mind visibly spun frantically behind her eyes. “Very well, two Petals for two ingots, as agreed.”

With that she gave a small curtsy before retreating back to her combined workstation which was now much-reduced in size and scope from the last time I had seen it. It took her a moment or two, but before too long, she was already on her way back with a small black velvet drawstring bag floating before her. From it she withdrew two equally small, flat bars of illustrious silvery-white metal which seemed to sparkle like polished, faceted diamonds even when stationary; a true sign of its inherent purity. Now it was my turn to take something offered from her so that I could look it over for myself in closer detail for assuredness in the matter just as I had extended to her first. Lunar Silver was…simply divine. No pun was truly intended by it, I was simply as captivated by its sparkle as she was at the sight of my Petals. I had not lied to Violet when I had mentioned ingots of metal tickled my fancy in ways that had me pawing for my money purse more often than was financially responsible. Whilst jewels held me in the greatest of sway, the shiny gleam of beautiful metals could just as easily spark my own hoarding instinct akin to that of a Dragon. And indeed…the sparkle dazzling my eyes with the delectable, silvery splendor was prickling flashes of happy tingling sensations throughout my mind. The pair of ingots were smaller than even a traveler’s set of playing cards, yet had been finely stamped by the Dominion’s premier mint. One stunning ounce each of 99.9999% pure Lunar Silver as approved by one Ismaril Dinh, Chief Monier of the Prifddinas Mint of the Dominion, located in the heart of the Thestral capital city itself. The Seal of the Crystal Lily, symbol of the Royal Lineage, likewise had been stamped as the Maker’s Mark It was the real deal, I could feel it to my very bones with the gentle coolness wafting off the ingots like a summer evening. Even when kept in complete darkness, the precious metal held a soft gleam of its own giving off just a wee bit of the Moonlight caught within it. Truly it was the perfect substance for banishing away the Darkness which lay beyond the gentle Night…

“I trust those are satisfactory?” She asked after a moment to allow me to gaze away. “I can provide the Certificates of Authenticity from the Mint itself if you so require…?”

“Nay, I know the real thing when I see it and hold it…” I muttered back softly in reply as I held the exquisite little bars of metal before my lusting eyes. “You can feel its power just as well as I can...if not more so. Very well, two Petals for two ingots as we agreed.”

With that, I was so kind as to bring out what Dark Essence remained in the dish from earlier so that she could safely handle the Petals once extracted from their host plant. With no little excitement did she unclasp the four latches on the cylinder before letting the lid swing off to one side allowing the sickly-black Darkness within to start reaching outwards with tendrils of black intent. The silent fear in the back of my mind was quickly silenced as the haughty mare kept her word and only plucked the two agreed-upon blooms she had paid for, taking them into her gentle grasp with utmost tender care. Indeed, she seemed almost…peaceful? As if she had felt a tremendous burden taken from off her shoulders as a new dawn arose on those future prospects she had mentioned previously. In some small way…I suppose I felt glad for her, even if the path towards the moment had been rather fraught with irritations. All the same, we both had what we wanted even if it was not the most orthodox of transactions. And that would have been it…if she had not remembered that which I had hoped she wouldn’t. Streaks of luck had a tendency to end abruptly and without warning after all...

“Did you…perchance…happen to capture its Soul as well?” She asked hesitantly, yet rather expectantly. “Please tell me you happened to capture something so truly rare such as that?”

“No, I lacked a suitable phylactery with which to contain such a powerful Soul. Otherwise I absolutely would have made the attempt given it was easily within my power at the time. But again, that was just not possible.”

“Well why did you not consult with me first before setting out on the Path?? I could have arranged an entire cart’s-load be prepared had I known such would be your quarry on the Path!”

“You seem to be forgetting that I actually tried consulting with you…” I groaned irritably. “However…you never saw fit to answer my request for an audience throughout the entirety of winter. Always poor Habaara had another excuse on your behalf as to why it was never a good time for us to meet… But, knowing you, you will just deny all of this outright anyway…”

“Humph…well I was genuinely busy this past winter I’ll have you know. There is much I do for this School and this Valley that none of you are capable of understanding…”

“Mhm, and I used to wipe Celestia’s sweaty cunt after a trot…” I grunted with a dismissing wave of my hoof. “Get back to whatever it is you’re doing…I think we’re done here.”

“Well…seeing as you’ve no NightShade Soul for me, yes I suppose we have nothing left to discuss at this juncture. Good evening, Frejdá.”

“Good evening, Rosemary. And be sure to pay Habaara as we agreed as I will be following up with her soon.”

“I will keep my word on this, fret not your poor, fettered mind Master Witcher…goodbye.”

At last, she turned away and returned back to her station with her precious purchase gliding gently before her on a bed of magic, leaving me to retreat to the safety of the small lab and seal the door back shut behind me. Graciously, she had seemed most distracted by the Petals themselves and she had not prodded too deeply into what lay behind my charts, nor even managed to truly bring it up. All I could do was pray she didn’t find place in her attention to dwell on it any longer than she already had and leave me in peace. Coming back to my Venom, once the charts were carefully rolled up and slid back into their cubbies in the wall, my desiccated Petal was revealed once more lying upon its little ceramic dish. Even when laying on its side, there was just enough structural material left to allow the lace of dark purple veins to retain its general flower shape. Part of me was in silent tears knowing I would have to destroy such a beautifully delicate piece of art which deserved to be preserved and displayed in a suitably beautiful place. Yet what remained of me knew better than to hold myself back from doing what needed to be done. There was much comfort to be gained by keeping in the back of my mind the simple fact that I had nearly a hundred more still fully intact and safely stored away. Once my mind settled somewhat, I dipped my magic back into the chill mist of Dark Essence before ever-so-gently lifting up the beautifully tangled mess and bringing it directly above my barely simmering cauldron.

Once in contact with the fumes, which were now lightly saturated in the Dark itself, the web of veins began to softly writhe as if alive; sensing the Abyssal energies nearby which would enliven it. Indeed, a faint black mist began to emanate like steam from off the twisting veins of the Shade Petal as it metaphorically began to sniff the air and catch a scent that it liked. It was here one of the most precision-demanding tasks in the process arose, carefully slitting open each individual vein in such a manner as to leave behind but a single layer of cellulose to hold back the dense inner fluids. With a miniscule dull needle of Lunar Silver, I proceeded to lightly drag the tip along each and every vein I could find amidst the mass. The divine-imbued metal cut through multiple layers of cellulose like it were skin under a scalpel with a razor’s edge, until all the dark fluids beneath were only barely restrained by but a single remaining layer of cellulose. Truly I felt an inkling as to what great artisans experienced during the course of producing a delicate work of pristine art. The painstaking thrill which gripped the body when the mind was singularly focused upon an intricate task such as creating a work of beauty and depth. Indeed...despite my profession of being a Witcher, I felt as if I had some inkling as to the majesty true artists experienced in the midst of something they loved and adored. It took countless minutes to ensure each of my ‘cuts’ were as close to the centerline of each vein as I could, making damned sure to keep each of them intact until at last I felt they were ready for the final step. I was not wholly proud of my end product...yet it had been an honest effort and I was ever pressed for time. The tiny clock in the far corner had hardly stood idly by as I toiled away towards the night's majestic crescendo.

“Far from a meticulous preparation…” I sighed softly to myself whilst turning the precious flowery mass over for a second close inspection. “But it'll have to do for now…Istiél preserve me through this, I beg thee…”

I could tell I was a tad nervous about the situation from how I talked to myself, voicing aloud my inner monologue as my mind rambled a meandering path of tired thought. The worst of the stress had blessedly passed with the last of the veins receiving its shallow gash, and yet...I felt little comfort, even with the end in sight. What came next was to dangle the flower directly over the simmering brew in the cauldron and use an equal distribution of pressure around it to squeeze out all the fluids in one swift motion. The pressure balance had to be precise as too much pressure would tear the damned thing apart and introduce polluting cellulose to the Venom, and too little would mean multiple attempts at squeezing. The viscous ‘blood’ of the Petal was almost stupidly sensitive to oxidation with every second spent in contact with open air instantly nullifying many of the toxic compounds I had spent so long building up to. If a second or even third squeeze was necessary…the bottle of Venom may as well belong on the bottom shelf. Not unless I could adequately strain and filter out enough impurities through yet even further processes which each added their own unique points of failure which could entirely ruin everything. It wasn't as if I had already spent hours adding in extra dashes of Quebrith and porous strips of activated charcoal in a blatant attempt to further control pollutants and precipitates.

“Oh please, Gods above and below who would bother to give a damn…just let my instincts prove true…” I pleaded quietly in quasi-prayer before the proverbial altar of Alchemy as my magic formed a tight, complete band around the Petal.

Closing my eyes and giving all spare brain power towards the sensations felt through my telekinesis, I gently tightened the vice and dragged my magic down the short length of the Petal. Every millimeter felt like an eternity as the barely restrained veins all burst in unison as I squeezed them for all they were worth. The feeling of the dark violet fluid trickling thickly over and through the aura of my magic was…indescribably cold, with a boreal chill which sent needles of potent icy pain through me and into my Soul deep within me. Immediately, the emerald eyes of my Medallion flashed visibly green and my Guardian added its strength to my own; dipping its tail in the Essence then embedded itself into my own magic as a sort of Arcane reinforcement. The icy prickling graciously then dulled to a much more tolerable level, whilst my lungs were left bereft of air and my eyes were left watering after the initial experience. An extended swim in an alpine lake would have felt warmer by comparison as its deadly chill sank only as deep as the flesh itself while the Soul dwelt beyond its direct grasp even if it were a casualty all the same. This...was something else entirely, something which left me gasping for air with my mind ablaze with frozen spikes of pain and thought-numbing cold. It was all I could do to hold my tongue and hiss wildly in pain through tightly clenched teeth.

Though the entire experience had only lasted but a few seconds, it was enough to spark distant memories of the Changes in my mind. I had truly underestimated simply how strong the substance was and had forgotten the true level of suffering which came from directly handling Voidkissed materials. While the Petals themselves were dangerous to hold without Dark Essence acting as a safety glove over one's magic, their inner fluids were saturated beyond belief in the Dark power of the Abyss. I had the opportunity to directly handle a Shade Petal in a similar manner to what I was currently undertaking...yet, that experience was well over four-centuries old. I had a scattered few close encounters with further Petals of varying deadly flowers, yet none of those had involved my directly handling it. If anything…I was curious if it was perchance just a stronger strain than any I had ever previously handled. Though as to why that was...I was rather wholly unsure. The best speculation thus far in the Bestiary was that the age of the NightShade had a significant impact on the resulting compounds found inside their Petals. And if Braxia had succumbed over three centuries before…I had slain a very old Spectre. So old as to have seemingly forgotten herself as to the strength of Witchers, even in spite of her own victory over my Feline compatriot. Complacency could hit any Sentient race it seemed, regardless of if they were Daemon or not. I could only hope to avoid such a fate myself...

With one motion, the coagulating mass of dark violet fluid was dipped directly into the contents of the cauldron to dissolve under the caustic agents already brewed in. Extricating my magic from the stuff was not nearly as simple as any other substance, being much more akin to trying to wash one's hooves of pitch tar or pine sap. It took several long dips below the surface before the bulk of the material had dissolved away and the last chunks fell away in small clumps, but once free I promptly returned to stirring the glass rod once more. Eighteen rotations clockwise, ten counter-clockwise, fourteen clockwise, then five rotations counter…the pattern for each step changed alongside the number of extra drops of Warped Basilisk Venom to further raise the relative pH of the brew. Six drops, two drops, five drops, then one…the open page of my little notebook was my only lifeline to remembering each step of the process. I tended to need refreshers on subjects not regularly relevant to my daily work. Had this been a Beast Venom or even an Ogrid or Dracnoid one, the majority of it I likely could have done entirely blindfolded like it were a solo outing with the Pendulums. Hangmare's…there was just no reason to keep such a Venom on my person, let alone to brew it oft enough to memorize every detail of the process. The base Oils were on quick retainer in my memory after so many centuries on the Path, yet on principle alone I refused to try and commit the recipe to the same place in my mind. Besides…it was healthy for the mind to try and follow a recipe step by step from time to time like if I were a young Witchling all over again.

With the introduction of the tar-like ‘blood’ of the Shade Petal, the concoction had turned away from the desired shade of deep emerald to that of a sickly purplish-green. Whilst still highly potent to any open wound, there were going to be free radical molecules aplenty I would need to nullify, else the Venom could exceed its bounds and call more upon the Abyss than was necessary. Individual organs, or even the brain and Soul itself could be extensively mutated and twisted by the Abyss like unto any other living creature by virtue of it literally filling their veins. The toxic glycosides were all I needed, which necessitated the addition of those extra drops of Basilisk Venom as the highly-reactive substance formed bonds with the free radicals, thus removing them from the equation. The process for adding these drops was similarly a game of attention to subtle details and precisely calculated additional ingredients. Those subtle changes in color and consistency where my only guide rail for the process and the next hour or two continued to see me hunched over my brew making meticulous movements as I brought it all back towards the proper dark shade of green. Ever greater did the fumes grow in intensity until I could scarcely keep my face anywhere near the cauldron lest my nose cascade with snot and my eyes water over till I was blinded by them. Only when I donned a specialized fume mask did the symptoms finally subside, even if the inside would require an extensive cleaning after the fact as my muzzle was still messy even after multiple attempts to wipe it down.

The fruits of all my toil finally began to blossom and bloom most beautifully indeed as at last the proper dark shade of emerald green was attained. Tinted near-pitch black, the thick, oily substance possessed a soft metallic sheen of purple silver imbued deep into its foundations, courtesy of the violet silver nitre used earlier. The dense, curling fog coiling off the surface of the brew likewise found its dark green hues tinted lightly by that same silvery purple sheen which made it sparkle coldly in the white crystal light. Indeed, there was a definite Arcane sheen or glow to be found deep within the brew and its fumes which seemed like tricks of the light until I commanded the crystal lighting to dim somewhat. Once not so washed out, that same glow became quite noticeable indeed and traces of the enchanted pollen seemed to yet emanate from the substance, powdering the floor like a patch of morning mist on the School lawns. Even in spite of the vacuum produced by the portal above, these newest fumes were most reluctant to be moved by mere air current alone. Knowing the sensitive energies associated with it, I simply set one of the bars of Lunar Silver upon the center of the floor to which the pollen fled away from as if repulsed. Indeed, the effect was much like unto watching drops of potent soap touch grease-riddled water as the pollen fled away from the bars of Silver. Once displaced and up into the air, the draft sucked in from a one-way vent above the door frame took hold of them, and whisked them away into the vortex for disposal. After the second bar was placed on the workstation table near unto the cauldron, I was granted the chance to take off my mask as the air cleared and remained so of any debilitating fumes or pollen. Once that was all done, the only thing that remained was to strain and filter it one last time before bottling up what I had spent so many hours to produce.

Straining the Venom was a straightforward procedure by preparing a sieve of metal above a suitably large borosilicate beaker and carefully pouring the hot fluid contents from one container to the other. The cauldron itself came with four narrow spouts molded into the lip of the rim at the four ‘corners’, perfect for pouring out any brews with ease. The tight aluminum mesh of the sieve performed the bulk of the legwork when it came to removing any larger particles that may still remain even after a few doses of Quebrith for clarity. What bits of matter remained trapped in the mesh were rather small and mostly too pickled by the Venom to be recognizable on sight. Yet, it could be more than safely assumed that it was all a menagerie of what ingredients hadn't fully dissolved yet for whatever reason. Including any leftover cellulose from the abundant organic plant matter used, and odd crystals of contaminated silver chloride, fluoride, acetate and other silver-based salts which dried into peculiar formations when removed from solution. These crystals had a tendency to form in any Venoms or even Superior Oils or Potions which might feature silver as an available agent for multiple free elements or complex chemical chains to bond with. Typically these were waste products which could optionally be captured for refinement and reuse, yet by-and-large could be disposed of if so desired. However, given the use of Warped Deathbell to produce the violet silver nitre, I opted to retain any and all insoluble salts for future reprocessing. Having been imbued by the Dark, they would make for fine ingredients themselves for specialty elixirs as might require violet silver compounds such as mine had. After several minutes, the last of the thick Venom trickled through one of the narrow spouts, over the lip of the cauldron and through the sieve into the beaker below now free of many of its pollutants. Fine-nosed tweezers assisted me greatly in transferring what larger crystals I could find, whilst a thorough rinse with distilled water flushed out what was mixed in with the other pollutants and simply wasn't worth salvaging.

Already, the simple act of straining had increased the clarity of the dark green Venom settling into the large beaker it found itself contained by. Once the sieve was thoroughly rinsed clean from its previous use, the same transfer of liquids occurred once again. Only this time, a patch of tightly woven Thestral silk was layered on top of the metal mesh whilst the weight of the substance seeped itself through the fibers and into the second beaker. This process was then itself repeated a further four times with four fresh beakers, each time with one more small patch of finely woven silk added onto the sieve to further increase filtration. Come the final layer, the use of a small specialty pressing device was required in order to fully squeeze everything through all the layers of filtration. Kept in a small cupboard, there were a variety of sizes available depending upon the size of the beaker used. Though the borosilicate crystal glass was hardy and rather resistant to shattering, the press devices all came with a metallic frame which housed the glassware and evenly distributed the weight across itself rather than on the glass; the sieve resting atop the metal frame rather than directly on the glass. The press itself, operated via a single lever like unto the cork press found in the distillery further down the Valley, squashed a large, semi-rigid bit of shaped rubber firmly down into the sieve. Pressure was then continuously applied to the small lever as the Venom was squeezed through the layers of silk until the last drops trickled into my fifth and final beaker. The patches of silk were of such fine quality that a few washes in some chemical solutions and water would render them clean and ready for reuse by anyone else in need of their fine-filtering services. Of course, that was not until after they'd been allowed to dry and what remained caked onto them was dusted off for its own cleaning and reprocessing.

At long last…my Hangmare's Venom was finally, and most graciously, complete to the last. The charged particles of various branches of the Arcane mingled together in Alchemical equilibrium with one another, bringing together all their combined strengths as one. The silvery sheen within the brew shifted and shimmered softly amidst the depths of dark green, seemingly of its own accord as no fire bubbled it up nor any tools stirring the mixture. A wide, glass evaporating dish was placed over the mouth of the beaker with a thin dusting of powdered silver in order to hold back the dense, toxic fumes which never ceased to eek off the surface of the Venom. All that was left for me now to do was to find a selection of fitting vials and flasks for both individual use as well as the containment of whatever was leftover afterwards. I had most knowingly brewed much more than was necessary for the single dosage Violet and Topaz requested. I too desired to have some prepared for myself, but particularly for any others who may have such a need and were willing to pay. As long as the wax seal was not compromised prior to proper use, I could expect several years of shelf stability for each and every bottle leaving my care. There was nothing overtly illegal about myself or any other Witcher possessing Hangmare's Venom on our persons; even its very existence was something only really taught to Witcher Adepts and above. Rumors of its existence existed, yet usage of such a brew had been exceedingly rare at Kaer Solaris and typically self-brewed by the one in need of such a potent substance. That all being said of course…the rumor mill would inevitably catch wind of the truly special Venom I had just slaved hours to produce through careful preparations. There would undoubtedly be more potential customers like Violet in the future if I weren't careful…

My selection in crystal phials and flasks was rather modest given the cramped confines found within another small cabinet built into the stone wall. More options existed in the extensive cabinets of the central Laboratorium, however, the specialty-built wooden brackets within still provided an immediate selection for my present needs. Like unto the more fanciful glasswork employed in the containment of Arcane ingredients, we Witchers all seemed partial towards using items with a more decorative form than a simple bottle. As such, even the modest stock of small to middling phials took on fanciful angles, bulbs, and notches in their shapes; one shaped like unto an elongated diamond catching my eye in particular for the deadly duo’s personal use. The residual heat in the Venom allowed it to pour smoothly from the beaker and through a ceramic funnel into the chosen phial, coming to a stop just a few hairs away from reaching the neck. My magic was sufficiently strong enough to pop a tiny cork into the neck before hot red wax was drizzled atop, sealing it all shut using a small waxing kit nearby. Once finished, I took several long moments to hold the finished product aloft so that as much light could be cast upon its finest details as possible. Again I was entranced by the softly churning sea of violet-tinged silver swirling aimlessly amidst the exceedingly dark green, seemingly glowing from within as it danced before my eyes. A burning fire of pleased passion blossomed in my breast as I stared away at the fruits of my labor at long last. Even in spite of what it was intended for, my Mentor would have been most pleased with how I had conducted myself over the course of my brewing. I only knew it from the sheer intensity of the feeling…as its strength was most certainly beyond the scope of my own capabilities, but rather felt like borrowed strength from someplace else. Someone else.

My first bottling now sufficiently complete, I forced my eyes to peel themselves away from the enchanting elixir to focus once more on bottling up the rest. Several more phials identical to the one I'd chosen for Violet found themselves similarly filled, corked and waxed shut as a preemptive measure against any individual sales that may approach in the future. The rest of the Venom was unceremoniously dumped into a spare tall-necked flask taken from a shelf of spare glassware and corked with a temporary rubber stopper. I had taken up more than enough time in the Laboratorium and now, all I craved was a couple pints of hard cider at the Crosswinds Inn just up the stairs from where I had already been all night. As such, what remained was put away as lackadaisically as I had, given I would return at some later date in order to more properly disseminate it between smaller bottles. Until then, the large titration vessel was more than suitable for temporary storage within my quarters. With the Venom safely tucked away in its various bottles, my next course of action was to set about cleaning up after myself in full. Despite having tried to keep on top of the cleaning as my instruments were dirtied, various substances required stoppers or otherwise needed to be disposed of down the chute in the floor. The cauldron and some other bits of glassware likewise were in need of a cleaning and a rinse after what I had put them through, and I set about making right what I had used. After all that was finished, I pilfered a small scrap of parchment from a stack of note paper and proceeded to write out some simple instructions in the form of a short letter for the duo. Given I was rather unfamiliar with the typical dosage requirements for something like this, I had my best guess based on experience to rely on for some sort of solution. And, in the case it was read by someone not involved, I tried to be at least somewhat covert in my choice of words.

‘Violet, this should be worth your coin and then some! Like I told you earlier, I have little clue as to how this stuff will work, but I guarantee success within at least two drops if applied directly to any food source. Maybe one, but we don't want to overdo it either so play it by ear, not by retribution. Any basic laceration should be sufficient with a very light application, but that could speed up the onset of symptoms being introduced directly into the bloodstream so proceed with caution. I might advise distance be established and as minimal an amount as you feel you can get by with. There will be plenty left over for you to use at your discretion later so this is a big test of trust, Violet. If you can follow that much, you should be guaranteed a window to get to the High Road in good time. I expect a full report when you get back regarding how well it worked so I have proper feedback for any other phials on hoof since others will come knocking eventually for some of their own. That, and I’ll want another guarantee that you will be extra careful regarding its further use once you inevitably choose to do so again. It’s not like you’d go off and waste it all in one go…right? You better not.

Expecting ample gratuity for all this shite,

-Frejdá.’

Once the final stroke of the bit of charcoal flowed off the diacritic at the end of my name, I sat back deeper again in the folding stool which graciously supported my tired weight. Rather lazily, I proceeded to wrap my message around the diamond-shaped bottle intended for them before sealing the overlapping bits of parchment shut with a wax seal from the kit. Their commissioned order finally completed, along with a suitably fine aesthetic to match my efforts, I was free to requisition one of the simple Potion satchels made of cured leather which hung on a hook for temporary use. Seeing as my own Alchemy satchel was close to capacity as it was, the extra capacity was necessary in order to transport the other bottles of Venom I had already prepared. Not only those, but the large titration vessel housing what remained of my Venom from the cauldron was far too large to fit in what I had on me already. Graciously however, each spare satchel on the hook was available to any with such a need, so long as it was returned within a week. Else, like in all things pertaining to the Laboratorium, Paladin Thistle would have my hide skinned from off my body and roasted over an open fire in penitent sacrifice for my grievous sin. Each phial found a cozy pocketed home under the protective flap of the spare satchel and even the large flask awkwardly fit its way inside as well; the long neck poking out a tad from under the flap and out to the side.

Overall though, my choice in flask was still more than suitable for my current needs, and in my present haste to vacate the lab at long last…I was more than content with what I had to work with. It had been a long night...but there was such a feeling of satisfaction burning in my chest that I couldn't help but allow myself a quiet pat on the back for my hard work. As hearty of a all-night push as any I had undertaken in order to cram for my exams back in the day. All I needed now to solidify my small victory was to finish packing up to leave, clean up after myself like a good Witcher, and get a damned fine bite to eat. And I knew exactly where to find a place open so late into the night that just so happened to serve some of the best chow in the entire goddamned Valley. That...and I was in need of another friendly face or two after my interaction with Rosemary. I had come out a damned lucky mare, all things considered as far as Rosemary was concerned, and yet I still found myself mentally and emotionally exhausted from it all. It wasn't all bad though...I still had my hefty purse of coin from Violet and the blessed presence of the Lunar Silver could be felt even through the velvet pouch they rested inside. Was all of this worth missing out on several hours of sleep...? I'd yet to fully decide on an answer to that one...

* * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Eleven: Encounters at the Crosswinds

With everything cleaned up and put away, there was nothing left keeping me tied to the little annex lab I had called my home for the last several hours. And so it was with great relief I loaded up the last of my own ingredients, including the canister holding my Petals, back into my Alchemy satchel. My Guardian likewise seemed quite ready to depart as well as it was already reaching its tail around my body in order to begin unlatching the bolts sealing the door shut. As the last of the bolts was withdrawn from the frame, I was just slipping the strap of the extra satchel across my shoulder in preparation to leave. To my utter surprise however, there was a small gift waiting for me near the foot of the doorway. Nestled safely inside the corked confines of a slender bottle of carved moonstone was a full liter of expensive Thestral moonwine, much alike in appearance unto bottles I had seen in centuries past. Not only that, but a small pouch was likewise attached to the bottle as well which seemed noticeably weighted down by its contents. Lifting up the magnificent bottle up gingerly in my magic, I also spotted a small note had been left under its weight so it wouldn’t billow away in the draft. Opening up the pouch prior to reading the note, I found my eyes further sparkled by a tidy little pile of golden Crowns with a tiny sprinkling of the illustrious platinum Royales throughout. She had already paid me rather fittingly so a gratuity such as this was…unusual. I could not help but feel something was up that I was simply unaware of. That...or perhaps mine truly had been such a life-changing gift. It was with no little amount of eagerness and curiosity that I hastily slit the lusciously royal blue wax seal on her note and began to pour over its contents in the hope of finding some answers.

‘Frejdá, I must apologize more for my earlier behavior this evening and hope this stands as fair compensation for your gracious act of generosity. Your gift could not have come at a more opportune time as I am…up for review amongst my peers at Tir Ná Liá, and I am most loathe to jeopardize my current position of authority amongst them. I need not go into the finer details with you regarding the matter, but suffice it to say that you are likely to already to guess that my heritage continually stands as my greatest barrier to entry and acceptance amongst my peers. Those Petals will most assuredly allow me to retain that place for many years to come, granted my superior intellect is able to unravel enough secrets in time and the Headmaster is most gracious in granting me an extension on my deadline. But alas, I am afraid all these superfluous details will simply befuddle a mind such as yours, so allow me to briefly state it for your own satisfaction: I am sorry and I wish to sincerely thank you on this rare occasion as it is seemingly necessary in this situation. Perhaps you may see me as incapable of apologizing for my actions...and perhaps to a large extent you have proper grounds to think that of me. Yet, I hope this token of my appreciation goes some way in expressing that sentiment in a language you Witchers all seem to speak rather fluently: material wealth. Let it not be said that the Sorceress Supreme has done nothing to secure your financial future against the coming winter! Try not to waste it all on sex and Fisstech, or whatever it is you do in your free time. By this time next week, I should most comfortably have resolved my concerns with the University and all can return to as it should be in these treacherous times. I shall outlast my critics yet!

Sincerely yours,

Rosemary Clover, Sorceress Supreme of the School of the Wolf, Professor and Dean of the Arcane Arts at Tir Ná Liá University, and Proud Daughter of the Auroras Family; Long May the Boughs Shine Under the Holy Moon of Yore.’

Even ignoring the eye-roll-inducing portions, I was still genuinely taken aback at her sudden show of extreme generosity when, in all other cases, she was one to pinch coppers at any opportunity. Indeed, she had even attempted to haggle with me on the price just prior to her desperation getting the better of her and her stubborn pride. Yet, in my hooves I easily held a further five, six-hundred Crowns' worth of extra wealth as granted by our Sorceress Supreme out of her own purse. It was almost absurd that I would scarcely have believed her were she to have proposed such an amount to my face directly. Enough so, that I almost at once felt some sort of obligation to recompense her back myself with another Petal once I had the fortitude to make such a trip to see her. Never before had I been gifted so much money at one time save perhaps in the glory of the Golden Age as recompense for my Heroic Hunt. The moonwine alone was a highly-esteemed vintage out of Lletya, a wealthy town near an inlet on the Llyn Llywenan, the great lake forming most of the border between the Thestral Dominion and the Duchy of Yonderland. Only seen in the houses of very wealthy nobles and served in their Moonlit mansions as a rather luxurious gift to esteemed guests, I had been gifted a true delicacy indeed. In conjunction with the money provided by Violet, Rosemary had more than made up for the absolute shite luck I had found whilst on the High Road thus far in the year. I had no reason to doubt the scale of her desperation for a Shade Petal. After all, as she had even mentioned herself, her muddied bloodline was a continuous thorn in her side. In all things she sought to distance herself from the Equestrian roots planted by her father, and further immerse herself amongst those she deemed her equals. If I had somehow aided in that endeavor, if at least to impress her peers enough to not shun her openly, I suppose I had done some real good by her. The money and wine were a welcome bonus for a deed well done, even if she still remained somewhat of a haughty bitch.

The rest of the Laboratorium had been entirely cleared of all equipment and remained barren of any other Souls besides myself. With no active occupants brewing detectable fumes, the portal above the room remained dormant and silent as I exited out into the central hall. I was already juggling multiple bottles in the bags on my person, so I instead opted to tie both money purses to my belt and continuously levitate the bottle of moonwine beside me as I walked. Graciously, nothing seemed nearby which would unduly scare me and perchance cause the bottle to slip from my grip. As it was, I tugged open the main door to the Laboratorium and exited at last back into the sharply inclined stairs leading back to the Upper Courtyard. The recessed brass lamps gently continued to light the way up from the safety of their little alcoves in the wall and graciously accompanied me on my way back up. A happy little tune came to mind as I mounted the stairs and, at long last, I pushed the door open at the top and stepped out into the open night air for the first time in far too many hours.

Overhead, the full fabric of the night sky unfolded above me, proudly displaying the unfathomable majesty of the infinite Cosmos from whence we all originally came. Faint wisps of clouds coiled about and around Mother Tsuki’s Moon which basked us all in the silvery splendor of its holy Light. The Valley was in fact only one of a few places about the world wherein Mother’s Moon shone eternally in the fullness of its natural cycle of Light and Dark come nightfall; a boon granted by Mother Tsuki to those cultures which overtly paid homage to Her, no matter by what name they knew Her as. While the Sun had set in the sky, the intense yet gentle Light of a perfect, full, silvery-white Moon rose in its place to grant light and guidance to all held in its sway. Now entirely basked in it, those items which contained Lunar Silver on my person seemed to ever-so-softly hum with gentle energy as if they too were graciously welcoming the source of Power from whence they themselves came. With a soft smile, I retrieved the two little bars that Rosemary had paid me with and allowed them to fully soak in the light of the Moon as it only felt fitting. As soon as they truly caught its glow in their immaculately polished surfaces, the pale inner gleam they seemed to possess became like unto witnessing a bed of crystals sparkling under an intense white light. Even when held perfectly still, the bars refracted light in a manner which sent streaks of light flickering about as if it were slowly rotating in place. I was finding myself captivated by multiple shiny objects, each just as equally dazzling as the last. So many species had a fascination with such things, from the largest Dragons, to the shortest Pygmy…

With Thestral blood so strongly in my genes, I too was all but at the mercy of the majesty of our sacred Moon and could scarcely look away if I tried. I could feel my very irises open as wide as the Moon itself as indescribably gentle feelings of happiness twinkled like stars into my mind and Soul. The rest of my kind were equally as enthralled by native Lunar Magic, going so far as to call our Kingdoms by the term ‘Lunar Dominions’ instead. Just as the smallest trace of Lunar Silver in any object were energized with life beyond their own, I too felt a renewed sense of vigor whilst the Light of the Moon ebbed into my very Soul with gentle nourishment. Everything from my Medallion and weapons, to the small bars of metal, and even the precious bottle of moonwine, all glowed softly in their own rights in response to the Power inherent in the Moon. So very much of our world still yet readily responded to the call of Lunar Magic… In spite of Celestia’s accursed Sun, Terra Firma had not once changed its true allegiances to the foundations which Created it. Though the Abyss had heavily tainted it and wearied its heart down to the bone, a spark of the old life it once held still shone in bright pockets like ours across the Continent. The Moon was not only ours alone to worship and hold in high regard as almost every culture found a place of honor for the Sun's gloriously silver sibling. Together, in our own ways, we continued to buoy the Twin Sisters aloft as core foundations to each of our societies. Even Witchers held high regard for the Celestial Bodies and most still paid homage to the pantheons they had been raised with prior to the Changes. It was...rather beautiful to consider really.

Looking about myself, I found the immediate area of the Upper Courtyard was mostly devoid of occupants other than myself and a few School Guard on watch duty. The flames of various torches, sconces and braziers provided clearer sources of light for our poor Guard of which at least half were from species not naturally born with superior night vision. As opposed to a Witcher, Thestral, Felid, Dragon or any other species for whom the blessed Full Moon was more than illumination enough. No terrestrial lights within the Courtyard shone as bright however, as those which shone through the large windows of the four-stories of the Crosswinds Inn, all safely tucked up against the northern curtain wall. The training equipment from the day’s lessons had all been put away and the Courtyard was rendered quite calm and peaceful compared to the noise produced here by day. Truly…aside from the Moon itself, there was no sight more beautiful than that of a warm and friendly alehouse so late into the night and the Crosswinds operated day-in, and day-out. The sound of light merrymaking could still be heard whilst approaching the entrance which was near unto the postern door in the low wall of the Upper Courtyard. And indeed, the noise only grew louder as the door swung inwards as if to welcome me, only for me to be utterly surprised when a rather hulking armored individual was revealed to be coincidentally exiting the establishment at the same moment. At first glance when I saw talons and a beak, I thought it to be just one of the few Örn already living at the School calling their night of drinking quits for the evening… Yet when my eyes registered pitch-black feathers and no one I knew of owned such plumage, I did a double take on top of my own startled response to the door being opened. An overt reaction which instantly caught their attention as I were right in front of them and had nowhere to hide if I so wanted.

“Oh, begging your pardon, Master Witcher.” Said the towering Raven-headed Örn in a posh yet melodic accent and a very feminine tone, her piercing blue eyes gazing down at me with a modestly apologetic look. “Had I known you were about to come in, I would have gotten out of your way.”

“T-think…nothing of…it…” I mumbled back to her distractedly as it had been many years since I had last seen an Örn in the Valley whom I did not recognize at all. I couldn't have prevented my fixation on her appearance if I had tried...

What immediately struck me about her, aside from the soft glossy sheen to her black feathers, was the fact she wore the armor of a ranking member of the School of the Bear. After all, besides our lonesome Bear who rarely-if-ever showed his face in the Valley, hers was an armor which had not been seen in the walls of Kaer Solaris itself in many, many years; outside of those housed in the Reliquary and put on display of course. There was no mistaking the distinct design however after the countless hours I'd spend fawning over our collection of precious Relics. Bears were admittedly on the lightest end of our Heavy Doctrine of defense, shirking most of the plate armor favored by Dragons and the additional pieces of bulky lamellar and brigandine worn by the Örn; favoring instead a far more simplistic arrangement of weighty armor. A heavy quilted gambeson worn atop a long tunic formed the core of their defense with a thick, lengthy hauberk of leather-backed riveted chain worn atop their gambeson. Plate steel spaulders, bracers, clawed gauntlets, and lengthy greaves further accompanied a short cuirass of plate atop a jerkin of Dracnoid leather protecting her upper torso. Her cuirass likewise sported a high-necked leather collar, providing additional protection for her neck on top of the maille gorget she wore beneath. The equipment harness of the Bear School was also very distinct as they mounted several items directly to their cuirass like a bandolier of potions and bombs, as well as a special system of straps for anchoring any weapons upon their backs. Other items such as her Codex, Alchemy satchel and portable brewing station were all affixed to the thick secondary leather belts helping to keep her many layers of armor in place around her waist. Everything regarding her level of protection and equipment was pointing towards her being at least an Adept of the School of the Bear, however…there were certainly elements of it that were both unusual and rather seemingly homemade. At least…when compared to the many diagrams I’d spent centuries fawning over in my spare time in the Undercroft.

The color of her gambeson, which was typically a bold emerald green trimmed with brown amongst the Bears, was instead a dark charcoal grey of a similar shade to my own fur; the hem a beautiful midnight blue embroidered by fine silver thread and tiny pearls. The cut of her gambeson was unusually short for the typical Bear as well, forming a decorative hem split into four tails just past her knees; the black leather hem of her maille hauberk atop it only a mere inch or so shorter. It was not a wholly unheard of pattern, yet such a short cut was only known from Bears which had acclimatized to the heat of the Far South. The steel of her scattered bits of plate armor were tastefully darkened black through an intense acid treatment, further complimenting her beautiful black plumage which otherwise stood in contrast to the steely pommels and crossguards of her weapons. A lengthy silver longsword with a simple V-shaped crossguard adorned by an Örn School pommel sat proudly across her back; the crossguard having a decorative, spiraling twist down its length ending in round-cut bits of fiery orange amber. Meanwhile, a pair of needle-thin estocs with wire-wrapped hilts and thickened spines straddled the sides of her primary, expensively decorated belt; safely housed in sheathes wrapped in Dracnoid leather dyed a bold royal blue and capped in silver. Continuing that color theme were their decoratively engraved mushroom-cap pommels sporting large, cabochon-cut star sapphires as their centerpieces. And, as if to top it all off, from her decorative belt gilt with silver and pearls dangled a Lunar Silver chain connected to the Pendant of an Acolyte of the School of the Örn. It was all such an unexpected and unusual combination of equipment between the Örn and Bear Schools… Nothing I was seeing made any sort of sense and it left my head reeling somewhat, even more so than the bewilderment I felt upon first seeing Braxia’s corpse with his own mismatched equipment.

“Who…art thou?” I asked rather bluntly after my curiosity got the better of my manners. “You are not familiar to this Valley are you? I feel like I would be able to remember a face such as yours.”

“Nay! Indeed not!” She chuckled softly with bemusement. “I only arrived a few hours hence. I am most certainly a first-time visitor to Kaer Solaris, but undoubtedly a deeply impressed one! Almost all doorways and hallways are large enough to accommodate someone of my stature here! That is a luxury we have not had in well over a month now since we departed the Isles so I would like to thank you on the behalf of whatever masons saw fit to accommodate large species like myself. It is a blessed thing to walk amongst Eldar folk once again who know well how to accommodate one another.”

“H-heh, well this School and Valley were founded by Direwolves who can approach your kind in stature, so that is most certainly a benefit to us.” I replied with a soft laugh of slight awkwardness as I felt somewhat intimidated by such a beautiful, towering Örn. “There are others with you…? You mentioned ‘we’ twice so I cannot help but wonder…?”

“No large group accompanies me if that is what you are asking, or truly any group at all. Merely my younger brother who has pitched camp well outside this Valley so he will be of no bother to any of the good folks living here. The School in particular I dare say, heh…”

“Oh…? Well, we are rather friendly here if you have not already seen for yourself. It takes a rather obstinate fool very committed to mischief and mayhem in order to be shunned from our community in any meaningful way. Some may take ire to…unusual and unfamiliar people entering our Valley, particularly the Thestrals, but we have yet to run anyone out of town for simply being different. It is what we are founded upon after all! Or at least what we strive to maintain here while we can still help it.”

“Heh, heh…” She laughed nervously whilst scratching the back of her head with her armored talons. “You are kind to remind me of this Valley’s rather open-armed reception that I have thus far received since arriving as I was not wholly prepared for it. However…my brother is…special, shall we say. And no, there are no impairments as you may be expecting of his mind when I say those words. At least…not impairments that you would be able to understand as an outsider to our Isles and our Gods… Suffice it to say…he is not the most sociable of Örn, even amongst our own kind, and violence forms the foundation for much of his personal enjoyment.”

“I…see…” I muttered back in reply as my thoughts conjured up images of a hulking male Örn with immense strength at his beck and call, with eyes filled with murderous intent. “I suppose that was for the best then...”

“Oh, believe you me…it most certainly is for the best. None of you here should ever have to shoulder that burden which I carry alone. He is more than a clawfull to supervise at any given time for many reasons. Alas…I regret to inform you that I must return to him as quickly as possible for that same reason. I can never guarantee that he will stay still and not seek out something to…shall we say…‘entertain’ himself with, in the form of glorious single combat. Even without his swords, he is still more than capable of killing all manner of things with his bare talons and beak.”

It was at the mention of swords that I was once more reminded about her odd assortment of ranking Bear and Örn School equipment. As well as that of the Acolyte’s Pendant dangling from her waist following proper dress code. The sheer confusion of the amalgamation of Bear and Örn trappings on display before me was no less intense as it had been the first time I’d noticed it. If she were an Acolyte, she was wearing her weapons and Pendant in the appropriate places as prescribed by our rules and tenants. Yet her armor was most unorthodox for a proper Acolyte, even for one amongst the Örn who had their own distinct design patterned after traditional Örn armors. There were no clear prescriptions for armor standards when it came to Acolytes as they could choose to don something other than the equipment provided by the School of their graduation if they desired. If they wished to wear more or less armor than they’d originally been issued, that was purely left to them as well, so long as their choices rendered them more effective on the Hunt. However…were she incidentally a Witchling (her eyes were not visibly cat-like like a full Witcher’s), her choice of equipment broke at least one rule. That being not to wear the trappings of a School that is not your own, unless you were an official student there at one time in any meaningful capacity. What 'meaningful capacity' meant was different for each School, yet it typically meant to imply a full-graduate of the School's Trial of the Sword at the very least. Of course, while that could theoretically be the case, I failed to spy a Bear Pendant dangling beside her Örn one which would denote her dual-graduation from both Schools. Not that the School of the Bear was even around enough in any capacity to award Pendants in the last three centuries... She still had some explaining to do as far as my nosy curiosity steeped in orthodox tradition was concerned.

“Begging your pardon, but…you wear the trappings of one of our guild, yet while your pommel and Pendant say Örn, your armor is that of the School of the Bear. I suppose the Örn do not seem to adhere to the same set of rules that we do here regarding equipment?”

“Aye, I’ve heard that one more than a few times already tonight.” She laughed with a soft shrug of nonchalance. “And to answer your question, no we do not have such a rigid dress code in the Isles as of late as far as Acolytes like myself are concerned. We stand by the ideology of, if it suits you best, it is your best chance at keeping yourself alive and that is better than seeking uniformity in dress and appearance. The School of the Bear favored a lighter arrangement of armor which better suits my approach to combat as opposed to the typical armor favored by my School. My choice in lighter weapons follows in the same school of thought as, combined with lighter armor, I am allowed to strike like a maelstrom. All this allows me the peace of mind to fight at my best at all times, which is precisely the Örn way. Does all that unorthodoxy strike you as ill-mannered? It seems to have done so with some I have conversed with thus far… The Continent is seemingly stuck in the past in more ways than I had anticipated before setting out...”

“I…would say that all of it is certainly…unusual.” I replied whilst trying my best to not be yet another naysayer to her choices, nor the ways of her people. “For this Valley and School at least. Kaer Solaris and her policies have certainly adapted with the times somewhat, yet it seems that the ways of the Continent continue to run a differing course to those of your Isles. And that is perfectly acceptable in my eyes given you are civil and mannered like any self-respecting Eldar should be. The bar for treating a civil guest should always be set to common decency at the absolute least…and one of those decencies is to not overly judge another’s ways simply because they are not your own.”

“Ahh…a sensible Witcher then.” She crooned with a soft smile of gratitude. “Gracious to meet another here capable of seeing past the simple unorthodox behaviors I engage in. I earned my Pendant and the right to carry a silver blade through my own Trial of the Sword like unto everyone else here. Not to mention even further studies in the Witcher arts outside of that. There should be no doubt in my abilities simply because I do not rigidly follow outdated Continental Witcher dress codes. Um…no offense intended of course, dear Witcher.”

“A-ahem, none taken.” I replied with a somewhat forced laugh as I personally adored and adhered to such an ‘outdated’ practice.

All my head was filled with were just questions and more confusion. The back of my mind wondered somewhat if she might be a private collector with wealth, and/or outstanding connections which had allowed her to amass such a fine personal collection of Witcher's equipment. And yet, there was a firm conviction in her voice and a power in her posture and how she carried herself before me that came across as genuine. Many who tried to masquerade as one of us could be very cleanly ratted out for how little they truly acted like a Witcher. By their words, dress, skills and boasts did we find them and with vehement, righteous anger did we put an end to such falsehoods if we were able. We had no room for liars and charlatans in our midst and the Code permitted their demise as they could bring tremendous shame to both the guild, as well as the royal seats which sponsored us. However, this mysterious, unorthodox Örn was clean and exceedingly well-polished by our standards; even perhaps more than I would have expected of the Örn. Indeed, she felt much more like a native in our midst rather than a stranger simply by the manner in which she carried herself. There was also something regarding her posture and gait which went beyond that of a Witcher’s training and was posh like unto her accent. Perhaps almost…regal? The School of the Griffin was the one better associated with impeccable Knightly manners and values, and while it had been some time since I had been to their Isles, I doubted the Örn had changed all that much. Raw strength and cunning intellect were the domain of the Isles and its peoples. I was inclined to believe that she truly was a graduated Acolyte of their School from her mere presence alone, and I would give her the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise. If not for the simple fact that it was late, and I was not in the mood to return to unpleasant conversation and prickly emotions like I had with Rosemary for a time. Particularly with one so tall, gorgeous and imposing as she with her unusual set of weapons and equipment.

“Well, I suppose I should not keep you overlong then if you need to return to your kin.” I replied with a sheepish cough of awkwardness. “Are you sure you would rather not stay in one of the rooms here at the Inn? I doubt it is at full capacity at this time, and they even have rooms on the third floor which are large enough for an Örn, Dragon or larger Direwolf. I’m sure that would be far more comfortable accommodations than a canvas tent in the wilderness… I would be willing to cover your stay tonight as a welcoming gift to the Valley if you are short of coin.”

“Oh my, that is most generous of you. Fret not, I am, nor likely ever will be, in any shortage of coin anytime soon. And I am certain the accommodations here are simply divine compared to a bedroll by the open road…however, as I stated before…my brother is not one to stay idle for long. And while he might find a monster to keep him busy, I doubt any left in this area will stand up to him for long enough to satisfy him and keep his attention. I…hate to admit it…but that decrepit fort of Equestrians overlooking the High Road leading into your Valley would be a mighty tempting target for him. He knows he should refrain…as he knows I predict his boredom, as well as the route he takes to cure it most times.”

“...Is he looking to provoke a war or something??” I asked with a bit of a shiver of terror rippling down my spine.

“Nay! Well…perhaps, but it would not be in the name of the Archmaster King. It would purely be because my brother is a right hard bastard and has a burning hatred for every last damned Equestrian. The Witch Hunters in particular are his own…shall we say, personal Daemons to fight and cut down where they stand. The Cleansing and its perpetrators would face their own reckoning of death and flame if he had his way…”

“I…see…so…will he start a war on our doorstep or not?”

“Not if I am able to return to him immediately. I must bid you goodnight, Master…?”

“Frejdá Vilulf, of the School of the Viper if you cannot tell from the Medallion and abundance of scales in my armor. And you are…?”

“Kárá of the House of Muninn and proud Acolyte of the School of the Örn.” She replied brightly with a formal bow in a manner I was unfamiliar with. “A pleasure, Master Frejdá. Best of journeys on the Path and may we meet again sometime I hope. This has been a delightful little conversation, I must say.”

“Likewise…” Was all I could come up with in reply before she had fully left the entranceway for the postern door nearby, a ghostly baby-blue flame erupting to life in a large travel lantern dangling off her saddlebags.

I could not help but feel some level of intense curiosity regarding her, and found myself staring after her for a time as she took to the stairs against the curtain wall and down to the Lower Courtyard to reach the exit to the School. Graciously, she did not turn to look back and catch my wandering eyes, and so, I was free to watch and wonder until her form vanished under the awning of the gatehouse. Naturally, my mind swirled with questions such as why this was Kaer Solaris's first encounter with Örn from the Isles since the Cleansing, how much concern should we have regarding her brother, and why either of them had come here at all. Her armor, equipment, appearance, demeanor, reason for being in the Valley...everything was a convoluted mess of information. There was nothing overtly wrong or misgiving about her...yet I still felt a leftover shiver tingle deep within my body and I had no clue if it were from intimidation or overwhelming confusion. There was also no denying that she was all-too-lovely on the eyes and struck me as rather gorgeous, wearing her armor with a confidence I was helpless to not find attractive. I could have remained there for another hour easily with the number of questions and thoughts which assaulted my mind in her wake… At the same moment, my thirst had yet to be quenched, nor had I a chance to sit at a truly comfortable chair in several hours. I simply did not wish to keep myself waiting for either need any longer. I had spent so long already needlessly dwelling over my thoughts whilst in the open air when I could just as easily do so whilst nursing a fine tankard of Moonlight Mead, Greenmare's Ale or...perhaps some delicious Dragon Bitters. With more consideration, I found it would prove to be a difficult decision with so many good brews on tap...

The sounds of mirth and boisterous relaxation resumed the moment the wooden door swung inwards to welcome me inside. The ground floor of our dapper traveler’s respite was entirely devoid of dividing walls of any sort, opting instead for an entirely open concept which filled in the large rectangular space with fine tables of varnished walnut and comfortably-padded benches aplenty. Graceful, narrow pillars of granite rising from the stony floor were evenly interspaced between the tables to provide support to the upper floors; acting with sets of lanterns in conjunction with wide chandeliers of glowing white crystals in providing light to our fine little establishment. In the near-center of the room stood a broad, open-sided hearthfire which provided extra light and heat to both sides of the room. Indeed, it was even used to roast sausages and other foods as could be easily skewered and cooked over a roaring fire, providing a small basket of metal skewers next to the other firekeeping tools for just this very purpose. The space on the opposite side of the hearth to myself was also noticeably hyphenated by the far wall, which shrunk the internal space of the main room more than the outer appearance would suggest. Marked by a row of doorways, that side of the hall housed several enclosed dining rooms with a large table and chairs which were available to rent per-hour for private parties and meals. Of course, the occasional copper-scrapped patron might pay towards one so that they could rest in warmth and (relative) peace without paying to rent a proper bedroom which naturally cost twice-to-three times as much. As long as they cleaned up after themselves and paid in full up front, that sort of low-cost lodging remained an option to any visitor strapped for coin.

And finally, commanding the northern head of the tavern room floor, was none other than the low countertop altar to drink and good food amidst a pleasant night’s rest. Spanning the entire width of the northern end of the hall, the bartop was able to service up to thirty seats from the row of thickly-padded stools lined up on the customer’s side of the counter. Meanwhile, behind it, the Pygmy master brewer Barley Mash and his retinue of assistants would attend to the various ins-and-outs of the tavern, as well as that of the Inn on the upper floors. Behind the counter, an entire world of delicious foods and drinks awaited those with the money to afford them. Despite being a mere Inn (or more technically a hotel), the cooks hired to work their magic upon the culinary world at these very tables took their jobs with utmost seriousness. The meals themselves were priced on the higher-end for tavern food, yet the satisfaction they brought about was worth every Groat and Oren spent. Every dish that left their care was treated with no less tender care as any other they brought to life in the sizable little kitchen in the back. In truth, the broad Northeast Tower was only occupied by the School Guard on its uppermost fourth floor, whilst the ground level and first floor played host to a multi-story kitchen complex. The second floor acted as a preparation room and included a modestly-sized chamber for smoking meats and vegetables, whilst the chefs and staff had their personal quarters on the third floor just beneath the guardhouse above. Below ground, the Crossroads also boasted a two-storied cellar which acted as both storage and the site of the Inn’s domestic ale production. Over two-dozen brewer’s vats were reportedly down there, none of them ever seeing much down-time between batches in light of so many thirsty patrons. If anything, it was likely a good thing that good ales and ciders needed far less time to ferment and perfect than fine wine or strong spirits as it ensured no single brew sat idly for too long in the barrel. Save of course, those brews such as Dragon Bitters, Dark Pygmy Stout or Moonlight Mead which only grew more delectable with every passing year spent aging and maturing in fine casks of varying types of wood.

Standing at a lofty meter-or-so high, with long shaggy chestnut fur around his stocky chin and jowls, Barley Mash was the ultimate master of the Crosswinds Inn. Known fondly as the regional patron saint of ale, he was also the unfortunate recipient of a non-Eldar name thanks to his own mixed heritage of Pygmy and Equestrian grandparents. And indeed, he even seemed strongly touched by whatever odd magic of the Equestrians which gave them special symbols upon their bare flanks which represented their Gods-given special talent in this life. True to his name, symbols bearing the image of a bushel of barley set next to a brewer’s vat had appeared on his arse when he was but a young lad, acting now as his personal crest in the form of a custom signet ring he used to seal his official paperwork. In spite of his heritage, he made no efforts to diminish where he came from, but rather let the labor of his skilled hooves speak on his behalf whenever he was able. The Crosswinds had reportedly been in his care for close to three centuries now, built originally by his father Ŭndivkt who saw a prime opportunity to invest in the Solar Valley during the School’s initial expansion. The art of brewing flowed through Barley’s bloodline having come from a family of brewers and distillers himself with a sizable business out of Mahakam, the capital of the Pygmies’ last prosperous Underkingdom known as Keldagrim. The popular legend told around the Valley was that alcohol embodied his family to such an extent that they bled brewer’s yeast and pissed pale lager. His custom-brewed ales, fermented by-hoof in the Inn’s very own cellar, were all of the highest quality with a guarantee on every pint sold or your gold back in full. Of course, the old Pygmy stallion had to taste the bad pint in question for himself to determine if the brew truly had spoiled and was worthy of a refund; something that had yet to happen during my tenure at Kaer Solaris.

In all seasons, and in all forms of weather, Barley Mash was always there with a pint ready in your name and a listening ear for all your troubles…as long as you could pay for your drink up front of course. Like all Pygmy, he was hardly one to render out any goods or services on good faith alone and demanded fair compensation for his hard work in solid coin. That was of course, unless he was willing to take a long-standing patron with a clean record entirely at the value of their word. A relationship of trust that could take decades to establish with such a hardy stallion leaving no room for an abuse of such trust else the wrath of one savvy merchant be turned against them. Any with an active tab would be pestered for restitutions until he either got paid whatever he was owed, or he entirely barred the person from ever entering again until they truly learned their lesson. And even then, there was usually a 35-65% mark-up on all products sold to them just to further solidify how little he now trusted you, and how ashamed of yourself you should feel. It was better to be in debt to the Treasury due to a loan than it was to be on Barley’s shit-list. His list of suppliers and other merchant contacts could ensure that every business in the entire Valley would shut their doors upon seeing your face approaching the windows. And even several more beyond such as in the Copperbeak Underkingdom below us or up in Keldagrim to the far north; both major trade partners to the Valley and scarcely places you wish to have curse your name. In any town, it was a disgrace to draw the ire of the innkeep if one could help it (bigotry notwithstanding). To spurn Barley was to dance with a whole new form of social exile, one where even friendly territory became not-so-friendly whenever you drew near to their borders and towns. It was rare to happen...yet once it did, everyone and even their family pets would swiftly hear of it and the dishonest name associated with it.

The tavern itself was brightly lit as always, and only occupied by a few small, scattered parties of Witchers, Witchlings, Acolytes, and various members of staff as were enjoying their off-hours very late into the night. Some retained no company but their own at an isolated table, or else sat alone at the counter with some space between themselves and the next patron. Others formed groups of two-to-three and kept to themselves as they ate, drank, and exchanged pleasant-to-boisterous conversation with one another at their private tables. A party of eight Witchers in particular, all of varying Schools, were the loudest group of all and could be seen hunched over a table in the far right corner having a grand old time playing a competitive game of cards. Money purses sat before each player and stacks of Crowns, Orens and Groats stood in tidy rows nearby for adding to the wide, shallow bowl in the center containing the active bet for the round. Unofficial gambling was permitted in the tavern to a point, so long as the game played didn’t cause too much noise, didn’t erupt into violence, and never morphed into some sort of recurring mass enterprise. That…and Barley got a 5-10% cut of the pot to disseminate as extra wages to his employees for putting up with the extra noise and all the inevitable cleanup which followed. Several tall pitchers of ale sat atop their table already, nearly one per-player present, with hefty ceramic flagons to accompany them; all watched over just as closely as each mare and stallion's personal stacks of coin. Even from near the entrance I could see the shiny mound of money brimming over the rim of the central pot indicating either a serious bluff was at play, or a war of upping-the-ante had commenced and everyone involved was too proud to fold. All the same, half-drunken accusations and sneering comebacks were being slung about amidst the likes of lewd jokes and other assorted ramblings of inebriated Witchers unwinding from a long day. Were I not so famished and in search of a more quiet solitude, I might have poked my muzzle into their little game out of sheer curiosity alone. And if the cards being played by the group were feeling particularly ripe and golden? Well, I actually had money worth putting where my mouth was for once, yet I knew better than to tempt Fate more than I already did. Besides…I'd yet to truly see any sort of pay day from my efforts behind a deck of damned accursed cards.

By day, a rotating cast of musicians and small-stage performers could be found before the big central hearth plying their trade to a captive, but highly receptive, audience. In exchange for some appreciative gratuity, they would perform specific songs, dances, short comedic dialogues, dramatic skits, or anything else as might be reasonably performed on stage by request. Come nightfall, these talented individuals went home for the day to return to whatever lives they lived outside the Crosswinds, eventually leaving the tavern to its natural noises after a certain point. Of course, should the staff so wish, enchanted instruments could be brought out which could play autonomously from a long list of songs committed to a unique set of spell books which accompanied them. That, or a ghost-like apparition could be summoned from a selection of gems which stored recorded memories of particular public readings of great literary works or short theatrical performances as acted-out by renowned individuals with great talent. And so it was at this late hour, the noise of the boisterous game of cards was gently undercut by the soft sound of flutes, harps, mandolins and drums in the background. It took a moment to pick it out, but I quickly caught on to the tune they were playing, one which accompanied a long Pygmy saga of the mountain roots normally sang in pretentious prose with a thick accent. Barley Mash himself was nowhere to be seen throughout the tavern, nor behind the counter meaning he had likely turned in for the night himself, and had left everything else for the midnight staff’s capable hooves and talons to handle. Not that there was much for them to do compared to just after School hours ended. At that time, and especially around breakfast, the tavern was filled with an abundance of hungry and/or tired patrons in need of a satisfying meal. Gods knew the kind of numbers they logged down on their ledger during their busy hours; something they always had given the food was prepared to an admittedly higher standard per-person than that served in the Great Hall. Both were delicious and full of flavor, yet one kitchen had to prepare far smaller dishes for a smaller crowd, and thus could afford to spend more attention to each dish before it left the kitchen.

Another factor which I neglected to mention was the overwhelming, delicious aromas which flooded the room like a dense, invisible fog. Day and night, there were always people in need of appetizing sustenance and even as I filled my nostrils with the majestic scents of the kitchen, I found myself as one of their number. Seemingly buoyed along on a graceful cloud of beautiful scents, I found myself carried across the room on something else's wings as I sank into an isolated seat at the counter. It was never a smart choice to have a heavy purse of coin available whilst on an empty stomach as such purchases were rarely made with the clearest of heads. And yet, I found myself pulling out one of the two hefty purses I'd earned so far this evening and setting a short stack of Crowns down towards my meal. That, and any drinks or otherwise which I might wish to pay for…like information for example. Liquor loosened lips just as easily as a dose of Fisstech or Hashish could, and Barley was born with ears like a fox. If anything, the only difference between himself and Rosemary in that regard was that he acted as a reliable information broker, whereas she just thrived off of good gossip.

Anywhere there was an extra copper to be earned, you could be certain to find at least one Pygmy nearby looking to divert it their way. Of course, such a thing was rather derogatory to say regarding their noble race, yet it held many nuggets of truth as the clink of coin was a rallying cry for Pygmy and Dwem alike. For better or for worse however, Barley Mash remained one of the strongest roots for the whispering grapevines throughout the Valley. Nary anything slipped his or the staff's notice and they remained a terrific source of news and informative tidbits. All these informative whispers needed a pinch or more of salt and further digging most times, but were interesting whispers nonetheless. The key lay in not relaying any news of your own which might come back to haunt you or others later. This sort of unwritten rule existed across most all taverns in any nation or era, Pygmy ran or no. The only difference here lay in the fact that Barley and his staff knew when not to be bought and what questions not to answer. Rosemary by comparison was much more akin to that nosy aunt who simply needed to know all that went on and how she stood to gain by it. Regrettably…people of all sorts tended to be more honest with their opinions whilst inebriated, and barkeeps everywhere hear their fair share of mumbled talk occurring behind others backs. It was simply part of the job, much like unto barbers, librarians, and other professions that allowed for lots of idle chatter to be had and conveniently overheard.

“My, my! Big spender in the house I see?” Smiled one of the few staff on duty at this hour, dressed in a fine yellow tunic with an emerald green apron atop. “I do not remember you having such fine coinage last time we served you here, Master Frejdá.”

“Well that was due to my winter savings nearing bone-dry, or is that an excuse most Witchers are too wealthy to have had to admit up front?” I asked half-jokingly, knowing full well that most Witchers felt strapped for coin these days.

“Ugh…hardly…” The off-white Hippogriff stallion named Xanthos grunted with an undertone of irritation, scratching at a bit of green. “Sometimes it feels like them Acolytes are pulling in better coin than you lot. Without th’ mutations, they seem to be having an easier time findin’ some honest work out there. That all said, I hear a Shroud is what brings ye home so soon before winter comes. School of the Cat was it? Or did we hear that shite wrong…?”

“I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that everyone here is already familiar with it…yes, it was one of the Cats, heh.”

“O’ course we’re already familiar with such interesting tidings! Word came right up from the Barbican through the North Towers and right down to our very ears before ye even hit the damned gatehouse. Plenty o’ the Guard caught sight of a Shroud on ya, the only thing that took some time to learn was which School th’ bloke inside was from. Major theory at first leaned towards it bein’ a Wolf ‘er a Fox…Petra was really hoping it was something more exotic like a Dragon or some ridiculous shite like that. Weren’t till some lass from the Reliquary gabbed on about it during her dinner break to Honeydew that we got some real answers actually worth some salt. Word also be, the Reliquary is ecstatic about yer find! Though I've ain't heard much else I didn't already know since we first caught wind o’ it all.”

“Well, why wouldn't they be excited? It's been decades since the last faithful Cat was interred in the Grand Catacombs. What else have you heard thus far? I might as well feed you the correct information here-and-now free of charge before it has a chance to mutate into some sort of falsehood wrapped in half-truths.”

“Ahh, a smart mare indeed. And free? While you're still fuckin’ sober and cognizant? Bah! A smart lass like you’d know all information has a price, and a proper recompense is befitting of something like this. Give me what you know, and I'll sneak you a Fire Plum from the back. Fresh in four-days past, right from the heart of the Crandor Mountains!”

A Dragon delicacy? Here? He was most certainly making a move to loosen my lips a bit more with such an offer… Barley was teaching them all rather well it seemed. Unfortunately, I didn't have much to offer that was worth the fruit in my opinion, at least…as far as Braxia specifically was concerned.

“Very well, but I will take the fruit after I give you some insight if you would. Wouldn't want to spoil my tongue with such a strong flavor right before dinner.”

“Heh, I suppose that be a fair move to make. Alright, fruit for later then! Go ahead, give it to me straight-up with no garnish. Bullet points if ya can so we don't overly tempt any wanderin' ears who haven't paid their dues.”

“Oh no, I was fully intending on keeping it brief for both our sakes.” I chuckled as I nudged the short stack of Crowns beside me. “I'm a hungry mare and I am more than ready to purchase something. In fact, let me order a Bovine Belt Buster while we're talking, if that's still available.”

“Ahhh, good choice that! Sadly the last o’ our stock o’ bovine meat been gobbled up by Sir Tiffy and his Foxes before they set out. Next delivery ain't fer another few days yet unfortunately… But! You're in luck though, one o’ the Direwolf hunting parties brought in a whole mess o’ Feral boar just yesterday evening. We can whip up a Porcine Packer for you real snappy-like if ye want! Bastards are spreading like wildfire down from th’ north, but at least the meat be damned tasty and mighty useful for filling happy bellies aplenty! Anything else I should let th’ back know to prepare while yer hunger is on the prowl?”

“Aww, damn…I was in the mood for some good beef. Ah well, that would have been my second choice anyway. I’ll take one of them Porcine Packers with extra gravy and potatoes, two pints of Dragon Bitters, and…how about elderberry tarts? Am I in any luck with those tonight?”

“Very fine choices all! And aye, ye are in luck as I am here to craft a tart especially for thee! Mallow is likewise still attending the range and I'm sure she'd love to craft the perfect platter o’ pork for ye. Ye've no need to doubt me neither my dear, I can whip thee up th' best damned midnight hour tart your heart could possibly desire! Can I also perchance interest you in some steamed crayfish tail as well? The Mirror’s hatcheries are fit to burst this season so there's a steep discount due to the sheer oversupply they are experiencing as of late…”

“Oh? By this late in the summer I'd expect Yonderland and Kandarin to have taken most of the spoils by now. Was there another trade disruption?”

“Aye, plus they’s at war again. Sort of. Petty border dispute between rival families…you know how those damned things go. One side slaps the other, he then goes and murders the other bloke’s wife just for shits and giggles n’ next thing ya know, the entire northwestern corner of Yonderland and the south of Kandarin are right back at it like th’ last thirty years ain't ever happened. It's fuckin' dejá-vu all over again...”

“Indeed I do know how those things go by now…” I chuckled back tiredly before taking a moment to pop my back and stretch out some. “Mmmph…alright, yeah. I’ll take some crayfish, why not? Salt and butter to match?”

“Absolutely! Unless you’re feeling up to some more taste o’ the bounties of water? Could enjoy ‘em with a bowl o’ fine chowder if ye so please, I myself love to use it as a nice dip for me prawns n’ such for that extra-fishy flavor.”

I glanced down at the short-stack of Crowns beside me and replied, “Sure. Why not, eh? That should do me most wonderfully, Xanthos. But please… refrain from from upselling me anymore tonight. I can only consume so much in one sitting after all, even with a Witcher's appetite ready and rearing to dig in. I’ll slip you some good purse weight at the end for your troubles if you promise to leave my order where it lie.”

A sly, knowing look came to his eyes and beak as he nodded and made to move towards the door at the back of the bar section, leading into the kitchens occupying the tower. It would be a few moments before he returned and I allowed my attention to be drawn once more back to the noisiest corner in the room. The cards seemed positively on-fire for most hooves at the table and even from across the room, the tension between them in this round could be felt like a taut bowstring fit to snap. The pile of coins was tremendously impressive as well by now; easily a purse adding up to a few thousand Crowns, or perhaps even several thousand depending on the number of Royale Crowns floating around in the ceramic pot housing them all. The cards had never been particularly lucky in my favor in any of the scattered games I’d been coerced into participating in with my fellows. I always bet low, folded first and lost any coin wagered no matter the skill (or soberness) of my opponents. I just simply wasn’t good and had no intentions towards attempting to improve my odds. I was like unto a fat-arsed noble caught with her hooves stuck in the mire whilst weighed down by lead, surrounded on all sides by vulture-like Chorts, Windigo and other massive monsters as could kill most any creature in their path; let alone a soft-bellied thing such as myself. I was nothing more than easy money and idle amusement to those who knew how to properly play the varying ways in which cards could be played. Which I never could. Nor did I truly care to try and push through until I hit a breakthrough on the matter. I was not muzzle-deep in a Hunt, fighting for my life against something I knew how to cut down and otherwise slay using the tools and knowledge at my disposal. It was a measly game of cards which was as much about the bluff and misdirection as it was about confidence and the intellectual prowess needed. Luck was required in spades on both sides, and yet not all luck was born or bestowed equally. I was lucky enough to have survived the Path as long as I had, yet not even a faint whiff of that luck was to be had when the deck was split and the cards dealt around the table.

Deep down, I truly envied those sons of bitches as had the luck to last more than the second or third rounds of betting without getting robbed blind. I longed for their stamina for the monotony of cards and the mental annoyances of remembering the meandering sets of rules which could vary wildly by region or even by player. All the strategies and techniques required to be worth a damn in any game were competing for space in my mind against my years of Schooling, and lost horribly each and every time. There were plenty who devoted their lives to the art of the deck, much like I had dedicated mine to the study of Witchering. Infuriatingly, there were a good few amongst us that were equally adept behind a deck of cards as they were a sharp and Oiled-up sword. As to which of us earned more coin per-hour spent whilst performing our duties…those who studied their cards usually could trot circles laced with pure gold about us poor saps who couldn’t. However, this band of wily Witchers were not so poor as that, and were actually making quite the ruckus as they seemed to attempt to out-spend the other. Large boasts of prowess followed derogatory jeers said in good faith and competitive spirit as each player wielded their egos in tandem with the cards floating in their magics. Any game worth playing was to be steeped in intrigue and hidden signs/meanings as went entirely over my head like unto learning an entirely new language. Indeed…part of me truly wished I had something mundane like cards that I could use in order to be casually part of such a gathering. Of course I could try and join by butting in my own coin and finding an open place at their table, but they all knew what they were doing and then some. I would be but a defenseless wee lamb wandering her way into a den of hardened, hungry wolves famished for their next feast of flesh. My lack of talent would surely sour the mood of the game, even if they managed to eliminate me early anyway. I knew of myself that an amateur attempting to butt their way into something meant for experts was a surefire way of ruining what fun they were previously having. Blatant inexperience before trained professionals only ended one of two ways: encouragement and learning, or shame and ridicule.

“Tadaa! One delectable Fire Plum as promised! And Mallow is whipping your order up fresh as rain as we speak! Now, let’s clear up the mindless conjecture and establish some facts shall we?”

The noise of the kitchen door swinging back open had caught the awareness of my hearing off to my left so I was hardly startled when he emerged with something wrapped in cheesecloth in his talons. Indeed, he seemed fairly proud of what he possessed and set it down gingerly upon the bartop before pulling loose the simple knot holding the bundle all together. What was revealed was a sizable fruit which could have passed for an exotic breed of dragon fruit as imported from the Kobolds to the far south, rather than as any sort of traditional ‘plum’. The large, scaly fruit was instead of a brilliant dusky, shiny gold color, trimmed along the edges in a fiery red which transformed into a ruddy scarlet on the inside of the fruits bizarre overlapping layers of thick, leathery scales. These overlapping scales then trailed off into orange, wily spiky tips that seemed alight like unto tiny candle wicks, though the cloth it rested up on suffered no burns. Already, the spicy sweet fruit was making my mouth water from the distant memories of my last brush with a Dragon delicacy such as this. And all for myself alone to enjoy for the meager price of true information regarding Braxia, something that was no closed secret to be held close to the chest. I could only hope he knew what highway robbery this was and was merely being generous with his resources just to butter me up, or perhaps merely just being kind.

“Damn…that is one beautiful specimen…” I sighed softly with a smile as I gazed over the delightful little fiery fruit.

“I wouldn't have mentioned ‘em were they not so fresh!” He chuckled heartily before bundling it back up in its protective cheesecloth wrapping. “Alright, now out with it Frejdá. Fill me in on everything so we ain't spreading any falsehoods under yer name.”

“You might find yourself disappointed by what you're paying for… This sort of news will be formally announced at his wake one way or another.”

“Bah, that is still a day or two away from what Honeydew was informed by that mare from the Reliquary. There’s going to be plenty o’ paying ears which might wish to have that information earlier than that. I best be able to provide such a service were it to be required.”

“Very well, don't say I didn't point this information out to you… I was out on the High Road in the south, near the village of Hollyhock towards the fringes of the Everfree. Only meant to pass through to stock up on some preserved foods for the Path ahead but when I caught word of Daemon-like activities in the area I just had to stick around and find out more. Lengthy story short, I seemed to have happened across a NightShade Spectre who herself seems to have successfully killed an exceedingly elder member of the old School of the Cat. A Master Witcher by the name of Braxia Melitus of the First Born.”

“A First Born?” He gasped softly in surprise. “My, my…that is interesting! So you're saying that if I looked hard enough, I could find the true face of that stallion adorning the walls of the Baths somewhere? That is…simply incredible…”

Despite being amongst the very first to learn he had been of the First Born, the many implications associated with that fact seemed to have not fully registered with my mind until he mentioned the murals in the Hall of Pools. To know what Braxia had once looked like whilst not a lifeless skeleton slumped against the wall of some Gods-forsaken cave…? What a true blessing that was, if one laced at its very foundation by a pining sadness for what once was. Knowing what the First Century looked like was most certainly a privilege others of the Fallen were not so lucky as to have. After all, not all of us saw fit to have their likeness put to parchment, canvas or even some kind of wood print outside of our official guild papers. Each School’s Chamberlain Office did their best to maintain a record of all their members by having talented artists render out a Witcher's likeness to accompany the rest of their personal documentation for identification purposes. Yet, with many Schools being in the state that they were, a great many records had been understandably lost prior to the various exoduses to Kaer Solaris in the wake of the Cleansing. Truly, we were so lucky as to know the First Century by their faces and general appearances at all. Much had elapsed, changed, and had been lost in the five-and-a-half centuries since the time of our guild's inception. The only saving grace was the fact that Kaer Solaris had suffered very little during the Cleansing compared to several other Schools. The Archives had survived the ordeal entirely intact and unscathed with its precious collection of Witcher’s wisdom and personal tales dating all the way back to the founding of our guild.

“Aye…that…that really is something incredible to consider, isn't it?” I replied back after pondering over the implications of his words. “It failed to occur to me that I could actually see and know this stallion by his face until you mentioned it in all truthfulness. And I was even recently in the Baths as of only earlier this afternoon. Not once did it occur to me to check the Archives for a print, nor parse over the walls of the Baths for any semblance of his likeness. I feel rather stupid now in all frankness now that I am saying all of this aloud…”

“Eh, think nothing of it.” He shrugged heartily in reply, “The Baths have a way of drivin’ most thoughts from the mind upon entry. It’s what they were meant for after all! No?”

“Heh, too true… I do not know too much more than that at this time I'm afraid as I too have only caught brief snippets of information on the old Witcher. All else I know is that he set out from the School of the Cat sometime in the spring of 297 and was never seen nor heard from again after that. The Council of Elders named him amongst the Lost in 300 and now at long last he can be counted amongst the Fallen with full closure and proper funerary rites. I was unfortunately unable to locate his Codex for some reason, and he seemed to have been under-equipped for being a Master. His steel and silver swords befitted his rank, but his armor and other equipment hardly stood up to the ravages of time so there was naught but molded scraps to find.”

“Fascinating…and here I thought we had buried all of the First Born as could yet be found in this plane of existence. I know there were more than a few that vanished under…unusual circumstances.”

“Aye…Chasms go both ways and many other Wild Magicks blur the lines between realities out there. As a fair example, a fellow Viper of mine, Gods rest her Soul, ended up a wanderer amidst the Ashinaka Shogunate to the Far East thanks to an imported Arcane artifact which whisked her thousands of leagues hence. She spent nearly a decade there whilst attempting to find some way to return home amidst another of their civil wars. A particularly nasty one apparently from all the bloody stories she told us about after the fact. One bloody battlefield to the next against some of the best swords ever to be swung about by trained warriors. She only found her chance when some port blockade on the coastal town she was staying in was routed in a bloody naval battle and her little skiff managed to sail out through the chaos and back to the Continent.”

“Is that so…? Sounds like a right fuckin' paradise for the likes of you, heh, heh. How long ago was that, I wonder?”

“Unless I'm entirely wrong about your age, you weren't born prior to the turn of the fourth century. All of this was far too long ago for you to even remember.” I chuckled with bittersweet memories of yore prickling my eyes with unwelcomed tears. “She even managed to slay a few of their exotic Daemon and monsters whilst over there, though most trophies she had to leave behind as her chance for escape came most suddenly from what I remember. What she did manage to travel home with was a place of honor in her quarters at Kaer Nathair for the longest time, the head of something she called a Nukekubi. Some sort of feminine Daemon which hides amongst ponies by day, but can detach it's head from its body come nightfall. I suppose it'd be a Vampire-category creature since she said they feed purely off blood and most seemed to prefer the blood of males.”

“Truly? What a fascinating story she must have with tales like that aplenty! Though…I take it by your tone and expression that she is not present for me to ask such questions. Oh how they burn dearly in my heart now that I've heard this tale.”

“Mhm…poor girl lost her life near my side during the Eighth Battle of the Bitter Fens. Bastards drowned her face-first in a puddle of muck on the battlefield after a spell flipped some heavy siege equipment onto her legs…”

“I see…well, onto happier topics perhaps for such a late night such as this? I spied that fancy-arse bottle of moonwine you have there, what's the occasion?”

In truth I was most grateful for the distraction as I wished for nothing more than to not remember the faces of the dead and replied with relief, “Oh, that? Surprised it took you so long to notice it. That is a gift from the Sorceress Supreme herself if you can believe me. A gift for a gift if you will.”

“Oh? Color me rather surprised then. Pray tell…what caused her to be so…uncharacteristically generous? That must have been one queenly gift you gave her…wait, it must have something to do with the NightShade you mentioned. I heard something about special flowers you collected but I suppose I am not as up to date on all things Witcher as I did not connect the dots. Correct me if my conjecture is at all awry.”

“No need good fellow, you nailed it square on the head. They are called Shade Petals. They can only be gathered from the remains of NightShade type Spectres, a rather rare species in and of themselves. They are beings of an odd Abyssal substance and this particular group includes a toxic plant as part of their creation. The greatest of their number are made from deadly plants which possess flowers and these same blooms can be recovered from their corpses. The one I slew was made from a large stalk of Foxglove and each Petal is…special shall we say. Know that I say all this in good confidence to you and the rest of the staff as the rumor mill is seemingly already spreading word of my finding across the School. People with the appropriate skill sets will come asking for them, some wholly without talent likewise, and it's quite possible that one or more might try to steal them off me entirely. So be forewarned that if anything is to befall my precious trophy…”

“I catch your meaning loud and clear, Frejdá.” He replied in a subdued tone. “Though as you said yourself the secret is already making the rounds by your accounting and this is the first I myself am hearing of this information. Perhaps it might be wise to deposit your find with the Reliquary if you can? I can think of few places safer that aren't deep below ground and don't require mountains of paperwork from the Dwemari to secure and insure.”

“Hmm…you know, you make a very fair point. Given the exceeding age of the NightShade I slew, I'm sure a technicality can be made for its exception. Not that I am loathe to trust my fellow Witchers…but it is the younger blood I am more concerned about, truth be told. The ones seeking an easy path to wealth and glory for the least amount of labor possible are the ones I fear most in this regard.”

“Ahh…isn't that the dream for any of us? To work little yet obtain great sums of income to spend as we see fit… I truly understand and empathize with your words at this juncture. Very well, if we were to be asked for information on the matter…?”

“The absolute bare-minimum bar of entry is to those who have the coin for something like this. Price it per-Petal like you would for a bottle of Mother's Lacquer from a fourth century vintage.”

His eyes shot wide as the costs he was familiar with synced up with the rough value I placed per each and every blossom on the stem. While I had perhaps overcharged Rosemary somewhat with my price of 375 Crowns each, it was still exactly as I'd described to her earlier. Shade Petals of any sort were exceedingly rare due to the correlating rarity of the creatures which possessed them. As such, they would always fetch a hefty sum from any with the skills and knowledge to understand the potential and potency of such a highly Voidkissed item. Indeed, I knew naught of any items more highly steeped in the Abyss outside of the raw Ichor of the bodies of Spectres and some other Specter-category creatures. Perhaps the hides and Souls of Arch-Daemons of course…yet the only known one to have been seen or slain was the very same being which brought about the School of the Dragon’s own demise. Either way, I could charge whatever I wished in the end and I had decided to set the price at around 350 a Petal. Or next best offer if they so happened to have something of equal value to me like Rosemary with her ingots.

“W-well now…I suppose I as an outsider would be wholly unaware as to how something like…that…would be priced.” He stammered after he was somewhat able to regain his composure. “Dear Gods that is a pricey plant you have there if that is what you are charging per blossom. Doesn’t Foxglove have dozens of little bell-like flowers per plant?”

“Indeed it does heh, there's a few varieties growing in the Gardens for decorative purposes if you would like a refresher as to how many on average one bears.”

“Nay, I think I am close enough already to understanding what it is you have. Yes, I think it very wise you find a safe place for those Petals of yours before too long…that is a tremendous fortune to just simply be carried about like it's some worthless Alchemy ingredient. I will bear all this in mind most assuredly if any are to ask and will be frugal with what I share with the others. Although Barley…”

“Is another beast entirely in this matter.” I laughed quietly whilst finishing his sentence for him. “Yes, heh. He most certainly will be seeking a full accounting so just give it to him straight-up. I trust the bastard enough by now to know how best to disseminate information like that about.”

“Very well, then let it be as it will.” He chuckled back in reply. “Oh! Blazes, I cannot believe I've failed to ask already, but did you perchance catch that strange Örn female who stopped by earlier?”

“Aye! Bumped into her just as she was exiting and I was entering in due fact. Kárá I believe she said her name was?”

“Mhm, that is what I remember hearing as well so I am glad to have it confirmed without having to awkwardly ask her to repeat her name. Those Örn ploughin’ scare me…”

“Oh believe you me, I fully understand what you mean by that. I felt much the same when we conversed outside…that is a lot of muscle hiding under those feathers.”

“Absolutely! I ain't no slouch when it comes to lifting my weight in stones and some more besides…” He said with a joking flex of his muscles. “But that gal looked like she could fold my spine in half with her bare talons without breaking a sweat.”

“I'm with you there on that one brother…” I agreed with a subdued nod as I pondered the tantalizing thought of having her talons on my person in any capacity. “Did she perchance happen to mention why she was here at all? It has been quite a long time since the Örn have made any sort of appearance here. Outside people like Bjørn, Helga and the others already living here of course.”

“Nothing truly to be gleaned I'm afraid. She mentioned she and her brother were taking a Witcher's tour of the Continent seeking out new challenges the Isles lacked. No mention of being here on the School's behalf or…really much of anything regarding the Isles themselves. She just asked a lot of questions herself and didn't really answer any in return. Believe me, I truly did try my best but she wouldn't yield an inch on anything.”

“Truly? Dear me, what a steely lass then..” I whistled softly in approval for her resilience to the traditional innkeep information shakedown.

“Mmm…believe you me, I would've shat my feathers if I didn't fear that embarrassment more than I feared her already. She was more than polite enough, but…damn are they big fuckers.”

“Heh, as if I were blind myself to the obvious about them? Alright, well…what did she ask about?”

“Everything you'd expect an Acolyte cooped up on the Isles for the last half-century with little word from the Continent to ask. The state of other Schools/nations after the Cleansing, who was hit, what nations still stand strong, the state of Equestrian politics and Eldar-Equestrian relations, how many Witchers survived the Cleansing, everything about the new-age Kaer Solaris…many, many things indeed. But nothing overtly telling as far as I can tell. Were she some random Equestrian…I probably would've pinged her questions as those of a spy but who are we to assume what they know and don't know about us?”

“Aye, it only goes to prove the rumor that the Eagle Isles have entirely cut themselves off from the Continent. To sit for fifty-five years without any sort of mainland contacts to speak of…”

“At least here in the Valley, none of our resident Örn have ever once given any of us the hint that they were somehow covert agents of their King. Er…Archmaster. Which is it they prefer?”

“Truly…that's a question for them I'm afraid. I think it could be interchangeable as I've heard both be used in the same breath by Helga once, but I could also be entirely wrong.”

“Hmm…well, either way, it was a pleasant conversation for the most part. Only part that wasn't was the subject matter given the unfortunate information I had to tell her regarding all those who have passed and what was lost.”

“Mm…that would indeed be a heavy conversation to endure. I hope she was satisfied with what we were able to preserve here?”

“Oh quite so! She was exuberant in expressing her joy at seeing Redclaw Ridge and the School itself as beautiful as they are amidst Equestrian lands. She seemed most perplexed, but seemingly highly satisfied, with the abundance of Eldar taking refuge here. Though…I do suppose that is entirely due to the tales she knew of this place are from before the Cleansing and much has changed since that time. With nothing to go off of but history, it's little wonder she was caught by surprise. The Isles would likely greatly surprise any of us too if we were to visit. Who knows how much they've changed since the Cleansing as well?”

“The Örn? Change? Are we still talking about the same species anymore or have we moved into the Dwem?”

“Hot n’ ready! Hope ye be here with a hungry belly! Frejdá!! Slap me silly wit' a bar o' Orichalcum, you’re back!”

Our conversation was rather suddenly interrupted by the kitchen door behind him swinging open as out came an adorable female Goat with a cream colored coat and short brown horns adorned with golden hoops and baubles. Her large fluffy ears likewise bore a pleasing collection of shiny golden jewelry, some even sporting some tastefully cut gemstones of various types and colors. It was good to see Petra in the flesh after so many months away and I was glad to see her still on-duty this late into the night. Somehow, balanced across her horns and the top of her head, was a broad pewter platter bearing a decorative bowl lined around the rim by a wall of steaming crayfish tails. Accompanying it was a loaf of warm wheat bread, a generous pat of butter, a small salt pile in a dish, and a pair of tall, frothy-lipped tankards positively brimming with dark red Dragon Bitters. Having grown up adopted by a Pygmy family, she had naturally inherited their thick accent and propensity for good eats and great ale. Truly there were few sights better than a beautiful meal being brought out to you by an equally beautiful someone who is extremely excited to see you. Perhaps the only thing that might have made it more tantalizing would have been if she had emerged dressed in something a bit more provocative. She was a cute lil’ thing in my eyes after all, and I never minded greater looks at lovely works of art. Goats and other Capra weren’t typically my cup of tea, yet Petra Clovenhoof was one of a few exceptions to my wandering eyes. She was one who knew what she liked and made no effort to hide it, even if it came at the cost of my own personal embarrassment.

“Petra! It is simply fantastic to see you too!” I beamed back at her as she dipped her head low to carefully slide the platter from off of her bedazzled horns and onto the countertop. “How have you been since I left this spring?”

“Bah, right fuckin’ brilliant lass!” She grinned widely in response whilst gesturing about herself with her cloven hooves with golden shoes affixed with golden nails. “I gets to work in a beautiful lil’ establishment like this servin’ you good folks quality grub n’ great beer! ‘Tis the latter one lass tha’ particularly keeps me on retainer! Barley brews th’ best damned ales in the whole ploughin’ Valley and I don’t give a flyin’ fuck how good anyone says the swill down at Three Kegs & A Barrel or Beetle & The Bard is. How could I not be happy wit' me life, eh?”

“Woof…are you sure you wish to be so publicly accusatory of two of your largest competitors like that? I doubt their regulars would be inclined to agree with you on that one, else they’d be regulars here would they not?”

“Ah, quiet ye naysaying wench!” She chuckled heartily with a metallic thump of her hoof on the counter setting my bowl to rattle somewhat on its platter. “They’s don’t have ‘The Stuff ’now do they? Do they let their creations ruminate on the stars for a year before serving? Fuck no! And not only that, but half o’ Three Kegs’ stock be from outta the Valley! What kind o’ self-respectin’ Eldar is that? Drink locally ye daft bastards! We got the best shite anywhere to be found!”

I couldn’t help but bust a gut laughing as her hearty propaganda piece promoting her place of employment came to a close like a fiery sermon from a Priest of the Eternal Pyre. She truly had the heart and spirit of a Pygmy, through and through. It was part of her great natural charm after all and I found it rather endearing and part of her attractive charm in the end. For the umpteenth time, I could hardly help but say it again: it was damned good to be home again.

“Gods have I missed your spirit, Petra.” I beamed at her while she unloaded her platter and set ready my place to eat. “How old are these Bitters out of curiosity?”

“Oh Celestia’s teats, if I’d known it were you gettin’ these pints, I would’ve gone for somethin’ more mature than two moons…” She grumbled to herself irritably. “This won’t do at all, damnit! I’ll be right back with a proper pair o’ pints for you Frejdá, just you wait a lil' spell.”

“No need! No need…” I chided back at her softly with a raised hoof before patting the two flagons of beautifully burgundy ale. “This’ll do me just fine dear, I don’t want you to bother fetching me something else when it’d waste these two here that I’m paying for already.”

“Not if I takes ‘em away from ye!” She chuckled in reply, snatching away the two drinks and sliding them under the counter and out of sight. “There! Now me n’ Xanthos here can enjoy a drink wit’ ye n’ you get a proper drink to wet your whistle with.”

“Well…guess I've no say in the matter!” I laughed heartily as there simply was nothing else I could do. “Very well! But don't be tapping a new barrel just for my sake. You know I am more than happy to take from anything that's already open.”

“Aye! That I do, beautiful! Be right back then, you go ahead and get to eatin’ missy before them lovely crayfish go cold!"

* * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Twelve: Crosswinds Feasting

After snapping up a pair of fresh, empty flagons from below the counter, Petra took off back behind the kitchen door leaving me alone once again with Xanthos and my mouth-watering first course. I glanced between him and my meal before he gave me an amused nod to proceed. I was scarcely going to deny myself from devouring my food, however I also wished to not come across as rude for ignoring him in case there was something more he wished to immediately say. Now given the cue though, I wasted not a second more in pulling the delicious bowl of creamy chowder, crayfish tails, and platter of warm bread towards me. Somewhere along the way, one of the long, steaming crawfish tails dripping in chowder found its way into my mouth and immediately I was overcome with the symphony of salty, fishy, dairy-ridden goodness to be had by the expert blend of flavors with notes of garlic, rosemary, and parsley.

Locally-caught fish and crustaceans alike made a regular appearance in the School's Kitchens amidst the other meats prepared such as beef, pork, fowl and cervid; all as good a source of proteins and nutrients for famished Witchers as any other. Nevertheless, the School had to prepare all their meals in massive batches in order to feed the masses populating it. Thus, they were unfortunately somewhat limited in what it could accomplish in bringing about a true fullness of flavor given the scale and speed in which their meals had to be prepared. As delicious and proficiently as our dutiful army of cooks were able to administer unto the food served during School hours…the cooks at the Crosswinds were simply able to step above nearly every time. Even at their busiest, the tavern hadn't the same seating capacity as the Great Hall and thus could channel more culinary wizardry over each and every dish that left their care.

As such…I was simply spellbound by the labor of their loving hooves whilst my tongue swam a tour of the flavorful bounties of the local waters. I hadn't tried dipping the tails in chowder before now, but Xanthos could count me as one of his converts after the overwhelmingly positive sensory experience I had just gone through. The flesh of fish itself was...palatable to me, yet when given the option I would always prefer the meat of a land-dwelling beast over most things which swam below. Crustaceans, however...there was something to their taste and texture which I found to be most appealing, at least as far as seafoods were concerned. Though, even then, I was somewhat picky as I had not the stomach nor the heart to indulge in them uncooked and raw, preferring instead they be well-prepared and seasoned such as I was relishing in before me. The Örn were known connoisseurs of such raw...delicacies... It had been well over two centuries since my last visit to the Eagle Isles, yet their penchant for striding the sandy shore and eating whatever they could find fresh from the water continued even with our resident Örn who likewise engaged in the practice. Bjørn in particular was even known to clamber atop one of the tall, decorative bridge towers spanning Mother's Mirror and dive to great depths to spear something upon his beak; devouring it whole the moment he breached the surface only to climb up and do it again and again until his great appetite was sated.
'It is a cultural tradition of my people!' He would bellow towards any who might look on with disdain for something so uncouth, 'The Kaf is a privilege to perform! I dare any of ye to do the same and perform such a feat!' Indeed, the Kaf was a tradition as old as the Örn themselves, harkening unto the earliest of days before culture and civilization truly separated the Sentient from the Feral. The taste of the sea, even from an inland lake, made the mind wander towards distant shores with every salty, fishy bite one graciously indulged. Before I even knew it, the meaty ring of tails had swiftly vanished down my throat and into my grumbling belly which welcomed them all most readily and gratefully. So too was the bowl of chowder scarfed down like it were my last meal alive, and every last bit found itself scraped clean from the bowl by great hunks of freshly-baked bread of dark rye. A veritable little feast of its own, yet my hunger was not so easily sated, even for such a beautiful opening act in what was to be a rather delightful meal.

“By the Gods, ye inhaled that like it t’were your last day on Terra Firma!” He chuckled after the culinary orgasm had finished carrying me along on its afterglow.

“I-indeed…” I stammered back with a bit of embarrassment. “I didn't realize how famished I had become from all that brewing! I worked up quite an appetite it seems, heh…”

“Brewin’ eh? Burning the midnight oil makin’ some Potions? Unless you've suddenly grown so found o’ ale you learned to brew it yourself?”

I already knew I had said too much, but other hints had already escaped my tongue earlier so he was likely to begin connecting the dots between the facts regardless. It was useless to try and claim to be a humble brewer when I only knew the basics of the art and had no real hooves-on knowledge of the craft hunched over a fermenting vat. I had certainly seen many of them, and even assisted Barley with some light barrel moving as a favor to his aging back...yet that was hardly enough for me to qualify as a brewer, let alone in the same league as Barley himself. Unfortunately, the best I could hope for was to stonewall him as a friend and hope he would be content to not try and press the matter further. It would only solidify any suspicions he might already have...but I would be saved from having to explain the Venom on my person.

“Nay, Potions were what consumed my late afternoon and evening, but it is of no concern to you if you would please oblige me on that front. I've little doubt your ears will catch whispers about it, but I would much rather just leave it alone if you would.”

He cocked his head inquisitively but soon nodded in acknowledgement of my request and replied, “Alright, I see th' look in your eyes. I'll leave well enough alone then for your sake, Frejdá.”

After sliding a full Crown towards him to sweeten the deal, I said, “A very wise choice, friend. Many thanks, and stop your ears if any slander happens hits them. You know me well enough by now I'd hope to sift fact from fiction from the many mutterings that go on here. Graciously, the work paid well and made up for a rather dismal time on the Path.”

“Is that so…? Interesting…”

Another loud bang and the kitchen door swung open yet again, Petra bearing aloft on her head another platter of flagons as she bellowed out, “Fine drinks fer mean finks! Come n’ get yer liver thrashed!”

Her gracious reappearance meant I could safely insulate myself from any of his wandering, wondering thoughts as to what I'd asked to be left alone. It was only natural for his curiosity to seek answers to the obvious tells I couldn't help but give off when trying to divert his muzzle away from sniffing about. However…the last thing I needed was the conjecture that I had brewed something off-menu for Violet and Topaz. While it was no ironclad secret that the pair engaged in some not-so-friendly familial entanglements…I was still wary on having my name spoken in the same breath as that topic. I had managed thus far (somehow) to evade such connections as I brewed poisonous compounds for more than just the two she-devils, as was well-known fact around the School. Myself and my fellow Vipers were all frequently begged for such work when we had a spare moment which muddied the waters with layers of clandestine work I could hide behind.

With our Bitters now out and on the counter, we all took up one (mine being a noticeably darker shade of burgundy to theirs) and raised a drink to one another. Each ceramic tankard was equally just as full as the other so none were robbed of a single drop of potent ale. The brew itself was refreshingly bitter, as its name implied, and had a mildly earthy, almost bread-like undertone to its full-bodied flavor which tingled the mouth and tongue pleasantly. The gorgeous red color it was known for was the result of the special hops used in its brewing process, grown only by Dragons dwelling in the Crandor Mountains far to the northwest near the Crescent Coast. Indeed, the flavor was a favorite of Dragons everywhere who seemingly had a liking for bitter alcohols as they likewise brewed an undrinkable form of extremely bitter Absinthe. Called the Black Death by its creators, it was a suitable case of the name fitting the item as the fluid was black as tar and even stole the very air from your nostrils when sniffed. After an extended drought from all three of us, Petra downing her entire pint in one long draught, we all slammed our tankards down firmly on the counter with satisfied sighs.

“Oh Gods have I missed this brew…” I grunted happily as each breath of air brought on waves of an odd sugary sweetness over my bitter-soaked tongue. “I'd pack some for the Path, but I know all too well I would consume it all within the first week if not sooner. It is simply too delicious to pass up and I will admit I am weak to temptation in its case.”

“Sounds to me you've got yourself a drinkin’ problem lass.” Petra chuckled jokingly while the reddish-white foam formed a stately goatee on her face. “You'd fit right in with me mates in Mahakam! Or those damned Copperbeaks even!”

“Hey, what's wrong with the Copperbeaks?” I asked incredulously. “You have a beef with them?”

“Bah, pay her no mind, Frejdá.” Xanthos sighed irritably. “She’s just mad that her team lost in the Pits of By-Tor this season and she's out half-a-year’s worth of pay on a whole set of terribly bad bets.”

“Ye scraped my damned hide clean o’ gold n’ silver too, ya poxy bastard.” She snapped at him which elicited a hearty chuckle from both of us. “Say, Frejdá! I see some wee shinies on th' counter there…what's a debt-riddled Goat like me got to do to see some of them beauties slid my way eh? He's got the look of a stallion who's just nabbed himself a nice spot o’ gold for somethin’ and I want in on that action.”

“Oi! I promised to look the other way on somethin’ she said and I got me fair share of the spoils of that labor. No freebies ‘round these parts, you know that!”

“Oh plough yourself in butter n’ cheese fer all I care, Xanthos. I asked the mare if there were somethin’ fittin’ I could do to earn a bit o’ gold of my own. It ain't like I'm jabbin’ a beggar's cup in her damned face so don't go actin’ like I am!”

“She has you there.” I spoke up in her favor, if merely to see Xanthos fume just that bit more over it all. “Now, to answer your question Petra, I think if you would be a dear and fetch yourself something nice that you'd like to eat or drink on me, and take what remains as my condolences on the loss of the Mahakam Sappers. Not a sport I tend to have the time to peer in on, but I don't hold anything against L’Zuk itself so you have my sympathy.”

Her eyes and face immediately brightened at my words and she exuberantly exclaimed, “By th’ Gods above n’ below ye know how to treat a Mahakam girl right! Another pint o’ Bitters for me n’ the rest be goin’ straight into my purse.”

“Please don't gripe at her about this…” I chided towards Xanthos who was beginning to open his beak to protest my move. “You got a full Crown for shutting up so why don't you keep earning that gold before I have a mind to swap it for a few Orens instead. You can spend some of that getting yourself something too you know.”

“Oh bugger all…” Came his grunted response. “Fine, I might as well go check up on Mallow and see how your main course is coming along Frejdá.”

I acknowledged his departure with an amused nod as he disappeared behind the kitchen door, his shiny gold coin of silence twirling between the talons of his right hand as he walked. No sooner had the door rattled shut behind him did Petra immediately make a grab for his abandoned drink and scooted her long-empty tankard away to the side.

“Waste not, want not!” She giggled before giving her new(ish) drink a hearty swirl and downing the remainder in one mighty gulp that'd do any fellow Pygmy proud. “Mmmmmff…damned fine choice in ale ye got there, Frejdá. Always appreciated tha’ about ya lass…ye knows what ye like outta th’ barrel and never fuckin' leave yer seat disappointed! Mare after me own heart in tha' respect, you can be damned ploughin' sure o’ that!”

“Why thank you!” I blushed softly in appreciative embarrassment. “I just like a good refreshing drink like anyone else, I fail to see what makes that so special on its own.”

“Ah, but you can tell a lot about a person from th’ hooch in his or her cup! Or at least make some decent guesses as to who they be without much in th’ way o’ personal information n’ the like. Ain't surefire across everyone o’course…but let's take a look at ye fer a good example, eh?”

“Oh? Very well, give me thy appraisement then dear Petra. What about Dragon Bitters speaks such volumes about me as a person?”

“Oi! I didn't say ‘volumes’ of info would be learned from somethin’ like this, but let's have a go at it then! Let's see…well, first off, let's talk about th' flavor. Them Bitters can approach wormwood in pungency, n’ yet you knock it back like a shot o’ harsh vodka! Means you's are aboundin’ in spine n’ guts o’ the finest Mahakam steel! But, there's that beautiful bouquet of sweet fruitiness tha’ follows suit n’ I see how you open yer mouth n’ breathe in nice n’ deep like… You also knows how to push through th’ bitterness till ye’ve hit th’ sweet, even if that moment t’was never to last. You hang onto that flavor on yer tongue like t’were me ‘neath the sheets, heh, heh!”

Of course she would see fit to prickle yet even more embarrassing flushes of red to my face over our casual fling together. Like any other Witcher brimming with an overactive endocrine system and rampant sex drive, I like many others had a network of friends and associates. Friends and associates who liked to engage in a good fuck together in order to stem some of the torrential flood of hormones pumping constantly through our veins. Indeed, such a thing was so common that there was little point in trying to conceal such proclivities in any real way except out of common decency for others around. And yet…despite that…I was still a mare who preferred some sizable modicum of privacy when it came to whom I kissed and whom I took to bed. It was very rare that my want for privacy was due to the shame of who it was that I took to bed, but rather just the simple fact that even after the Changes…I was still rather sheepish at points. At least when it came to hearing my proclivities spoken aloud in public where others could overhear. Again, not that she and I enjoying each other's company was anything wrong or worthy of the rumor mill, but the sheer fact it simply embarrassed me to hear it said aloud like that. Still…there was certainly something…deeply erotic about how she liked to tease me like this...even if I inwardly wished she would never be so bold as to announce it aloud as she did.

“H-heh…u-um…moving on!” I stammered whilst trying not to blush even more. “A-anything else my taste in Dragon Bitters informs you of me?”

“Heh, coward.” She grinned before leaning over the counter to grace me with a soft kiss graced by the scent of the ale. “What else do mine eyes perceive by thy choice in drink? Well, ya asked after it's age the moment ye saw th’ head o’ foam lookin’ a wee bit too pale in color compared to how ye like it. Ye know th’ value of patience, in waitin’ fer a good thing tah mature and play out as th’ process demands till it becomes somethin’ truly special if given th’ proper time n’ conditions to mature. It also means ye got good coin tah spend on quality! You're not some gobshite with only a few coppers to her name lookin’ to drown yer sorrows in cheap swill. Means ye got some class, darlin’!”

“I'm sure others would disagree with you as to how sophisticated drinking ale is compared to say…”

“Don't ya fuckin' dare bring them wine-drunk Thestral pansies up when we're talking quality drinking time.” She grunted dismissively with a wave of her gold-bangled hoof. “Pale ale with not a hint of a dark lager anywhere in their oak barrels?? Bah! Better off drinkin’ piss than that shite…”

I laughed softly in happy amusement for her rant, even if it were a tad unfair to them who, by my metric, had excellent taste in wines and brandy given their propensity for fruit. Something I had to point out in good conscience on the behalf of my distant kin, regardless of the snobbery which individuals like Rosemary embodied.

“Aye, their ale be mighty light and pale as the morning dew.” I agreed with a nod of my head and another sip from my own drink. “But you have to admit that their brandies are tremendously delectable. I find myself partial to their pear and peach vintages since they have the time and patience to properly age their hooch for as long as they wish. Why…I would scarcely be surprised if yet more untapped wealth in wine and other spirits exists out in the world where Thestrals used to roam. Cellars of the finest shite we could ever hope to imbibe simply begging to be discovered…”

“Well…when ya put it tha’ way…maybe I should invest in seekin’ one of them out for meself. Might turn a mighty profit n’ find somethin worth drinkin’ while I'm at it digging about in th' earth fer lost treasures!”

“Who knows? There is so much that has been lost over the last nigh-on seven centuries. I mean…I am quite old myself, yet even I was hardly alive in the time before the Arrival. For the entire duration of my life has Equestria been on every map of the Continent and they have only swallowed up more of our old territories as time drags onwards. It isn't just Thestral cellars you should be looking for…but any Eldar as might have once owned land there but does no longer.”

“Fuckin' savages…” She grumbled to herself before pulling out an uncorked bottle of vodka from under the counter along with two shot glasses. “Fuck it, share a drink wit' me towards me losin’ two-hundred Crowns?”

“Oh Gods, he wasn't jesting when he said half-a-year's pay was he…? Pour yourself another on me then, you truly need it more than I do.”

“Oof…don't tempt a Mahakam girl with free booze, Frejdá! She might just not know when to stop!”

“Well I would hope she would, your accent is easier to understand when you're sober.”

She laughed heartily again at that and knocked back both her shots one after the other without so much as a wince or gasp for air that most others could not escape.

“Pleaseeee…” She crooned with a sultry wink whilst licking her lips. “You like me when I'm sauced and thoroughly thrashed, don't you lie.”

I was spared from having to answer such a sultry question by Xanthos loudly reemerging from the kitchen with a large, delicious tart on a platter and a roll of his eyes towards Petra. He was followed closely behind by Antonia Da Fioré, better known by her nickname of ‘Mallow’ for the soothing tea she loved brewing making use of the plant and flowers of the same name. Even for Kaer Solaris and the Valley as a whole, she was an odd sight being a member of the small but vibrant community of Equines who referred to themselves as the Alpili. Reportedly, their origins lay in the lands far across the Great Western Sea on wholly foreign shores to ours, one brimming with many exotic Sentient species as very rarely traveled to our lands so as to be known unto us. The Alpili were the descendants of an army of foreign mercenaries once hired by the Konungr, the old Örn King in the Age of the Moon, in ages long ago to engage as part of some long-forgotten war of old. Of course, that was all prior to the formation of our guild and the title of Archmaster grafting itself upon the title of King amongst their kind. Regardless of whatever war it had been which saw fit to drag these foreign warriors to our shores, they had since seen fit to settle down and stay upon their reward for assistance being one of the Örn's very own islands.

Upon the newly-renamed Isle of St. Thollier they made their new home and established unto themselves a small, vibrant culture all their own which was steeped deeply in their ancient ways, yet had adapted to adopt what Örn practices as suited their new island life amidst the Great Western Sea. Like the rest of her exotic kind, Mallow had a coat of dusky tan which was graced by a vivid gradient of red and orange stripes climbing up her legs from her hooves; thin, aesthetically pleasing stripes also adding streaks of color across most of her face and neck. While the yellow and green dress of Crosswinds staff hid most of her colorful stripes from sight, her autumn-orange mane was done up in fantastically braided tails around either side of her neck, each bearing all manner of multicolored ribbons woven amidst her many strands of hair. And like myself, she too possessed lovely eyes of purple, although hers were of a graceful shade of lilac, whilst mine were more akin to a particularly dark bit of amethyst. With a melodic twill in her voice that was particularly Örn, yet also somewhat Yonderlandian (as my only closest comparison to her native accent), she was easy on the eyes and the ears all at once whenever she entered the room.

“So it is true! Welcome home, Master Witcher!” She beamed happily whilst setting down a large platter loaded down by meat, potatoes and gravy. “When Honeydew had said you had returned early, I had my genuine doubts as you never return this early in the season. And then I heard tale of the Shroud you bore hence and all became far clearer to me.”

“Well I am gracious to hear that you didn’t jump to any nasty conclusions about my dedication to the Path.” I chuckled back in happy reply, my mouth instantly watering at the scent of roast boar. “Damned be the Gods if that isn’t the finest thing I’ve smelt since spring…”

“Thank ye kindly, dear Frejdá! You can thank the Örn for teaching me how to wield culinaromancy upon the bounties of meat! We do not participate all that much in it ourselves, but knowing how to cook and prepare it? Why should we not learn such skills, even if we are not to actively use them at home?”

“Well it’s servin’ ye damned fuckin’ well in these parts!” Boomed Petra with a slightly hungered look to her eyes as she glanced over my main course. “Th’ fine Witchers of this School n’ all other meat eatin’ folks as live here all thank ye fer yer mastery o’er the range. Many a mighty hunger hath been quelled by her skillful hooves!”

“I’ll most certainly drink to that one! I for one certainly cannot wait to dig in!” I chuckled back, raising my tankard and taking another sip of the refreshingly bittersweet brew.

“Hey! Don’t forget me tart!” Xanthos butted in with a scowl. “I can wield plenty o’ culinary magic on fine desserts like this too ya know! Me mum taught me every damned thing she knows but seven months on the Path must’ve dulled your memory. Why dontcha take a wee bite and allow me to remind ya o' the culinaromancy I possess!”

“Please, don’t make this into a matter of thinking you are being ignored Xanthos…I will enjoy each and every last fucking crumb each of you has to offer me here as you both are equally masterful at what you do. I just like to save my dessert for last so as to not spoil the savory with the sweet too early. Every dish in its own due season, every flavor given its just reward and review in good faith and in good time. Besides, is it not rude to rush your patrons through their meal simply to hear their review of your work sooner?”

“Where I’m from it is!” Mallow hummed happily in her melodic voice. “Let the mare eat the work of my hooves, dammit! She is paying for all of this after all. And well at that, don’t let some daft air in ye head spoil the moment for her.”

“Yeah, listen to Antonia.” I said with a look square at Xanthos who averted his gaze immediately. “You saw the clink and weight lining my purse for yourself already so you should know better. Or is your purse more in the mood for silver than gold tonight and in need of a suitable replacement?”

“Alright! Alright… Guess I shoulda known you’d be takin’ a girl’s side in all this gobshite, so I’ll just head on me merry way then. Sweet fuck you mares are annoying…” He grunted irritably whilst depositing his tart on the counter before stalking off back into the quietude of the kitchen.

“Eh, go soak yer head ya wee cunt.” Petra laughed after him before nudging some cutlery towards me to resume my feasting. “And you can get to some good eatin’! Mallow here put some extra heart into all o’ this when told her it were ye that came ordering some porcine goodness this late in th’ night. Now tha’ I say it aloud though…why are ye up so late? Get peckish mid-sleep?”

“Nay, some late-night paid work for a friend.” I replied simply seeing as I had already told Xanthos too much as it was.

“And…?” Mallow asked with a cocked head of inquisitiveness. “Was there something to follow that up with or…?”

“Not really, no. I’d rather it be kept private for now if you two darlings would be so kind. It is truly not something I would like to discuss over such a delectable looking meal.”

“Is that so? Well then…I’ll try tah keep meself from pestering ya too much about it then. Now. EAT dammit, or do I have tah feed ya like a wee filly?”

“Nay, I shall be fine as I am.” I laughed with a smirk before beginning to carve a splendidly thick slice of meat from off the spiral-sliced haunch. “Though…something has come to mind that either of you might be able to answer for me whilst I partake in this beautiful dish. Fear not, it should not be anything that I need pay for. I think.”

“Oh? Well be a dear and do inform us as to your inquiry?”

“Got me purse open n’ waitin’, Frejdá. Heh, heh, go ahead n’ ask already!”

“So…I’ve little doubt you’ve already heard about, or even saw for yourselves, my bout on the Pendulums with the Archmaster?”

“Aye…sorry truly lass, tha’ was hardly fair of tha’ bastard to yell out like that durin’ a bloody duel on the fuckin’ Pendulums of all damned things! He coulda killed ye wit’ a stunt like that! I’d have his stones carved out n’ stuffed down his slack-jawed beak, th’ ploughin’ areshead…”

“Indeed…regardless, I never actually caught word as to why that Griffin called out and sent our duel into an unnecessary spiral. It must have been of some truly mighty weight indeed to have been so pressing as to interrupt us so…so…rudely! There! I finally said it aloud...”

“Oh? Still feelin’ the weight o’ that situation bearin’ down on ye? Oh ye sweet thing…”

“I have, yes. I will not try to say otherwise to either of you who would likely know better than to be caught in such foalish shadowplay. All the same, yes. I do feel better for saying his interruption was most rude and I felt like I truly had somewhat of a chance in striking true against the Archmaster in front of all they who spectated. Putting them and all else aside…can you please apprise me, if you are able, as to the contents of his so-very-urgent message to Ludovic? I would like to know what it was that had been deemed so important...”

The two of them glanced at each other with a hint of sheepishness which was most telling. If even they had yet to catch wind of even a whisper of said message…it relieved me as much as it truly, deeply concerned me. Relief, for I could in better conscience accept that the message had indeed been of such great import as to require the messenger to interject as he had. And concern…as the only thing which immediately crept to mind which could be of such dire consequence singularly regarded the matter of the missing delegation; missing and unaccounted for, for three, now four, days.

“Sorry lass…ain’t a whisper n’ the breeze that's worth considering as hard truth tah be had on tha’ one I’m afraid.” Petra admitted hesitantly with a nervous scratch of her hoof to the underside of her chin. “Soon as th' Archmaster checked tah see ye was gonna survive tha’ fall, he shot off like an arrow from a bow inside the Great Hall. Only real word we got fer ya is tha’ most of th’ Grandmasters been called to th’ Council Chambers n’ they’ve been in there ever since. See fer yerself! Can still see the lights o’ thems meetin’ from all th’ way from down here if ye get low enough.”

I turned out of blatant curiosity, even in spite of the fact I trusted their word on this at face value given neither of them showed any hints of trying to pull my tail from under the table. Though I had to awkwardly crane my body far to the side in order to dip my head low enough to get the angle needed in which to see it, the sight was exactly as they had said. Extending out of the easternmost face of the lengthy Master’s Hall, a sizable polygonal apse stood high above us with its towering panes of stained glass brightly shining colorfully with bright light from within. The Council Chambers were not used for any petty meetings or procedures…not when the Instructor’s table on the mezzanine of the Great Hall was more than suitable for the three-rounds of staff meetings held each day. If they had met almost immediately after my fall and retreat to the Baths…they had been in-session for well over six hours now. Something was most certainly going on, otherwise why use the extra-private setting of the Chambers? There were many muffling charms and strongly bolted doors in the School used for a myriad of reasons, yet few beat out those utilized in the Council Chambers. Whatever was being discussed was of such importance as to require such open levels of secrecy. The question yet remained as to what was going on, or if any of us were indeed capable of properly responding to the situation as it developed.

“See it? Bastards been in there all bloody damned day… Cooks from th’ Kitchens say they’s taking in food, drink and loads of maps, charts, blank parchment, and pints-worth of ink. Ain’t allowin’ anyone else in o’ course…so that there’s about as much as we know, hon. Our best guess is it's somethin' to do with tha’ Trottingham delegation that's overly late…but ain't no specifics out there tah let th' mind chew on yet. Was all that enough tah get ya appetite goin’ with burnin’ curiosity yet? Can get in line behind th’ rest o’ us itchin’ fer answers!”

“I’d say so…” I hummed softly in response as I allowed my thoughts to be distracted by the culinary wizardry of my dear friends now growing cold on the platter before me. “Curiosity and nagging concerns…I just hope it is nothing too dire. We really do not need any interruptions so soon after the Cleansing…”

“Eh…fifty-years is an eternity fer them damned Equestrians. An entire generation can be born n’ die in that timeframe with how those breedin’ rats carry on about their blasted lives.” Petra snorted back with a mighty roll of her eyes and a hefty sigh of annoyance. “Alright, finish yer meal already ya yammerin’ mare! How many times do we have to ask ye tah do somethin' so damned simple, silly mare? Or do ye want Mallow here tah watch ya let that beautiful child o’ hers grow stone cold before her very own lovely eyes?”

Mallow blushed softly at the praise but likewise nudged my plate of food back towards me whilst saying, “Your belly will be most pleased and satisfied at this juncture were you to comply with her…shall we say, request.”

“Request? Sorry Mallow, but this girl’s in need of a damned strong demand by this point with all her yappin’. You can move yer gums Frejdá, but get tah stuffing yer face before I do it for ya already. Unless yer lookin’ tah try somethin’ very new wit’ me in the public eye?”

I raised both hooves high above my head to demonstrate my utter defeat before them and lifted up the fork being offered me by Mallow in my magic to resume eating. There was always much gum flapping to be had around these two, yet they were right that it was better to finish my meal and continue on with my night. A night which was begging for a return to my quarters and the comforts afforded me there. I was caught somewhere between my wish to curl up in my bedroom chair before a fire and read a little, or proceeding immediately to sleep once my bedroom door had latched shut behind me. Leaving the decision for how I felt once arriving there, I closed my eyes and allowed the whole of my being to relish in the rich, slightly nutty flavor of wild boar meat. Indeed, it was the nuttiness and bold, rich flavor which only solidified the fact it was meat obtained off a beast of the wildlands. Domestically raised porcine products were raised on mixed slop and oft contained more rich fat content marbling through the meat compared to the comparably more active lifestyle of a Feral herd roaming the wilds. Feeding on a more varied diet of nuts, fruits, roots and whatever else they could devour as they roamed, their meat was all the more sweet and diverse in flavor for it. And, with the light application of cloves and brown sugar upon the crispy outer layer of tough, fatty skin…it was truly a marvelous performance of flavor within my mouth. The accompanying gravy which heartily flooded the dish had been expertly produced from whatever drippings were obtained off the haunch during roasting; adding both further moisture to the dish, as well as steeping the sweetened meat in hearty, mulled saltiness.

Furthermore, the flavors were complimented by small sweet golden and red potatoes already drizzled upon with beautiful herbs, spices and salted butter. Baby carrots, celery, chopped and fried onions, and an abundance of delectably potent Dwemish garlic, mushrooms and other tubers had been mingled amidst the potatoes as well. Every single ingredient was appreciated in its own season as each delivered the bounties of their natural flavors and textures to my gracious stomach which bathed in culinary goodness positively laced with salt and grease. By no means was it a feast as should be had often (particularly in conjunction with wine or any alcohol for that matter), for they were the recipe for contracting a terrible gout of the fetlocks. It was hardly something I, nor countless others here, ever had to endure the suffering of by virtue of our highly varied and nutritious diets. Yet, I knew the underlying causes for such an ailment and was even familiar with its biological causes and subsequent effects on the body. And yet, as much as I loathed the idea of tiny crystals of uric acid building up in my joints…I was a damned Witcher. There was little to fear from such a petty condition of the body when the greater fears we had came in monstrous physical forms.

Like most any disease, ailment or infectious agent known, gout was by no means a fate Witchers were ever known to suffer from. Our metabolisms, in conjunction with our typical day-to-day physical activities of walking the High Road and slaying monsters, ensured we remained in the peak of physical perfection. Indeed, every component of our immune systems were eternally on high-alert and wary of even the slightest whiff of wrongdoers infecting the body. We are and drank almost whatever we wished without a single fear outside of perhaps a bout of gas or mild indigestion. In fact it was necessary in order for us to maintain muscle mass and support said metabolism. I could order a Porcine Packer thrice daily and suffer not a whim for it were I to maintain even a modicum of physical activity each day. Yet, were a rich noble to partake regularly in such a feast as I just had, they rarely found themselves free of the so-called ‘noblemare’s hoof’. Unless of course they too were exceedingly physically active and participated in a rich, diverse diet unlike their obese peers of a similar wealth and with respectable titles. And a goodly few out there were indeed in peak form in spite of how well their caste could afford to eat as they pursued rather physically-exhausting outings. Especially when compared to those who rarely left their manor or castle walls, preferring instead to spend their wealth on feasting and lounging about in luxury.

The more trim and healthy amongst their number engaged in expensive activities like mountaineering, distance swimming, extensive hikes along the High Road, or one of the many formal games which the nobility simply loved to dole out their fortunes towards perfecting. Perhaps of the truly most physically fit amongst them were they who participated in competitions of speed and agility against each other along lengthy, elaborate tracks and courses. These ‘jockeys’ as I had heard them called were wickedly fast for mere mortals, with entire divisions of races dedicated to speed, endurance, and even strength whilst hauling loads of varying weights. Those of us with a greater awareness knew of these facts when we cast a wide net when saying ‘fat-arsed noble’, yet such a choice of words was oft the vernacular selected around the Valley anyway. After all, not a one of us here claimed any royal titles, only being referred to by our profession if distinguishing marks were necessary. It was not a sin to be born of blue blood, yet more than enough of its general reputation had been marred that it was more than fair to cast a wide blanket term out there like that. Exceptions could and would be made for the genuinely exceptional…but they were few and terribly far in between unfortunately.

Like unto the crayfish tails and bowl of chowder, my delectable experience was over too soon as the last bits on the plate were again wiped clean by great torn chunks of bread. My two companions were so helpful as to quietly converse with one another whilst I ate, keeping their voices down and their tone soft and pleasant with one another so as to maintain the positive atmosphere around us. Indeed, they both did their best to allow me to consume my meal with my full attention for the talent and labor of love put into even something so simple as a good meal. Each and every bite was a whole new journey for my mouth to undertake and I found myself wishing the moment could last forever. I even found my eyes sliding closed as I allowed the sensations to amplify themselves by the removal of one of the major senses. Each bite necessitated the same combination, namely one of the small potatoes skewered and dipped in gravy before skewering a cut piece of meat and dipping it in gravy once more. Garlic, rosemary, parsley, oregano, salt, pepper, cloves...my mind could only keep track of so many individual spices at once before it lost its way and wandered off in a daze. Food such as this was almost akin to that of a beautiful night's sleep; easily sweeping one away amidst a blanket of pleasant emotions which could strip away all thought as one's sense of taste and smell overruled all higher functions. Sadly…such a thing was never to last as my feast swiftly vanished before my eyes bit-by-bit; the warmth in my gut growing ever more content with each and every bite I enjoyed. Once my plate was utterly devoid of anything left to eat, Mallow was so kind as to collect my used dishes while Petra slid over my second tankard of Bitters and the elderberry tart with its sugar-encrusted weave o’er its top.

I drank down at least half of what remained in my cup to wash the meat and potatoes down nice and smooth, paving a gentle path for the tart to finish up their combined culinary performance. And indeed, the sweet aftertaste was precisely what I was after as it acclimated my tongue away from salty-savory and perfectly prepared it for my impending dessert. If anything, the Bitters themselves also acted as part dessert itself for this very same reason. By the time my stomach had happily settled the ale into the mix and settled down, I was more than ready to enjoy the tart which had patiently awaited its turn to be enjoyed. The rounded tin which helped form the savory dough around the pit of sticky berries had a decorative crinkle around its circumference. This in turn imparted the sugar-crusted dessert with a very fanciful appearance that only added to its general allure. Not only that, but the buttery dough itself was baked to a fine golden brown and looking fit to crumble to bits in the mouth at even the slightest touch. Additionally, a loose weave of pastry dough laden with large sugar crystals had been baked atop the elderberry center making it essentially more like unto a miniature pie rather than a traditional tart. I found myself somewhat confused over his choice of words when referring to his creation as he of all folks would know the difference between the two desserts. However, my host of answers graciously made a reappearance from behind the kitchen door to answer my questions. And this time, he was also carrying a sizable pat of whipped cream to top off my dish as some sort of grand finale. As to be expected, he had planned this all out well ahead of time in order to shine against his would-be competition for my attention tonight.

“Well look who's finally gettin’ around to the best part of any meal!” He grinned proudly whilst generously dolloping my dessert with the fresh cream. “Took ye long enough! Damned thing would've gone wholly cold had I not thought to use a warmin’ plate fer it…”

I cocked my head inquisitively before he lifted up the tart from off its platter to reveal the small, flat ruby embedded in the center. Imbued with fire magic, the gem would gradually release all its stored energy as heat into anything placed atop it and into the broader platter around it. That was, until it hit a ring of silver runes roughly halfway through its diameter which ensured only the center grew warm and not outer rim or handles for the bearer's safety. He had indeed planned ahead when it came to my dish… As to whether or not he made the assumption that I would ramble on for too long, or that one or both of his female coworkers would overly occupy my eating time…I decided against pondering overlong on it. He was going the extra league in order to elicit an impressed response from me and it was my duty as a friend to indulge his efforts somewhat. It was only fair after all as Mallow had seen and heard my reaction to her work for herself. Xanthos would have his time under the Moonlight tonight with his sweet treat made just for little old me. And indeed, he was already impressing me with his forethought and elaborate presentation alone.

“Damn, you truly did account for every such occasion…” I admitted honestly, if just to genuinely congratulate him on his forward thinking for the situation.

“What can I say, eh? When that mouth o’ yours starts talkin’, it's hard to get it to stop. Same goes for these two conniving lasses.” He chuckled back with a jab of one of his talons towards my female companions. “If ye only knew the crock of shite these two whip up with their words in the back of house… Ugh, enough tah make a guy wanna dunk his head in th’ hottest pot o’ stew nearby n’ get it all o’er with.”

“Well someone here has to parse the shite from the gold in all the info we collect during the day-to-day activities which occur around here.” Mallow pouted with a cocked eyebrow as if to challenge him. “Or did you expect us to go to all that effort of translation and sifting the chaff from the wheat whilst entirely off the clock?”

“It'd let me ploughin' think every now and again, dammit! Or are you just here to yank my beak around with every last damned thought in ye two's ridiculous heads?”

“I know I would prefer it if all of you would shut up somewhat in general for me so I may enjoy his tart with the same consideration I gave both your efforts. You especially, Mallow! Was that Crystalline Salt I tasted amidst all that splendor?”

“Ah, I am glad you noticed! Most delightful to hear!” She crooned with an adorable shiver through her colorful body. “Yes! I felt its unique balance of salt and sweetness would fittingly work with the general flavor profile of porcine meats, particularly that of this wild boar. Was I correct in this assumption?”

“I just mentioned it, did I not? Truly Mallow, you have a gift for the range and the roasting spit for one who doesn’t consume that much meat herself.”

With a hearty bow she replied, “Why my utmost thanks for your feedback! I will try to incorporate it into the dish more often to see if others may like it enough to make it a permanent addition to the recipe. Who knows? Could be just the thing I was needing to sell even more of them to all you famished Witchers.”

“Heh, by all means do as ye see fit. Now! Xanthos. You've awaited my opinion long enough and you have even gone and upgraded my tart to some sort of…pie-tart amalgam. Was this too part of the plan? Or did you simply lazily make use of the term ‘tart’ in an excessively loose sense? Is there some baker’s joke I am not privy to…?”

“Look, when I spied Mallow sprinkling her special little additions onto your meal, I could not help but add a bit more flair of my own to further stand out against my competition for your attention this fine night. Is that such a crime? To invest more of myself into your beautiful food?”

“Hardly! Just an amused observation at most my friend. Fret not, my belly is most ready to devour this…whatever it is you wish to call it now.”

“Call it whatever ye like, just get to fuckin' eatin' it already dammit.”

Like any good friend would do when so politely asked, I obliged him immediately by lifting up his beautiful creation and taking a mighty bite out of it with great anticipation. Similarly, like any good Witcher, I had a whole ‘second stomach' when it came to desserts as there was always room for the sweetest course of them all. From the moment I bit down…I found myself secretly questioning why it took me so long to partake in the exquisite work of his talented talons as the combination of cream, sugar, crumbly dough and sweet, tangy elderberries was immaculate. Even as I rolled the divine masse around my mouth and lightly chewed on the crust I could feel a magic akin to Alchemy taking place across my tongue. Every last possible molecule of the dish was full of bounteous flavor from the sweetness of the sugar, to the smoothness of the cream, the buttery saltiness of the crust and the tart, floral notes of the berries themselves. Indeed, the elderberry had a full-bodied range of flavors from the mulled sweetness of fully-cooked berries, to the raw tannins of a clawfull of freshly picked ones; the native toxins be damned to my immune system.

Yet again the depths of his preparation were still catching me by surprise, one little pleasantly amused bit at a time. His wizardry over the range was equally as talented as Mallow’s by all accounts, he had merely channeled his skills into the world of delectable pastries and other desserts instead of fine works of meat and vegetables. All my hours hunched over the cauldron of Venom were now entirely worth it somehow, although it was most certainly a group effort on their part. Whether it was the dish they had prepared especially for me, or merely the gift of their wonderful company, each of them had a part to play in just how much joy filled my breast. There was no room for any words, only moans of satisfaction as I thoroughly inhaled Xanthos’s hard work within only two bites more. The three of them had provided such an immaculate midnight meal and wonderful companionship just for me. Each of them was equally as glad to see me as I was to see them after so many months away. It had hardly been a full year of course, yet that didn't stop the homesickness from sinking its painful fangs each and every spring come time to depart the Valley for the Path.

Gods, what a pleasure it was to be back amidst such friends as these. In truth I did not get along with each and every person at the School (Rosemary being a prime example), yet I belonged here. I had a home and an attachment to this place and many of the people in it. The Trial of the Grasses did much to erode the nerves of feeling and cloud strong emotions beneath a layer of steely, stoic resolve built into our very DNA by the Changes. And yet for all the Witch Hunters talk of the Changes stripping us of all emotion, particularly those of empathy and righteous joy, here I was swimming amidst a sea of such positive emotions as they. We were far from the heartless monsters modern-day Equestrians sought to portray us as, save of course those who abandoned the Witcher's Code and traded in our name for cheap coin. We all ate, drank, fought, fucked, danced, laughed, screamed and cried just as readily as the next non-mutated individual could. The difference was, when push came to shove, we had the ability to separate ourselves from our emotions when the situation called for it.

Or, perhaps a better way to put it would be to state we merely selectively amplify the numbness towards any strong emotions we felt but wished not to for a time. Such a level of control could and was used to distance oneself from particularly strong or painful emotions, a skill we could use to prevent our fear from overcoming calm, collected reason. Even the average career soldier would feel horrible terror and likely flee before a colossal beast such as a Fiend, or one of the larger Ogrid-category beings like a Rock Troll. And why would they not? Fiends alone stood at a height of almost five meters tall worth of angry claws, antlers and enough strength to literally tear even fully-armored stallions cleanly in half. Add onto that their tremendous speed, resilience to damage and their hidden third eye cursed with Arcane power to enact sinister spells of hypnosis and despair… Who else but a fucking Witcher, or one similarly mutated like unto a Witcher, had the guts and spine to go one-on-one with such creatures? Who else but we were so equipped to face the Darkness beyond the Night?

Such a beast as that would take an entire town's garrison to even stand a hope to subdue by themselves. In all truthfulness, they still only stood but a minimal chance against a beast such as that. Even with their armories’ limited stocks of proper silver weaponry such as swords, spears and crossbow bolts at their disposal…there were some threats out there simply better suited for the professionals to handle. The times had changed to where the average group of guards could subdue a small, local monster threat on their own through coordinated effort and their supply of weapons. But of course…that was only adequate for so many threats as born of the Abyss; a den of Nekkers or a pair of Water Hags they could likely handle by themselves without too many lives lost in the scuffle. However, could a garrison hope to fight against something like a True Vyre, a NightShade, or a damned Ice Giant? I could safely assume from experience alone that all but the stoutest could all but dare to stand up to such things and far, far fewer even lived to tell the tale.

Did we too feel terror, fear, loss and despair like unto any common mortal; Eldar or Equestrian alike without division or distinction? Of course! A pit of general, wordless worry readily set its claws deep into my heart any moment I had to leave the Valley, and many a Hunt had clenched my gut in anxious knots of fear within me. And yet, I was graciously able to shut those feelings down when the situation required in order to do what was necessary to slay my target and survive the Hunt alive. Our feelings are what made us Sentient beings to begin with, yet it was our mutations which ensured we were the ones best suited for such tasks. Save for those proven, decorated veterans of war, few else could be expected to be able to swallow their fears deep within themselves and muster forth the guts and gristle necessary to face the worst the Abyss had to offer.

Of course, even this too was something Celestia was slowly attempting to wrest full control over for herself alone. Her Witch Hunters were now the new face of the monster-slaying elite, enjoying the adoration and support of an ever more deluded Equestrian public. Our Grasses had been stolen and used to produce her inferior mockery of ourselves as none but the first Witch Hunters equaled us in the extent of the Changes undertaken. They had since produced many thousands of them, abstaining from the more dangerous mutagens which produced Witchers in favor of lesser, yet far safer alternatives. They were always pulled from all but the most rabidly xenophobic of the upper echelons of Equestrian society; well educated, yet possessed of that selfish, obnoxious cruelty particular to those who bled blue from birth. And so they carried themselves about as if they were each a Lord or Lady for whom their title allowed them to engage in the will of their Empress indiscriminately. Well…they were certainly experts in discrimination as their duties included the forced relocation, arrest, torture, execution, or general harassment of the Eldar Races and all things deemed to be of ‘foreign magic'. Such things were greatly disapproved by Celestia, and by extension her Great Sun and the unknowable whims of its Cosmic Will.

Great swaths of land were gobbled up immediately in the wake of the Cleansing as many of the peoples affected were scarcely in a position to defend their borders from intrusion. Witch Hunters had organized and led pogroms across the Empire throughout their border territories as well as targeting Eldar remnants as already dwelt within their lands in order to make way for their continued rise and expansion. The Race Wars had already ensured a rapid population decline across all members of the Eldar Races, the Cleansing had all-but-ensured Celestia's full rise to power and the uplifting of her Kingdom to that of a coast-to-coast Empire. And so...we all could scarcely help but see Equestria as the great enemy of the Eldar to one degree or another as they had killed more of us than the Abyss had across all species. For the sake of prosperity a peace was to be had between us both and trade once again resumed, though in a modified capacity from before which saw the Eldar shorted at each and every turn.

And yet…who here was to say that Petra wasn't right? Fifty-five years was most certainly a lengthy stretch of time for Equestrians. How many yet lived among them could even yet claim to have witnessed the Cleansing for themselves on the woeful day of its cursed occurrence? A smattering of some several thousand at absolute best? A miniscule number of greying heads caught amidst the many hundreds of thousands of the rising generation which had been born in the span of time since perhaps…? Ancient history it might as well be to all they conceived in the years since that rueful day. Nary a few blinks of the eye for myself and countless others here, yet more than enough time for much to be forgotten and much to be rewritten. We had come to expect as much and even less from the likes of them. Indeed, there was little good to be said regarding them at all...even for the most ardent supporter of optimistic, wishful thinking. And all of this was to say nothing of we Witchers and our place caught amidst it all. While the Eldar much more readily accepted us amongst them as odd, distant kin of a sorts...that was not to say that all of them welcomed us equally. It was far more likely for one of our own to be granted passage into an Eldar community than an Equestrian, yet our checkered past was enough to give some pause whenever we appeared among their midst. Only the Thestrals were openly against so-called 'visitors', though the Eagle Isles were likewise considered to be off-limits territory to Witchers, if only unofficially. Once their Archmaster King had decided to recuse himself and his School from all Continental affairs, an unspoken rule had developed that was as simple as leaving them to their Isles as long as they themselves remained in their self-imposed isolation. Their most common warriors were amongst the fiercest known to Terra Firma outside of the Dragons, to assume their Witchers wouldn't be capable of subduing the Abyss in their own lands would be tantamount to insanity.

“Uh oh. I knows that look o’ hers. She's wanderin’ somewhere deep in that pretty lil’ head o’ hers.” I managed to overhear through my own internal rambling.

“Hm? Oh…yes heh, I suppose I was getting a bit too carried away on my trail of thought…” I replied once mine faculties more fully returned to me. “Do forgive me. Did I ignore anything of great import whilst I was away along the paths of thought?”

“Ha! I took her through a greater thought journey than you, Mallow!” Xanthos beamed proudly with a pointed stare in the mare's direction. “You see her eyes roll like tha’? I've got some real fuckin’ magic, I'm tellin’ ye!”

“Heh, yes Xanthos. You did magnificently. All of you here have done so well by me this late, late night and I could not be happier with my meal and company tonight.”

“Think nothin’ of it lass! Yours be a most welcome face tah see in these parts and I am always pleased to see thee healthy and well. Come by anytime tah get ya liver thrashed or ye belly full of some good fuckin’ eatin’! Or, if ye just need a fine gal tah yammer on n’ on with.”

“Quite so dear! We are most happy to serve thee again at any time as you may so require us. Rain or shine, our door is always open to fine guests such as thee.”

“Or if ye simply just be wantin’ another of me finest pastries come one in th’ mornin’! Don’ forget tah think of ‘em too when yer comin’ ‘round these parts.”

“Believe me friends, you will all be the first I call upon in such dire times as that. For now though...I believe I am skirting the edge of the void of a comfortable sleep after consuming such a feast. I think it best if I depart for the evening, as loathe as I am for this all to come to a close.”

"No truer victory be fer a chef but to hear their work sending those who partake into the sweet embrace of sleep!" Mallow crooned with a pleasant smile.

"Mmm...I can think of one victory better than that." I replied with a tired yawn whilst lazily pushing the small stack of Crowns towards them. "Oh dear...I am too tired to collect my spare change...split these fairly amongst yourselves if you would my dears."

With that, I grabbed my belongings and shuffled away tiredly towards the exit of the Crosswinds without another word. The silence which followed me in my wake, only slightly undercut by the continued game of cards nearby, was soon replaced by a bedlam however as they each seemingly scrambled for the sizable gratuity I had been so lazy as to leave behind. Flagons clattered to the floor and the ring of metal sounded clear across the tavern as my leftover platters were sent flying in their wake. I had expected as much from my request for fairness, yet the chaos they produced was more than sufficient enough to escape by without the need of further speech. My stamina for the world of the conscious and awake was swiftly drying up within me as the realities of my happily stuffed belly set about preparing me for the best sleep I'd have in months. All I had to do was make it back to the Master's Tower without finding a cozy enough spot upon a bench somewhere in which to doze. It would do in a pinch...yet I had spent tremendously good coin upon my bed and the blankets and pillows upon it. I deserved it more than anything else. Well...aside from perhaps absconding there with Petra were I more awake to enjoy the blessed allure of her delightful company... Oh the sacrifices one makes in the name of comfort.

* * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Thirteen: Within the Council Chambers

Noise. An unbelievable cacophony of steel-on-steel, war cries, oaths bellowed in anger and the howling screams of the dying and wounded. And blood. A scent so potent like sweet iron tinging the very air red with the visceral fury of the moment. A miasma of carnage was to be found everywhere across the grasslands. And yet amidst it all, I found myself terrified to be there…and altogether thoroughly thrilled at the same time. Terrified as I was loathe to die like any sane being, especially in a way that would prove most painful or lengthy. And thrilled…because it was one of the few times in my life that I had targets aplenty to engage with the Whirl to its fullest extent of fury and madness. Repressed anger and bitter hatred for Equestrians was allowed to boil over at last in a heated frenzy of passion as many feelings of ill-will spilled forth just as freely as the lifeblood of countless beings. Fangs laced with Venom twirled and danced alongside me whilst my hapless victims acted at most as mere springboards for my next deadly pounce. Gambeson did little to defend them from the furious heft of my swings and gave way to their sharpened edges like butter to a hot knife. Even those in riveted chain seemed intent on presenting opportunities in which to strike undefended areas, or otherwise pierce through the links with the Venomous tips and into their hide underneath. NeuroToxics had ensured my stamina both physically and magically were enhanced as adrenaline coursed through my veins like a torrent of molten magma; my body flowing through the chaotic patterns of the Viper's Whirl at a snail's pace. Every detail was so crisp and clean, yet gone in the blink of an eye as there was always another to cut down in my wake. The gleam of the Moon was caught along the honed edge of my Fangs as if flashes and streaks of pure, silvery-white light wreaking justice upon the Eldar's enemies in the name of that same Moon which we so loved. Blades flashed, bodies and viscera fell, and blood spilt freely onto the ground from all hapless enough to find themselves near unto my carnage. There had been no rainfall in the days leading up to the battle making for solid ground for fighting and the deployment of great engines of war…at first. Come the final hours of the hours-long battle, the earth all around was positively fetid and festering with the lifeblood of countless on both sides. We were fewer in number than they, yet our might of old stood untarnished as we stood up to the sheer numbers at Equestria's command. Their Knights in full plate had hung to the rear for most of the fight…overseeing the carnage of the battle from their high point of vantage upon a hill in the distance; observing as their useless levy forces broke against us like so much water on a rocky, unyielding shore hoping to whittle us away through sheer attrition. Much as I would need to beg for many a God and Goddesses' forgiveness for it…it had felt most pleasing to slaughter so many of them myself. For every one of us they killed, I made triply sure they paid for it tenfold if I could. I was merely the instrument of an entire planet’s worth of furious rage towards these endlessly meddlesome invaders. Indeed, as the Abyss was an overreaction on the part of Terra Firma to right the balance, I myself fell into such a similar role of thinning their pesky ranks. In my heart I knew not all their people were as savage or zealous in their devotion to their nation…yet those here before us had come fore the sole purpose to kill and slaughter. And so it was my duty, my...honor...to kill them first. For my own sake, and for the sake of all Eldar.

Of course...like how most wars unfold…our strivings and great tribulations that day were all to be for naught. Like the vermin I and many others had begun to feel they had become, their populations were able to swiftly recover from most losses inflicted upon their number, no matter how great the battle they had taken part in. Within two-to-three short decades their able-bodied sons and grandsons would be chomping at the bit to wreak their sworn retribution upon us in the names of their fallen fathers and grandfathers. It was a never-ending cycle of blood-for-blood...yet neither side could back down lest they lose even more to the other not backing down. None of the female persuasion were to be found marching in armor amidst their number, the fucking cowards… Naught but stallions of varying rank and status would ever arrange themselves for battle before us, seeing their mares as naught but fit for rearing young, fulfilling household duties, and perhaps some ability for limited private enterprise on rare occasion. Whereas I…I was but one of many others of the fairer sex to have found their honored place amidst the marching lines of armed soldiers and mercenaries which stood together to face Equestria. Dangerous as the Abyss was to our world, Celestia and her devilspawn ponies had killed and persecuted far more of us than any monster or Daemon on record. Here it was that, once again, we fought, slew and suffered as one, regardless of which banner one mustered around. Yet, such a fact was little consolation for the wrongs we sinfully wished to dole out in kind against our foreign guests who had long overstayed their welcome. It was hardly becoming of our noble heritage to be so wrathful…yet what else was to be expected of peoples continually being backed into a corner with hateful words and violent, ignorant actions? We simply had to fight to survive. What was lost in centuries had taken millennia to accomplish as our heritage was shat upon, conquered and destroyed in their mad rush to expand.

Knowing that they too suffered in this war however did little to rouse my feelings of empathy towards the helpless bastards sent to die by my hoof. Their terrified faces did indeed haunt the farthest recess of my memory…yet it was just as easy to blur them out under a wave of bitter apathy. I could plainly see the looks of horror on their faces in the split-second moments in which I could clearly see them in-between my wild attacks. It was a terror which similarly gripped my heart in a Dragon’s iron-fist as I knew at any moment my technique could fail me, or some misplaced hoof in the mud could throw my form off enough for someone nearby to find their chance to strike true. And yet…such a terror as I saw in their faces before the life fled their eyes did naught to rouse anything more than a greatly-flogged festering wound of anger within me. There was a pity in my heart too perhaps…somewhere buried deep in the collected, rational thought and focus I fought to maintain as I carved a bloody path of bodies in my wake. There were times to stay one’s steel from the flesh of another Sentient being…and open warfare, or better yet, a war of passions, was no such time. Witchers were mutagenically-born to be the perfect instruments of death to whatever threat they faced. And so my Fangs continued to wreak death in these pathetic, lesser beings around me; corpse after corpse created by the deadly flashes of silver flowing about me. Carrion creatures, particularly birds, had sensed the coming clash and followed the movement of troops on all sides until we finally met for combat upon the Fields of Elkai’s Gold. I could still hear the caws of famished corvids circling overhead above the riotous battlefield... Along with the great thuds of the field ballistae releasing their great strings and flinging enormous bolts far and wide to deliver yet more death as only engines of war can deliver. Such a noise as they could scarcely be forgotten once heard in the midst of a blood-fueled rage…

THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD

“MASTER FREJDÁ?? If ye yet sleep I beg thy forgiveness, but it truly is urgent!”

THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD

Without even realizing it my eyes snapped back open to glimpse upon the waking world as I was rudely awoken by somewhat frantic pounding upon my bedroom door. As real as the sounds of battle had been amidst the meandering thoughts of the dreamscape, reality had reasserted itself most readily back into focus. I only vaguely remembered as to how I had even managed to return to bed when my freshest memory in-full lay back in the comfortable confines of the Crosswinds Inn. Being so full and happy as I was, I had seemingly floated along on a cloud of unfocused thoughts back to the comfort of my bed and somehow managed to bring both my moonwine and Fire Plum along with me. The rounded bundle of cheesecloth containing the fruit sat beside the tall moonstone bottle on my bedside table whilst my Shade Petals rested safely on a small canister rack atop my third bookshelf. I had not however, found the time nor effort it seemed to take off all of my armor and awoke to find most everything had been left on save my boots, gloves and my upper and lower harnesses with their many bags and pouches. My longswords and Fangs were both sheathed and still attached to their designated places on my chest harness, which itself hung off a post on my headboard. My waist and leg harness likewise sat abandoned on the rug beside my steel-plated boots whilst the dim golden glow through my window indicated the dawn had yet to break across the Valley over the White Fangs. A quick, stiff glance towards my clock similarly confirmed my suspicions that it was around six in the morning. Far too early for how much sleep I still yet yearned for after such a night of brewing Venom and feasting heartily with good friends.

All the same, I called out something incoherent to alert whoever it was that I had been roused awake and would soon be there to answer the door, before promptly stumbling over myself to get to my hooves. I was grateful for the plush feeling underneath me provided by my beautiful blue and silver rug as it muffled the less-than-graceful tumble out of bed I took in order to get to the door latch. Being all-but-fully dressed, I didn’t waste any time in opening it to get a look at who it was that stood outside and had woken me up so damned early. Immediately I spied the white-and-red robes of one of the School staff though the Pegasus wearing them was somewhat recognizable, but not enough to immediately bring their name to mind. All the same, the orange stallion seemed rather antsy by the way his body and voice shook whilst speaking to me once my face had presented itself to him.

“Begging your utmost pardon, Master Frejdá!” He said with subdued franticness in his tone amidst a shuffling of nervous orange wings and hooves. “I understand it is very early in the morning, but this summons simply cannot wait. I must implore you!”

I blinked once or twice in an effort to combat the sleep from my eyes before I was able to fully process what it was he had said and I replied, “U-uh…v-very well? And…who exactly is it that is summoning me at this hour…? I have not exactly had much in the way of sleep as of yet…I had a rather lengthy evening last night and I daresay it took somewhat of a toll on me.”

“Trust me dear Master, I truly do not wish to be the one assigned to rouse thee, but…you are one of the last they are waiting upon in order to fully begin the proceedings. Three others are similarly being roused both in this Tower as well as in the secondary Barracks by other members of staff as we speak so at least you are not entirely alone.”

“Proceedings?” I asked back with a dazed, tired surprise. “Wait…‘they’? You mean there are others who have gotten a similar summons?”

“A-aye, Ma’am…it is Archmaster Ludovic and the Council of Elders which have asked for thee. For all Masters and Adepts in due fact. They ask that you report to the Council Chambers at once so that they may begin informing you all as to…well, whatever it is that has kept them and almost a quarter of the Kitchen staff up all night.”

“Alright…” Was all I was able to muster up in response for a moment before I gathered up the nerve to ask, “Will there be some sort of meal provided…? I ate a feast naught but five hours ago and already I am feeling famished from what sleep I have had.”

“I know not exactly as to that fact I’m afraid…” He admitted sheepishly in reply before moving back towards the central lift in order to depart. “Though a fair bit has flowed from the Kitchens up into the Council Chambers so there is a good chance you may yet find something to fill thy belly with during whatever proceedings they have planned. Now please, do not let me keep you any longer, Master Witcher. By your leave, I will leave you to finish getting ready and will return to inform them that you are on your way post-haste.”

I gave him a quiet, courteous nod in reply and shut my door closed just as the lift he was standing upon began to descend down the shaft of the Master’s Tower. My troubled fears were beginning to bubble a soft brew of worry in my gut once more as thoughts of what might be said loomed over my mind like the heft of an executioner’s sword. There were simply too many thoughts to make any honest attempt at measuring the number which swirled through as a torrent of murky water through my head. What pieces of equipment I lacked and were left on the floor were quickly returned to their rightful places upon my person, whilst a hasty breakfast of watered-down brandy was poured into a cup to put something into my stomach for the time being; the Fire Plum deserving of a long session of savoring its potent flavor with darkly-aged Dragon Bitters and a pipe of hashish on a pleasant evening. And finally, a quick glance before the mirror allowed me to set right any unsightly hair that might look uncouth for such a high-profile meeting. The likes of such a large summoned gathering had not occurred since the last echoes of the Race Wars when there were yet more of us alive and still able to take up the fight. Though the Council all dwelt in Kaer Solaris, and indeed rarely left for reasons of safety and the stability of the guild, formal Council meetings wherein all thirteen were in attendance were a rare occasion. Indeed, they could even elect to send another Grandmaster or simple Master in their stead to more routine meetings as a proxy if they had other matters more important to attend to. It was a role I had been called upon to do only a few times, and was never one I had any particular fondness for as the logistics of the guild took me away from my love of the Hunt. Despite being the eldest Viper left living from our School, I had consciously chosen not to become a member of the Council for that same simple reason. Ever had I been a mare of action...the thought of endless sitting and discussing bored me to painful tears.

Tap Tap Tap.

Another set of noises rattled away at my constant trailing thoughts, this time sounding far more like something hard rapping against a windowpane and coming directly from behind me. Turning to greet my view of the world outside more properly, I quickly spied the rather organic source of this second noise. Perched atop a large wooden post built off each room's window was a large and beautiful Zamak Raven, proudly standing with its sharp, slightly curved beak mere inches away from the window panes and peering inside most inquisitively. When it spied my approach, it softly flapped its mighty wings excitedly as it hopped out of the way of the window as I unlatched and swung it open to receive its carried missive. Nestled safely within a tube of waxed leather attached to one of its stocky maroon legs was a neatly rolled up piece of parchment inevitably asking me to do the exact same as the poor staff member had been asked to tell me in person. Gods only knew how long my poor first messenger had been forced to wait whilst tapping on my glass every so often so as to not be overly annoying. Having naught in my room worthy of such patient consideration for my quality of sleep, even in the face of an assigned task…I had only one thing I felt befitted such a deed. I had only just been gifted my precious Fire Plum the night before and already, I found myself giving it away to my feathered friend out of a pleasant sense of gratitude. Of course, being a being of fire itself, I could only imagine how much more flavor they might be able to taste beyond the limited capacity of my own tongue. The potent fruit was gobbled down whole like so much else they ate, and a majestic caw erupted from its beak as bright golden flames of joy sparked to life along the length of its two long crimson headfeathers. It was obvious from such an impressive display that my gift had been most graciously enjoyed and appreciated. I dipped my head low in an added sign of mutual respect and graced it with a smile before it saw fit to finally depart from my window, flying back to the Rookery in order to digest my latest brush with gratuitous giving.

Before I knew it, I was already exiting my room and stepping onto the lift whose previous occupant had been so kind as to send back up to the fourth floor for me. With how early in the morn it was, the School possessed an unnatural quiet as I emerged from the Master’s Tower onto the Instructor’s ambulatory overlooking the Gardens. Nary a Soul was to be seen meandering amidst the pleasantries of the herbs and flowers below me aside from Vivian laid in silent prayer before the golden flame of the Garden Shrine. And none but those School Guard as stood on watch occupied any of the walls and towers nearby, their watchful eyes soft as they gazed out across our beloved Valley. Even the Barracks with its piping-hot pit of young, fiery blood lay quiet and peaceful as its four high, narrow towers only just began to catch the gleam of the rising Sun; its four wide flags flapping softly in the refreshing breeze of the mountains bearing aloft the scents of many trees. Truly a morning worth relishing with enjoyment and gentle introspection whilst watching the Sun mount the ring of peaks around the Valley…yet I was not so nearly as lucky with my schedule as I had been even a day earlier. Indeed…I found myself regretting not finding time to enjoy a nap of some sort the day before. Well…a second nap as I had momentarily forgotten my pleasant little doze by the Vigil Tree which poked up through its recessed gap in the ambulatory nearby with its golden leaves gently glistening with morning dew. However, that little spot of rest seemed to have done little to attenuate the heavy claws of sleep which saw fit to continue their assault. The only benefit to be had from it all was the simple fact that my hurried pace to reach the Council Chambers was getting my blood pumping, if but a little. It was hardly like I was attempting a full gallop of the Narrows after all…

Following the familiar path from the day before, I passed along the exterior length of the southern face of the Master’s Hall and down the open stairway until it met the ground level of the Great Hall. With the morning meal not scheduled for another two hours, the tables were all-but-empty of occupants aside from the random loner seeking a quiet bench to themselves amidst the otherwise rather silent room. Even as I set hoof past the doorway, a sudden notion illuminated my thoughts as brightly as the morning Sun through the towering panes of stained glass set behind the Judgement Seat. I had not been home during the height of summer in many a year. I was wholly unused to seeing the School so empty with so many Witchers out on the Path when compared to the boisterous months of waiting out the winter with one another. However...there still were more bodies present than I was expecting upon even further reflection. There were several dozen or so from what I had seen thus far, and I had to wonder what it was that kept them here during the middling months of summer, otherwise known as prime Hunting season. Many of our quarry were to be found during this time of year as, like most beings, they too preferred the warmth of summer over the chill cold of winter resulting in fewer monster attacks as they too took shelter and waited out the frosts. I had come home early out of duty to Braxia, seeing that his remains were interred amidst the Grand Catacombs where a faithful Witcher belonged. I had little intention of staying in Kaer Solaris for much longer, however. Even with the allure of all the delightful amenities Kaer Solaris possessed, duty called as the lust for the Hunt welled up within me. As to what kept all these other Witchers, Witchlings, and Acolytes here when there was a Path to tread about the Continent…to each their own reasons I suppose. Proceeding up the Great Hall leading north, I came to a stop at the middlemost doorway on the eastern side directly across from the entrance to the Grand Library. Access to the Council Chambers necessitated passage through the Master's Hall, which itself lay behind the ever-important Chamberlain's Office. With a great many important documents and records being stored within, the hefty door possessing a barred, shuttered window was sealed tight with powerful magic. Enchanted in a similar manner to the Laboratorium, it necessitated my Guardian's personal assistance to open the ring of locks on my behalf before the door swung inwards and I was able to continue once more.

The interior of the Master’s Hall was not so large as its outward appearance indicated, as the section immediately connected to the Great Hall was occupied by the stately Chamberlain’s Office. While a great deal of the actual scribe work was conducted on a private upper floor of the Grand Library just below the Rookery, this richly decorated space acted as the ‘public face’ as it were of the Chamberlain’s inner workings. Appearing as grand and professional as any state office to be had in any Kingdom, the interior was comfortably lit by a combination of grand crystal chandeliers from the ceiling and natural Sunlight filtering in through the south-facing stained glass windows. Accompanied by plush furniture of luxurious design, grand desks and bookshelves of fine dark oak, as well as a myriad of artistic paintings and tapestries on the walls, the entire Office was a royal sight to see. Our current Chamberlain of some twenty-seven years and counting was one Lady Annamarie of Greystoke, a gorgeous white mare with a long, curly mane of golden yellow and sparkling emerald eyes. Despite her rather youthful appearance, she was in fact in her sixty-third year of a prosperous life. One which had seen fit to beautify her new Office with all manner of finery which she had brought over with her amongst her other personal belongings from her homeland. A shrewd Trottingham noble with a penchant for mercantilist pursuits, she had only further deepened our ties to her home country amidst her endless lists of contacts, suppliers, and possible benefactors which she had met in one time or another in her lengthy, storied life. She simply ran an incredibly fine ship as would make even the hardiest Örn raiding party shout her praise. Her impeccable attention to detail, natural gift with numbers and logistics, as well as her warm charisma ensured our books were the tidiest they had ever been. According to Vivian, who was a close confidant of both her and I, she had been rather impressed with how clean and proper Kaer Solaris had kept their records up until she took up the position.
Of course, the studious mare had found new ways to balance our books and found herself more willing to dip into the Treasury to promote and support local businesses for a small share of the profits. Nary a bent copper was to be wasted on frivolous expenditures if she could spare it, yet at the same time she routinely found ways for the School to live in relative luxurious comfort for as little direct cost to us as possible. With authority from the Council itself, she was free to...'barter' with other groups interested in trade with the Valley with unoccupied Witchers within the School as her raw capital. I myself had been sent on an errand to Trottingham some five-years past to dispatch a pod of Wallasalki terrorizing a fishing hamlet in lieu of coin for two-hundred bushels of rolled oats. Indeed, her connections with Trottingham had ensured they remained the Valley, and the School's, greatest trade partner outside of what money we Witchers injected into the local economy from our Hunts. They were far more open to regular, common commerce than the Thestral Dominion, charged far lower tariffs than any Kingdom of Celestia’s Empire, and simply had more money and a population to spend it than the tiny Highland Kingdom in a branch of mountains curling away from the White Fangs. The Copperbeaks, and Keldagrim as well to some extent, both had their fair share of trade with the Valley, yet many of their own needs were already met from within. Many things we considered luxury goods on the surface were produced by them already after all, from works of wood, metal and stone, to finely woven silks and sturdy, resilient fabrics dyed many fantastic colors. And to say nothing of their exquisite jewelry or their sturdy arms and armor of which they had in true abundance.

Of course, our Chamberlain was lucky that most of the School's existing services and amenities had been in place for decades or centuries already. All she needed to do was simply continue to fairly pay those who helped maintain the greatness of our institution by cleaning and oiling every moving piece of it no matter how small. The stonework of the School, blessed by the holy ground it occupied, necessitated little extensive maintenance of the fortress itself whilst the dutiful staff tended to the more transitory aspects of the School. Whatever could be salvaged from the dust bin would always find its purpose renewed and granted a new life for as long as it could withstand the pressures continually put upon it. Each and every Groat was thoroughly parsed for every inch of ground its buying power was worth and every ounce of gold was treated as if it were the last in our coffers. The Treasury was but a sad dream of what it had once been centuries past…yet thanks to her efforts, as well as the efforts of countless others both within and without the Valley, we continued to endure. Not only endure, but…even thrive perhaps in spite of the hostile turn of opinions as had elapsed over the last two centuries or so. We were hardly running a healthy surplus, yet we were not debt-riddled nor poised to collapse in on ourselves due to untenable finances thanks to Kaer Solaris’ long line of dutiful, excessively money-smart Chamberlains managing the School's budget. Annamarie had done much in her tenure with us to ensure the School and the Valley at large were ready to ride any financial storm that may yet come our way. There were certainly signs of it already as the past fifty years had seen a further explosion of births amongst the Equestrians meaning there was a growing need to spread their available capital further. Debasement had never been of particular concern to the broader world as there was an abundant supply of precious metals to be found in Terra Firma, yet somehow the Empire’s Royal Mint seemed pressed for gold and silver to fill their coffers. Even I had heard grumbled mutterings whilst on the High Road in recent years regarding great confiscations of old Crowns and Orens, only for the newly-minted coins to be robbed of much of their precious metals.

Annamarie herself was nowhere to be seen behind her fine desk of carved mahogany within the Chamberlain's Office, nor was she pouring over one of many books of records as occupied the multiple shelves built against the walls. If not for the roaring fire in the decoratively carved hearth in the corner, I would have mistaken the entire Office as still being closed for the night as not a single Soul occupied the space. And yet, the satin curtains hung about the windows were opened wide and held back by small chains of gold, allowing the morning Sun to filter through the various colors and cast a dazzling sparkle across the multiple rugs occupying the stone floor. I could only assume that the good Lady had either yet to rise from her bed, which was unlikely given the Council summons, or she was already present and accounted for and I was the one who was running behind. Regardless, my business existed beyond the Chamberlain’s Office and so I quickly continued eastwards and across the room to pass into the Master’s Hall proper. For all the possible mystique to be had with such a name as that, one might expect the twenty-meter stretch of vaulted stone passage between the Chamberlain’s Office and the Council Chambers to be some grand or mystical place. Instead, the wide, lofty hall was a rather simplistic and solemn space dedicated to honoring those the Council of Elders had bequeathed the title of Master Witcher, as well as those who rose even further above. The stone wall to my right which faced southwards was thoroughly suffused with decorative archways, each of which held a beautiful stained glass window depicting all of the School Crests which called Terra Firma their home. Each silver Crest took up the majority of each window they occupied, with a steel and silver sword crossed behind them at perpendicular angles to represent the ultimate purpose of our guild. Meanwhile, the remaining decorative window space was dedicated to portraying each School’s respective colors like unto a fiery, dual-layered sun emanating outwards from the center behind each Crest; each colorful ray of light trimmed in fine gold, unlike the silver solder used to join every other bit of decorative glass together in the grand ensemble.

To my left, the north-facing wall did not form a straight line like unto the wall of stained glass, but rather took on the shape of a squared-off U jutting out into the hall in order to accommodate the elaborate fountain watering the Gardens on the other side. It too had a chain of decorative arches built into it, though instead of panes of glass, these contained large unbroken slabs of the purest white marble. It was here that each and every name was carved and listed out who had achieved their Heroic Hunt and attained the rank of Master or above; each slab corresponding to the School Crest of the window directly opposite of it. Those stuck at the level of Master like myself were inlaid with lustrous silver, whilst those who rose to the rank of Grandmaster were beset by shining gold. Naturally, there were only a limited number of Archmasters occupying each School’s slab, all save for the Örn who had an entire second smaller plaque dedicated to accounting for their sheer number of Archmaster Kings over the centuries. Outside of they, who rotated regularly as new strength arose to claim the title, such an incredible position of power in the other Schools oft went filled by the same Witcher for hundreds of years unbroken. These illustrious names were inlaid with platinum, yet with its color being so close to that of silver, a grand faceted jewel like unto those used in their Medallion’s eyes were set on either side of their name to help them further stand out. It was truly a mesmerizing sight to witness as each slab was illuminated brilliantly in the sparkling colors of their School via the windows set opposite them, reflecting back the light with the gleam of precious metals within each and every carved name. One could find themselves caught up in the quiet sanctity to be felt in such a narrow space, even to their own detriment as familiar names were painfully brought to mind from the lists lining the Master’s Hall. And of names...there was no shortage of those now marked with an extra symbol, that of a miniaturized mausoleum set with pale opal to mark their passing. No space existed for specific calendar dates as those were logged in the Archives, yet it was knowledge enough to know that they had perished and would no longer winter with us save in our hearts and memories.

Even in my haste to join the meeting behind the tall iron doors at the other end of the Hall, I could not help but pause once the green and silver light cast my shadow upon the Viper School’s list of names. As Masters can become Grandmasters and then Archmasters, each name was left where it had first been carved and merely had its precious metal inlay upgraded to the next tier if and when the time came. My own name sat carved in silver amidst a few hundred other Master Witchers throughout the centuries; all but a few of them still yet alive to tell our tale and not a one of them beset by gold, nor platinum upon the wall. Our last Archmaster, a veritable beast of a Highland Valkyrie by the name of Áskr with a mane of silvery white, had been a most unfortunate casualty of the Cleansing. All that I or Master Rogier were able to find of his remains were the Isildine components of his weapons and armor, whilst all else was burnt away to ash and dust. These had since been restored with the utmost love and tender care by the dutiful attendants at the Reliquary and Undercroft Forge, and now hung in a place of honor alongside other works of our precious past. Many names were etched here in this Hall whom I knew personally at one point, or otherwise remembered meeting in some long-distant memory of the past. Many friends come and gone in veritable blinks of the eye… I was somehow the eldest of my School to have survived, and yet I was but a lowly Master with my one and only Heroic Hunt to my name when at least five were needed to progress. Such was my Fate it seemed, however unfortunate and unfair to me and my ambitions ways.

Try as I might throughout my tenure of Hunting down monsters, it felt like all the greatest feats had already been performed in the world by others more talented and/or luckier than me. I did my part to rid the world of Chasms and their Helspawn, yet it was almost always run-of-the-mill Contracts I seemed to be left with. Painfully easy, mildly difficult and even heart-pounding danger had each found plenty of time to shine amidst my successful Hunts…yet by-and-large, I felt like I tended to follow a dull Path every year compared to some others. I was not bitter enough to abandon it, yet I was somewhat resentful towards those names near and around mine that were glittering with gold due to their own lucky breaks in the past. The NightShade I had slain could have potentially qualified as a Heroic Hunt…had she proven to be infinitely more deadly to myself and had treated the citizens of Hollyhock as more than occasional snacks amidst her other prey. Were the village in ruins and its inhabitants gored and devoured in a debaucherous display of brutality, then there were true legs beneath my weighty claim of Heroics. It had been just my rotten luck that she had grown metaphorically fat and lazy over her age-long stay in the area and failed to account for a Witcher happening upon her territory. Not to mention she had seemingly dropped her guard towards me due to her earlier victory over Braxia, possibly thinking to herself that we were not quite the threats a being like she should be wary of. Had she killed more of us and learned of our tricks as they evolved and improved since Braxia’s time, or perhaps fought Witchers of multiple Schools and learned their tactics…perhaps she might have put up far more of a defensive offense. The Petals taken from her remains and the discovery of one of the Fallen was reward enough on its own in many ways, yet given it had been a NightShade with innocent deaths on its hooves…there was a chance I could petition for a genuine 3a Contract and hope for some extra coin. I was willing to face the paperwork this time around as I had some time before I could leave for the Path and let the process play out while I was away.

Even without meaning to, I found myself tarrying a lifetime longer than intended whilst deep in thought, gazing up at the Viper’s list of names. Giving myself a slap on the cheek for my own inability to focus, I hurried myself along towards the Council Chambers at the far end of the Master's Hall. Like unto the mighty doors servicing the storage halls exiting out onto the Servant’s Courtyard, the large iron doors of the Council Chambers each featured a wicket gate for the passage of individuals, sporting a hefty cage of metal bars over the central window. A quick tap upon it prompted the shutter to open a moment later and Annamarie's beautiful face to peer out, readily welcoming me inside once she had undone the various latches to the door. Similar to our two lecture halls located in the Gardens nearby, a tall crescent-shaped series of raised seating had been erected with its back facing the polygonal apse and its towering panes of stained glass. In the center occupying the ground floor atop a raised platform stood a long, rectangular stone table with its line of thirteen high-backed chairs for the Council of Elders facing towards those seated in the rows of tiered desks before them. A further set of rows of twenty other chairs sat behind they, set apart for the various Instructors and leading members of staff from Tahl, our Wilderness Survival Instructor, to Snapdragon Sunrise, our resident Quartermaster. All seats were filled and all eyes present fell upon me as I made my entrance into their midst as quietly as I could.

Naturally my entrance prompted those many eyes to glance my direction, yet I did my best to avert my gaze from them as I glanced towards some open seats left in the uppermost ring of seats on the far end. With room enough for some two hundred Witchers, there were around a third of those seats currently filled allowing me some choice of views of the Council below. Seeing as the back of each row of chairs formed the base of the desk of the row above it, these were some of the few places in the School which did not comfortably permit us to wear our swords upon our backs. Instead, a narrow set of vertical sword racks were installed into a niche beside each desk so each Witcher could set their weapons in a safe place close-at-hoof. At the same time, blank sheets of paper, quills, and a fresh well of ink occupied each narrow wooden desk to be used for taking dutiful notes, scribbling away inner thoughts, or drawing out whatever the heart desired. As to whether or not one should do that in such a formal setting? The obvious answer was no…but that wouldn’t stop people like Violet from getting bored and doing so anyway. Other useful little features had been similarly built into each desk space such as convenient cut-outs to support up to two glasses at once, a stand in which to place books open, and deployable side-desks to either side of the person sitting. These optional bits of varnished wood blocked free passage along each ring of desks, yet offered each space additional room in which to place any necessary items as might be needed for a Council meeting. That...or small platters of food as I spied in abundance amongst the crowd of other Adepts, Masters and Grandmasters all awaiting patiently for what the Council had brought us all together to hear and discuss.

The convenient placement of the sword racks also facilitated their use, particularly our silver swords, as a means of getting the Council’s attention if we wished to speak for any reason whilst in session. By merely holding aloft our sheathed sword pommel-up, the Archmaster or another member of the Council below could acknowledge our wish to speak and give us the opportunity to do so. Once acknowledged, the speaker would unsheathe their sword and hold it aloft blade-up until they had finished saying their piece. Of course, the Council could just as easily not acknowledge your sword and deny your petition if they felt they had not finished saying what they felt they must. Or, they may request a speaker to sheath their sword if they were collectively done with hearing one speak if they droned on and dragged out the meeting. Yet, all of us here had experienced at least a few of these meetings during our time in Kaer Solaris and were used to their normal procedures. Knowing when to speak and when to listen was a practice to be embodied by every Witcher, not something to be cast aside for the sake of ego or clouded judgement. With no particular rhyme nor reason to my choice, I found myself seated directly beside Master Kingfisher of the School of the Raven who welcomed me to my elevated seat with a smile from under her black-feathered hood. I had spied two serving carts piled high with bread and cured meats down below in the corner, attended to by Nana Evelyn, grandmother to both Ludovic and Vivian and seasoned Stewardess of the School. Her kindly graying face and fine red markings greeted me silently with a wizened smile, yet all the same she raised a paw to her lips in a hushing manner and gestured for me to take a seat. Needless to say, a collective nervous anticipation hung in the air that was more than thick enough to cut cleanly with a silver sword. A great many of our number were still dutifully out on the Path and would be wholly unaware of these proceedings until either they returned home this winter, or they were deemed worthy of sending out a message directly via Zamak. Only when I had finally sat down and laid my weapons into their designated spots did Archmaster Ludovic, sitting in the center of the Council, stand and look over us all before speaking at long last.

“Now that we are all ready, it is finally time to reveal what it is I am sure all of you have been weaving theories about in your free time over the last several hours. I will refrain from lecturing any of you on that as it is only natural to speculate when there is much intrigue surrounding something being discussed behind closed doors. We finally have opened up those doors and locked them shut behind you as this need not leave the Council Chambers just quite yet. To be short…I am sure you are all aware there was to be a delegation from Trottingham which was to arrive here in order to deliver unto us a few Shrouds and make selections for those to replace their losses. However…it is with the heaviest of hearts we must inform everyone that they were indeed attacked as some theories have rightly already guessed at. No survivors were found at the site, yet Sir Tiffy and his Foxes report that not a single corpse was left behind either and their carriages and personal belongings were burnt to ashes. Signs of a desperate fight were to be seen at the site, located on the High Road going north. The cover-up job was efficient, but still left traces they were still able to pick up on. If any did survive…they are now more than likely the captives of the Duchy of Āider.”

He paused in his speech to allow the murmur of surprise and alarm to ripple through myself and everyone else present in the room. There were surely several voices that were begging to be raised but dutiful honor to proper procedure was winning out, for now, and keeping all voices down to a hissed mutter at the loudest. After taking a drink from a large stone tankard to wet his throat again, he continued in his dour delivery of unfortunate news.

“Yes. I am just as shocked and appalled as any of you are to hear that horrible bit of information. Whatever prompted this attack is at-present unknown, however they were able to happen upon a pair of peasants that were attempting to scavenge what they could from the site of the attack. In accordance with Article-V of the Treatise on the Usage of Signs, the Sign of Axi was used on both of them in order to obtain information relevant to the investigation. Put shortly, neither stallion knew much of anything directly regarding the attack itself, but they had mentioned seeing a gathering of stallions led by a band of Āidernian Witch Hunters in the forest near their village of Woodhurst. They followed behind out of curiosity some distance aways and hid in the trees come the sound of fighting. When everything had calmed down, they ventured down and came across the scene of the massacre finding no corpses to loot and only smoldering ash for the caravan’s physical possessions. All told, all signs and remaining evidence point towards the one singular culprit that has been eying that particular area of land at their shared border for some time now. Whether or not this is truly, without a doubt the situation…we are hoping to find out in due course. However, all this being said, the great question at the tip of everyone's tongue is most likely: what are we to do about this? The short answer…nothing. For there is nothing we can do. If this attack was indeed perpetrated and arranged by the Duchy against Trottingham, then it is unfortunate to have to say it…but those Foxes who fell were merely collateral damage they were willing to risk, by all measures we have been able to fathom at least.”

Almost immediately after he finished speaking, several of those present moved to lift up the decorative hilt and crossguard of their silver swords in order to indicate their wish to speak. Like anyone else here, I had questions burning at the tip of my tongue just begging to be asked…but I trusted the Archmaster to deliver unto us the answers we all sought. A call of inaction such as this was sure to royally piss-off a fair few of those here, yet I for one saw the wisdom in it as it was far more of an attack on Trottingham than it was a challenge of strength against our guild specifically. Of course…that also meant we could be interpreting it backwards and it is in fact the other way around and we were all heavily presenting our bias in public. Yet, given the history of Āider up until the present day, I was willing to bet a hefty purse of Crowns that those fallen Witchers were simply collateral damage caught in the middle; a calculated risk by those Witch Hunters at absolute best as described by the Archmaster. Was the Duchy insane for pulling this sort of harebrained scheme? Absolutely, without a single shred of doubt. Yet even their deluded minds were not so insane as to provoke an open conflict with Kaer Solaris...right…? It was that unknown factor that scared me the most….

“By right of being first to raise, the Council recognizes the sword of Master Bjørn of the School of the Örn.”

The large Örn Master and the three others representing their School had to sit upon the ground level as no seat was large enough for them on the stands. As per tradition, he kept his gigantic sword held aloft in his magic, drawing it from the sheath and pointing the blade skywards, not to be sheathed until he had said his piece or the Council bid him do so.

“Wit' all due respect, Archmaster…th’ absolute crock o’ shite is tha’? Some o’ our own wee Foxes get cut down by them sorry fucks n’ ye want to do nothin’ ‘bout it?! I could raise an army tah punish them Āider dip-shits right here n’ now!”

It went without saying…but there were more than a few volunteers who were only just able to hold their tongues and instead raised a limb to indicate their approval of the notion, official or no. I was inclined to join them…had I not wished to appear to disagree with the Archmaster when the rational side of my mind knew he had every right to preach such a policy of non-retaliation. Āider risked war with Trottingham, yes…but Kaer Solaris getting itself involved would only guarantee broad Equestrian intervention when they would otherwise let the two bicker it out.

“While your passion and frank commitment to our Fallen family members is truly commendable, we simply cannot respond in such a manner as that, Master Bjørn.” Ludovic continued in an even tone. “Everyone, please…I would like to think that we are united in our desire to exact retribution for this kind of attack on some of our own…and my heart truly does go out to all involved. But please, for the love of this Valley we all so dearly love…let us be slow to anger and quick to watch and observe in this time. Āider has been eying that region for decades now so there must be more to this that we have yet to discover. We simply must wait and see what comes next before we respond unduly out of turn and cause something worse to develop than what would have been otherwise.”

“I understand tha’, Archmaster…” Bjørn grumbled back, his sword still unsheathed and held aloft. “Gods dammit, this is unfair! I demand retribution! A Witcher falling to a Daemon be one thing, but wholesale slaughter like it's a damned pogrom?! Fuck that! Āider should burn for this insult! Them and all o’ their cowardly maggot kind!”

“And words like that are precisely why we should not respond thusly, lad…” Sir Tiffy spoke up from a chair beside the Archmaster. “This concerns my homeland, not yours Master Bjørn. Were Āider to make landfall on your Isles then our ability to control the actions taken by your Archmaster King would be exceedingly limited. And indeed, I dare say we would even permit you and any others to travel hence to assist in their defensive efforts if ye so desired to take to the sea. Yet, this is not the same situation as it would be with either of the Isles. A Continental dispute on Equestria’s massive southern border will draw Her Majesty’s eye, have no doubts about that. We must exercise cautious behavior and not respond rashly lest we be the ones to sever the ties of peace between us and take upon that heavy burden of conscience.”

“Aye, this ain't th’ Isles!” Bjørn countered with a haughty snort. “Else our Archmaster would be at the head of a glorious army o’ Witchers n’ fellow kin who be willing to wreak havoc on our thrice-damned enemies! Even th’ damned Störmgŭllans would be smart enough to put down their petty clan disputes if some bigger threat loomed o’er their lil' clump o' Isles!”

“Believe me Bjørn…I would love to do exactly that…” Ludovic responded with a sad, wearied tone as he rubbed his eyes with his paws. “I would be lying if I said I have not been visited by sweet dreams of heading a glorious army of reconquest on the behalf of the Eldar… Yet we are only a few scant hundred strong with another few hundred having not undergone the true Changes like we. A third of our Schools are abandoned, destroyed, turned traitor, or were nationalized by a local monarchy, and the rest are in various states of operation and open contact with Kaer Solaris. Unless you've not noticed, the Griffin, Örn, Thestral, Owl, Manticore, and Lion Schools have had limited-to-absolutely no contact with us since the Cleansing and even sometime before it. We have a force to be reckoned with standing ready here in the Valley, yes. But for those of us here who took part in the Race Wars, of which there are more than a few…you should remember the Witchers who fought did so as part of assembled armies of the Eldar. We simply do not have the numbers for the Council to even feign to consider such a drastic course of action. The days of that sort of armed combat is and should be left behind us until absolutely necessary…and this situation simply cannot be allowed to bloom into such a dire circumstance. The death of two of our own is terrible…but unless you intend to spark another Continental War…you would best do well to ponder over what we have said and sheathe your sword at this time, Master Bjørn.”

The silence was unbearably oppressive upon the ears as we waited with trepidation to see if Bjørn’s instinctual response for vengeance would overrule his reason in front of everyone present. Yet…graciously…the old Örn grunted in defeat with a begrudging nod and sheathed his sword before setting it back into the stand beside his padded cushion on the floor. However, as soon as one sword was sheathed and lowered, a dozen more fanciful crossguards were raised to replace it as the room still yet abounded with eager questions. My own was likewise included in the grand mix of swords, if not to merely voice my own inner opinions since Bjørn had seen fit to voice his already. If anything, I merely wished to say I agreed with the Council on this whole debacle. Alas, my sword was not so quick as that of Violet who had been keeping her sword floating in the air since Bjørn had even begun to speak. To say she had waited her turn was an understatement, yet she seemed wickedly grateful that her sword was noticed first above any of the others. Sir Tiffy had himself a small, quiet chuckle from his chair as the Archmaster acknowledged her long-waiting petition to speak. Or…perhaps it was more a question she wished to pose rather than embarking on a rant regarding the Witch Hunters and the attack itself.

“The Council will recognize the sword of Witcher Adept Violet Keidis De La Croix of the School of the Fox…for a time.” Ludovic said with a soft sigh as he knew as well as Sir Tiffy as to how verbose she could be when flustered with questions or comments. “Please…keep it brief, Violet.”

“Actually, I believe I have a fair approximation as to what young Keidis may be about to ask if I may so answer it for all other Foxes present?” Sir Tiffy asked humbly to which Ludovic wisely acquiesced. “Miss Violet…and to all my wonderful Foxes present here today…King Sheffield has seen fit to ready the Kingdom for another possible territory dispute and perhaps even a violent one this time around. As such, by his right as executive sponsor of our School, and by the Council’s leave, all available Foxes are invited to make the trip to Vulpine Manor immediately as part of a volunteer effort to support Trottingham. The King believes a strong show of reinforced defense could help deter Āider of its ambitions, if for awhile longer whilst he opens negotiations with Canterlot for arbitration on the behalf of its wayward bastard of a vassal.”

“Well…shit.” Violet said with utter surprise in her face and voice. “Um… A-and…you don't see that as potentially sparking the same war we're hoping to avoid? J-just out of curiosity…”

“Yes, this point has been made manifest to us as well during our very lengthy discussion last night.” Grandmaster Iryllith of the School of the Swan interjected softly yet firmly in her melodic Thestral tones. “However, Celestia herself is most privy to the knowledge of Trottingham’s overwhelming command over the School of the Fox as we of the Council all agreed they should rightfully possess. Trottingham has forever been an ally of the Witchers and Eldar alike and have stood with us through thick-and-thin for over five centuries now. We will secrete all Foxes as willing to volunteer for this endeavor across the border via the use of teleportation so as to not raise the suspicions of the Duchy whilst a detachment of the Scouts Elite is making full use of their network to establish a grander picture of this whole blasted affair from within the Duchy. A sealed missive has already been dispatched by courier to Canterlot to inform Her Highness regarding this current state of affairs with her vassal and to refer herself to the particulars in our treaty regarding Trottingham's legal grey-zone. It will undoubtedly infuriate her…but we have deemed the risk of war from such an action to be as minimal as we can make them.”

“Indeed.” Concurred Grandmaster Vísdómir of the School of the Owl, our one and only member of that elusive School far to the east outside of his personal pupil. “Ultimately this will be between the Duchy and Trottingham if we have any say in the matter. That legal grey-zone already mentioned will be bearing a tremendous weight, yet ultimately we are agreeing to allow King Sheffield his right to the Fox’s enhanced protection within his borders. At least until tensions have a chance to uncoil themselves without snapping forward and causing the outbreak of serious conflict between the two nations. After all, this is a defensive build-up in response to territorial threats like any other nation would do in such a situation, Celestia herself has even engaged in such behavior with her own vassals in the east when they grow rowdy with one another. In addition, King Sheffield worded it carefully so as to only call upon willing volunteers rather than a direct issued command for all Foxes far and wide to have audience with the King. This helps shift the level of ‘blame’ about somewhat, so-to-speak. Those already on the Path will each be sent a message via Zamak in due course which will inform them of the current situation as well as the open invitation from Vulpine Manor. Some will join and others will undoubtedly want no part in it and wish to retain their freedom from Trottingham's borders and a possible broader conflict. That will balance things out somewhat as I can think of three-dozen of our number off the top of my head that will want nothing to do with this situation and will seek long journeys far away from here.”

“I…see.” Violet replied, making a move for her sheathe sitting against the stand before stopping and asking, “One…final question then. What is the window for getting to Trottingham without having to seek out a smuggler's route over the border?”

“Do you mean to ask as to how long Sheffield will be accepting his ‘volunteers’?” Tiffy asked with a hint of amusement in his otherwise tired tone. “Unfortunately the window is tomorrow morning or not at all unless you are indeed willing to seek out a smuggler's route to make it through to Vulpine Manor. Already, the borders are being closed down and reinforced as we speak so any passage via the High Road will prove near impossible lest you tread the path westward, but even that is inadvisable given the rough proximity of the Lion's Redoubt. Her Majesty's Witch Hunters will be most on guard for the next few weeks at the very least and patrols will be increased out of sheer paranoia for war alone. You could attempt to slip through via the eastern routes…though I am doubtful they will be passable.”

“Yes, Grandmaster. That is all.” Violet replied after a moment of silence once Tiffy had finished speaking, sheathing her sword fully this time and returning to her seat with a very calmed look of panic in her eyes.

“Any other Foxes with burgeoning questions not covered by Miss Keidis here?” Tiffy asked a moment later as a sea of crossguards immediately raised back up once more to fill the space. “I may as well handle any others while the topic has been raised…ah, Master Irdvin! What may we answer for thee this fine morning?”

A tall Cougar dressed proudly in the black-and-orange armor of the Foxes unsheathed his sword in response to Tiffy’s acknowledgement and stood upright to begin speaking in a deep voice with a soft, growling undertone.

“Thank you, Grandmaster. I petition the Council for the right for others to volunteer alongside us to respond to this ridiculous situation. There are Souls present in this very room who wish nothing more than to assist us in this endeavor as you have already seen for yourself so this is no shortage of defiant spirits. It would be cruel to not permit them the chance to likewise do their part for our longest-standing ally.”

“But of course!” Tiffy replied with an aged chuckle before taking a sip of watered-down wine from a chalice before him. “However, I hope I need not remind thee that such an action, volunteer-based or not, would hardly be as permissible by Her Highness as King Sheffield exercising his right to the Fox School and the Witchers who run it. Regrettably, we simply cannot allow other Schools to participate in this little adventure of ours due to this being a territorial dispute and not proper Witcher’s work. The School of the Fox will temporarily vacate their position as a member of our guild and you will be considered elite commandos of Trottingham’s army to be used as the good King sees fit for the duration of the crisis. We weighed the potential consequences of this move for many hours…and there is simply no clean way out for us. Thus, the situation is forcing us to make such an unorthodox choice as this. As per the will of the Council, we will all be treated with the same respect we are due by virtue of our respective ranks in our guild. We will also retain unofficial aid from Kaer Solaris bringing up our rear and our standing here shall not be diminished so that we may yet call ourselves Witchers in full. Every sign presented to us by this unfortunate situation is pointing towards Āider making moves to expand its western border. Naturally, that is something our treaty with Canterlot strongly prohibits against as the border is to remain where it was set fifty-years ago. Yet…when has Canterlot ruled in our favor in the courts? The last time I am able to readily bring to mind occurred nearly three-hundred years ago when we were granted the Isle of Skyes. Celestia will always take the side of her people, even her wayward vassals openly flaunting their disdain for our treaties…I would be scarcely surprised to see her demand King Sheffield yield up what land Āider wants else face armed intervention. I know I say ‘we’ as if we are all Trottinghamites ourselves, yet were we not all granted honorary citizenship? Shall we not stand firm with our longest-standing ally who likewise has stood firm against three wars to remain our friend? Of course, only those who wish to fight for King and country should undertake such an endeavor…so falter not my friends. All in good time shall we see the dawn to be had on the other side of this whole debacle. And yes, this offer will be extended to all Foxes not permitted in this meeting including Acolytes, Mentors, and their Apprentices if they deem it worth the risk.”

“I…I understand.” Master Irdvin muttered softly in reply before he asked, “And...at what hour will the teleportations to Trottingham occur precisely?”

“As in how much time do each of you have to decide and prepare? We have yet to meet with the members of the Conclave, but we expect it to occur tomorrow at first light if we are at all able to manage it. Tir Ná Liá opens its doors within the hour and we are set to meet with them shortly thereafter. If any complications arise, we will aim for the morning after but we would still prefer to arrive there as soon as we are able as I am sure the King is in dire need of assistance of all sorts. Of course, this is also going off the assumption that we can convince our resident Arcane experts to assist in this matter before the noonday meal…”

“Understood, Grandmaster. One final question, what are the permissions when it comes to the matter of supplementary equipment which might aid us in the event this matter evolves into a quagmire of blood and violence?”

“Do you mean to ask if you may bring along extra weapons outside of our standard equipment?” Tiffy asked with yet another laugh of amusement. “And what is it exactly you wish to take with you down south?”

“A crossbow, Grandmaster. As well as an Örn winged spear I recently purchased which would be most effective against Sentient opponents were it to come to that. I hope it does not, yet all the same these are uncertain times we find ourselves in…an entire School turned tail on we, their kindred, and now have more than likely shed the blood we now mourn in light of this revelation. Where familial blood is shed…surely war is to follow, no?”

“I see you too are expecting armed conflict to occur during this…yes, indeed there is much precedent for what you said regarding fratricide leading to greater conflicts as such a curse does indeed seem to follow such vile actions. Very well, I see no issue with this as it may yet prove necessary, if however unfortunate. Archmaster Ludovic? Have ye anything against this motion at present?”

“No, I most certainly concur with all of which has been said on this matter.” The aging Direwolf replied thoughtfully. “You all have my blessing to take along with you whatever you feel you might require as it may be some time before you are able to leave Trottingham at all. You are, of course, responsible for your own equipment and the weight involved whilst ferrying them about. Make no mistake everyone…the ice we stand upon has always been thin regarding Empress Celestia…and such a situation as this is surely bound to only worsen that for us. As much as I would like to leave our guild's involvement in international politics and warfare behind us…I am beginning to doubt we will see much more of this relative peace we have enjoyed these last fifty-five years. Watch and be ready for what is to come, whatever it may be.”

“Understood, Archmaster. Thank you, we will not let our Fallen comrades die in vain nor bring dishonor to the guild. That will be all, Council.” Irdvin replied honorably before sheathing his sword and taking a seat with a look of a Witcher struck by a lack of sleep; haggard and listless on the surface whilst deep in dark thoughts forming a mire upon the corners of the mind.

After this, Grandmaster Tulka of the School of the Manticore unexpectedly stood to speak, raising his wide, oddly cloven hoof in a gesture to command silence before the aging Camel said, “Harken hence my friends, the words of this old Manticore. Though few of my fellow Schoolmates tarry here within this splendid Valley of green, I see in many here the burning eyes of vengeance of which I have seen far too much of in we Witchers. I look about at all of you proud, noble warrior friends whom I am proud to call my family, no matter the School of your rebirth…and I see the desire to avenge the many countless wrongs which have been wrought upon us. There are our Fallen to avenge, and that of all Eldar who have suffered alongside us, if not suffered more than even we. We who are so lucky and blessed by all the Great Divines we all thank for our daily breath…to live amidst such luxury as we do here amidst this blessed Valley. Ask yourselves all here now henceforth: are ye so willing to risk the innocence to be beholden naught a league from our very walls? And even if we indeed outlast a siege borne from reckless behaviors? What of the Eldar near and far unto us who we are not so readily able to assist? Celestia's accursed Sun touches these lands from one coastline to another, and her reach is akin to the very Abyss which we were reborn by the grace of the Divines to combat. Let not our Path be so clouded so readily by this matter, I implore ye all. There are so many wrongs which need be righted between our peoples…yet let not this be the spark which ignites our combined fury. The stars yet guide our Fates, my Brothers and Sisters of the Changes…let us trust in what their signs foretell from across the Cosmos for us to watch and learn. I have seen them myself…far away from upon the mantle of the Spire in the dead of last evening’s lengthy night. Ill portends such as those they displayed can scarcely be ignored for those with eyes to see and minds of humble thought to understand their meaning. Blood will yet be spilt in abundance once again upon Terra Firma…the true Darkness of the Void has yet to show its horrid face once more from beneath its veil of shadow. Mark my words true this day, all ye gathered present here…war will come. It will not be by us here today that these events begin their path towards the unknown, but carried aloft from places afar as if by an eagle's wings…we simply must not be the source of what misfortunes are to follow. Dark is the future beyond immediate sight…yet our end this need not be if we but allow events to unfold as the stars foretell. Omens never lie, nor should we stand idly by whilst the world shifts about us. Watch and listen…we will yet find our way through this dreary twilight we have endured these many years. We must not upset what events are to unfold with undue recklessness in futile attempts at thwarting Fate…what will come will come and we will face it as it demands, not as we demand it be. Pitied be the sorry fool that thinketh themselves capable of changing anything more than the speed at which their demise may come. Watch and listen, my friends of the Medallion. I have spoken. Let the stars speak for themselves upon the future’s distant horizon at the hour of their unknowable choosing.”

If the stunned, panicked silence of the Archmaster’s message regarding the delegation had not been awkward enough, the one to follow Grandmaster Tulka’s words was like ice in the veins. Though they were masters in arts of Alchemy which went beyond even that of the Vipers, the School of the Manticore had some talent for divination. Indeed, one could say they had figured out what mutagens could foster such abilities and applied them to every Witchling they took through the Changes in the hopes of producing another Sage. The desert expanse surrounding them and their nation offered them breathtaking masterpieces of the night sky upon which their enhanced eyes could spy out the finer workings of the Cosmos. Indeed, the people of Xanthus were accomplished astronomers in a league similar to that of my people and that of the Thestrals themselves; imparting such a love of the stars into their Witchers that nary a one could be found without a fine spyglass of exquisite design amongst their official equipment. Of course, such things were had before their Grand Vizier nationalized the School in 531, inducting them by force to act as his elite soldiers. Now, they took care of the Kingdom's monsters as well as stubborn rivals and rebellious elements alike in equal measure. Given theirs was a hostile takeover which had seen any failing to swear fealty to the Grand Vizier be publicly executed and paraded about the capital of Jigar Talâ…they were not deemed Anathema. What survivors that had survived the assault upon their School and managed to escape with their Oaths to the Path intact had fled far and wide across the Continent. Some tried to retain the memory of the Manticores by establishing a secret coven of survivors amidst the semi-tolerant Sandscale Clan of Dragons living near the Xanthus border with the Golden Dynasty. There, their School endured in a fractured state much like unto the School of the Dragon itself farther to the east. Contact with these surviving Manticores was sporadic as they caravanned across the Eastern Deserts, taking unexpected paths across the sands so as to evade the Vizier when outside of the Crandor Mountains.

Having come from their earliest years as a true Witcher School however, if Tulka said he read true omens of blood upon the stars…only an uneducated fool would dare second-guess such a fortune telling as his. While I was certain his words were meant with utmost sincerity towards our collective calmed reason…I could not deny his was a chilling prophecy to listen to. The room in general was far too dumbstruck to even utter a peep rendering the many quiet thuddings of everyone's hearts around me to become a chorus of nervous drums. The old Camel rarely spoke, even in the midst of Council meetings…to hear so many words from his wise lips was certainly something all of us would do well by adhering to. He glanced about each of us in turn in perfect silence, his golden brown Witcher eyes grayed somewhat by age and holding back a fountain of untold wisdom. There was likely more to his prophetic speech than he was going to openly share with us…yet to receive so many wise words of insight as what he had graced us with…it was at once both a blessed gift to observe, as well as a chilling moment I wished not to relive. Grandmaster Tulka had avoided an early death at many junctions in his life by following the will of the stars which watched over him. I had no talent for Astronomic magic like unto my mother Astrid…yet it was due to my trust in the words of my mother I knew in my Soul to trust deeply in the words of the only Camel within the Solar Valley. Blind faith was not even needed when I had seen the cause-to-effect of following the Fates for myself…my mother had known from the night of my birth I was to become a Witcher. Everything she had done had been to see me charge forth to meet my destiny upon the Witcher’s Path. The stars whispered tales to any with ears to listen and eyes to see their signs…and Grandmaster Tulka’s known grasp of the subject only eclipsed her own. Just like with her those many centuries ago…I was willing to lean upon the wisdom of an elder whose grasp of the Cosmos and their Divine Will stood like the White Fang Mountains themselves, winding vast circles about my own mediocre understanding of it all.

“T-thank you…for those…encouraging words of warning, Grandmaster Tulka.” Ludovic stammered softly as he saw fit to break the Council Chambers of its heavy spell of silence. “I cannot read the stars with nearly the same skill as one of the Manticores…yet in my Soul I feel the deep truth behind his words of caution towards the path ahead. A truth I most agree with as I have already stated the rest of us are to unfortunately suffer the agony of inaction towards such an aggressive action taken against us. We must all of us continue to stay our steel swords within our sheathes, particularly those of us forced to remain behind…which brings me to my next point. There are too many of us dwelling within Kaer Solaris at this time. A goodly few seats are unoccupied amongst you, yet here I witness perhaps a hundred-or-so able-bodied Witchers who are yet able to take to the Path once more. Any truly incapacitated, or otherwise indisposed for legitimate reasons will be permitted to stay as long as they need in order to resolve their injuries or personal business as deemed so necessary. All others…”

He glanced about the room with a knowing look as his intended meaning was clear as freshly cast glass… Having fewer of us congregating in the School during the summer months would hopefully assist in our attempts to show our stance of non-aggression towards Canterlot. Witchers were supposed to slay monsters after all, the many amenities of Kaer Solaris were indeed a blessed luxury as Grandmaster Tulka had alluded to. I knew my rest was not meant to last…yet I had hoped for one more day to soak in the Baths properly, restock on supplies, enjoy the comfort of my own bed, and simply enjoy the homely comforts which the outside world sorely lacked. Canterlot was likely not to take too kindly to anything regardless of how well we approached it…yet it was all we could do in good faith to stay the course we needed to. If Celestia decided towards major action…well, we would simply have to wait and see. Wait…and shore up our defenses and stores of supplies within the Valley were a siege to occur.

“I understand that none of this is good or encouraging news…yet what news has been either of those things since the Cleansing? And even before that we were facing one depressing report after another as the Race Wars raged and we were…most regrettably…dragged into the midst of that madness. We have weathered the storms of the past six centuries with cracks upon all our stone facades…stand firm awhile longer, I implore you all. If war is yet to ravage our lands once more…let it not be we who started it. Omens favor those who heed their warnings and honor their instructions…and we will need whatever Cosmic Will we may garner in our favor to see ourselves through this rising storm on the horizon. Now…I understand there are a great many questions yet stirring within the many beloved faces I too see here like unto Grandmaster Tulka. Yet…I regret to inform you that we of the Council are in desperate need of rest after what we have already long discussed prior to the Council Chambers opening up unto you. I will answer one more question or voiced opinion before I simply must call this Council to a close. All those who were unable to have their sword recognized this morning will be welcome to visit their respective Council member prior to setting out onto the Path. However…I cannot, in good conscience, allow any who are able-bodied to tarry longer than the end of this week before we must command thee to embark for the Path. Please, take what time you need to settle whatever personal affairs as might distract the thoughts whilst upon the High Road…yet I expect your quarters to be unoccupied come Sunday morning. Some time spent Hunting will be therapeutic for all of us…let us honor our Fallen in our hearts during tonight’s Vigil Ceremony, and use that desire to avenge them to wreck some havoc upon the Abyss wherever it may be found. We still have yet to beat back the Abyss and its legions of monsters…the cause of our rebirth is, as of yet, unfulfilled. Let us fuck up its sneering visage and give ourselves some breathing room in a constructive fashion in which we can attack with near abandon. They deserve even less mercy than Equestria's many sins, so let us deliver unto them a fitting end. Rip them, tear them apart if you must…end their miserable existences in the names of the Fallen! Let not their struggles against the Darkness be diminished through inaction! Nolite Timere Tenebras, Tenebrae Timeant Nos!”

‘Fear Not The Darkness, Let the Darkness Fear Us’, part of the closing mantra of the Witcher's Code. Somehow, our Archmaster had ignited a spark of hope within the Council Chambers from the icy tundra of shocked silence which had so gripped us before. We all cheered in response after all of us likewise repeated the phrase, echoing our collective shock and rage about the Chamber’s lofty walls and ceiling as our cheers turned into snarling, furious war cries and tears of past pains and anguish. Neurologically damaged each of us may be, yet we still felt such intense passions as any other being…merely requiring far more in order for the dams to burst. Such noise was hardly pleasant upon the ears…yet the Soul could not help but lose itself to the madness of sensations being let forth from both myself and those around me. The Council, seeing the collective venting of emotions erupting before them, merely clasped their sensitive ears closed and waited out the storm as the tension building up such a static shock between us finally snapped. Eventually…the flood subsided and a river of calm resumed its hold upon our respective composers as wetted eyes were dried and frantic breathing slowed to a calmer state of being. It had been spur of the moment…yet I could not deny I felt so much better to have screamed along with the rest of my fellows in the heat of the moment. The Archmaster himself seemed mighty pleased with the results of his work and opened his mouth once more to speak once it seemed the tide of anxious murmurs had truly calmed more towards normal.

“I am truly blessed amongst Direwolves to be at the head of such a fantastic bunch of hardened bastards like all of you wonderful Witchers. We will entertain one final question before we must adjourn these proceedings. Who shall it be?”

Unlike before, a tepid calm now gripped the room as each Witcher was seemingly struck by deep, personal thoughts which kept them from raising a sword. I had gotten what answers I wanted from this meeting and felt any further questions could be taken up with Master () prior to my departure. As my compatriot in the Viper School of roughly equal skill and talent to myself, he had been so gracious as to take up the mantle as a member of the Council rather than myself. It had been offered to me many a time…yet I craved the Path and the thrill of the Hunt, not the stuffy proceedings of managing the guild. We had locked eyes during the meeting more than once and his was always a stony, inscrutable veneer. Whatever his true feelings were, I would have to learn for myself in private as he kept his mouth shut like unto the other members of the Council who had chosen not to speak. Indeed…I could spy the haggard sleeplessness plain as day upon their stoic faces as they sat before us awaiting their final question. When no others roused themselves from their quiet introspection…I felt compelled to reach for my sword and make my petition to speak.

“Ah, wonderful!” Ludovic laughed softly with a look of relief on his wearied face. “The Council recognizes the sword of Master Frejdá Vilulf of the School of the Viper.”

With as much respect as my nerves tingling with mixed feelings could muster, I dragged the black leather-wrapped sheath from off my silver sword and held it aloft as I opened my mouth to speak. So many eyes could be felt looking in my direction as I did so…and I loathed such a feeling even more than entering Darkmire alone.

“Archmaster, members of the Council and…all my brothers and sisters beside me here today. I love you all from the bottom of my heart and the depths of my Soul. It is not so much a question I have, but rather…a statement of honest thoughts spoken honestly to you all here today. I want the best for each and every one of us here and especially those abroad who are honorably treading the Path amidst its many dangers. That same very Path is our calling and our cause for existence. It is the subject of the Oaths we took upon making the Choice when it had first been offered to us, in whatever century and whatever country we found ourselves in when it happened. The wars of the past three centuries have clouded that Path with racial politics and conflicts over land and culture… I participated in it just as heartily as any of the others here who likewise arranged themselves again and again amidst those marching lines of Eldar warriors. Let us stand blameless before our respective Gods and Goddesses in this matter as Archmaster Ludovic and Grandmaster Tulka both implored us to do. I could of course be speaking to hardened hearts set upon enacting vengeance…yet I hope enough of you have the self respect necessary to restrain yourselves until the Omens come to pass. Who are we to question the signs given us by the Cosmos? That is all.”

While I could have spoken much more regarding my fears towards the future and my resolve to fight the good fight…I had said enough to make my point known. I sheathed my sword quietly and sat down to continue plodding about within the confines of my own mind as the room fell to silence once more. After a few moments to allow us to ponder to ourselves the words which had been spoken in the past half-hour, Ludovic nodded tiredly to everyone and gave a reassuring smile.

“I thank you all for attending this meeting so early in the morning, and I also thank you in advance for doing the right thing in this time of contention and unknowable futures. This Council session is now adjourned, you are all free to return to your tasks and set about getting ready to make for the Path. Remember, we want all able-bodied to vacate the School by Sunday morning until the winter frosts touch the High Road. Keep a wary eye and ear upon the world whilst you traverse it. Relay to us as quickly as you are able any potential goings-on which ye might happen upon whilst on the road. We will be watching and waiting for what is to come with all our senses extended and our wills combined. Steel yourselves against the next few months… I am sure we will all have our fill of vengeance before too long…hold out just a wee bit longer.”

With his closing words gracing us with a soft feeling of anxiety towards the dawn of the coming days spoken of, he stood upright along with the rest of the Council and inclined their heads in our direction. It was a gesture of respect across multiple cultures and bid us farewell in a quiet, humble manner rather than as a barked command to disperse now that the meeting had come to a close. Scarcely half-an-hour had passed since it had even began and already it was over, standing in stark opposition to what I had expected to take several hours at least. The news and my opportunity to speak had pushed back what sleeplessness yet gripped my mind from my sudden awakening, and yet now with the moment having passed, I could feel the corners of my eyes and mind begin to sag and doze. I was slow to rise to my hooves to follow everyone else who had obviously enjoyed more hours of restful sleep than I had, finding my strength to return even my weapons to my back lacking causing it to become a mildly uncoordinated affair. I was not quite the young mare I used to be…and my aging body was letting me know that, even with the mutations, no body was meant to undergo such abuse as what Witchers endured indefinitely. Being Eldar, and a descendant of the biologically immortal Thestral race to boot, I was ensured a rather cushioned elder age compared to the much more fragile Equestrians. Yet…not a single Witcher known had yet to die in their own bed of peaceful old age as of yet. Fate seemingly destined such a death for all of us who perverted our original natures with manufactured mutagens and Arcane rites. Not so much a curse perhaps…but rather something more akin to a contract of sorts. An exchange of one's Soul for power beyond what we would normally be allowed to possess by whatever Divine force nurtured one's individual existence. All of that, and potentially more depending on the School, for an almost guaranteed, rather lonely demise somewhere along the Witcher's Path. Braxia was one such fitting example of countless others who met their match against the Abyss and succumbed to their wounds. And such an end was our desire, at least for most of us…as it meant we had fallen in the line of duty and held our Oaths fulfilled. Honorable and dependable to the very last breath of life.

Of course…there were the Anathema, those Witchers such as the Cats who rightfully stood accused of the crime of Kinslaying. The killing of Sentients in self-defense was already deeply controversial to vehement adherents to the Witcher's Code, yet to commit an act of murder upon a fellow Witcher without just cause was amongst the greatest crimes one could commit. Truly any murder was equally as dire in terms of consequences and punishments issued, yet that sense of family so many of us nurtured now more than ever rendered such an act most vile indeed. As I and so many others saw it…we were all part of one gigantic collective family of all manner of odd sorts due to our extensive mutations. And though a price should never be placed upon the relative worth of someone's blood…I would be unable to deny it if someone were to say Witcher blood was amongst the most valuable in the world compared to the average peasant. Every one of us slain was another relic of an age of strength destroyed and lost forever. A few such wretched Anathema had since fallen to my blade and a good few of the others who had now since exited the Council Chambers; leaving me and a scant few stragglers stuck in muted conversations or otherwise so deep in thought that the world around them ceased to be for a time. Like any extended family…I had those brothers and sisters whom I adored, and those for whom little love was lost between us for one cause or another. And yet…I would willingly fight for nearly each and every single last one of them if it were necessary. And to those who broke that sacred bond of trust felt between most Witchers due to our shared trials and tribulations across the centuries…there remained naught but a cold, bitter, detached hatred. Theirs was a traitorous blood already considered long-forfeit, their bodies merely walking corpses that had yet to receive their final coup de grâce as the Yonderlandians liked to put it. A treacherous road lay ahead for all of us and my heart went out to those Foxes who would inevitably be setting out to answer the call at Vulpine Manor. And as much as I hated to admit it...I wished that I too could accompany them into the unknown with the knowledge my quiet thirst for vengeance would be sated somewhat.

* * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Fourteen: Testing Friendship's Limits

“Frejdá! Hey! Anyone home?”

A purple hoof armored in orange, studded leather waved itself before my distant vision as my path of thought was once again ripped away from me by a sudden interruption. It took yet a split-second more for my mind to feel ready enough to address her verbally and I noticed that her ever-present shadow Topaz remained close by, but down on the ground floor with visible nervous energy. Indeed, both of them looked frazzled and beyond anxious as their eyes kept darting towards the doors to leave. And in all truth...they were justified in feeling such feelings and countless more beneath the surface as I looked Violet in the eye as I opened my mouth to speak. After all...their lofty plans had just been unceremoniously ripped out from under their hooves like a tablecloth upon a heavily-laden banquet table. Some parts were going to be hopefully recoverable, but most was going to need to be tossed away; its inherent usefulness now rendered essentially meaningless.

“I shouldn't be surprised to see you after all that was just said.” I sighed sadly as I did my best to look sympathetic. “Looks like plans will have to change somehow for your little scheme that you had in mind. Do you have someone else on retainer nearby you can sling a couple hundred Crowns to do it all for you?”

“Asik has dropped off the map again and I don't have the time to send a Zamak in every direction on the compass just trying to find his sorry ass. That leaves just one mare I can trust who's close enough to get word to in time for all this insanity…and I'm afraid she'll say no to me this time after everything else she's already done for me…”

“Who would th-…? Wait… You…you cannot possibly believe for a second I am cut out for that kind of work!” I gasped back in as hushed a tone as I could for such an echoing room still occupied by a few others. “You absolutely stupid, ridiculously daft bitch! No! I absolutely refuse!”

“Hear me out? Please?!” She begged with such passionate fury even I felt cowed somewhat by the inner ferocity burning in her eyes as she made her plea. “Just…ugh, fuck! Let's talk outside where the walls don't have so many fuckin' ears…”

The adrenaline granted me from the sudden shock from her absurd request made movement far easier than before, and I found the energy to quickly rise from my seat; exiting the Council Chambers with my weapons floating along close beside me. Topaz was seemingly also being dragged along at a blistering pace alongside and behind me as Violet stalked through the Master's Hall and past Annamarie at her desk to reach the Great Hall in a great rush. Our early morning meeting now over, the beginning overtures of the morning meal started to stir in the Hall as the extra tables began to be assembled starting in the lower half to accommodate the School's active roster of students. The serving staff, in their impeccable robes of white and red, were all cheerfully conversing in quiet murmurs with one another as they set about their morning routine in preparation for everyone else's. Unfortunately, due to the circumstances of the moment, I had been left no time to indulge myself in a bite to eat from the modest selection of food Nana Evelyn had been attending to. Not only was that my rather rotten luck for the morning, but the Great Hall was, as of yet, utterly devoid of any semblance of foodstuffs as well. Naught but the cutlery and plates had been laid upon the tables with the staff now adding wooden tankards and kerchiefs at each seating area, but not a single hint of anything edible. Surely something delicious such as oatmeal, gruel, or a savory porridge sat bubbling inside those mighty cauldrons in the Kitchens below us just begging to be devoured. Toasted bread with jam and butter likely were likely to accompany whatever the meal was…along with fresh fruits and juices in tall chilled pitchers of stone… The more my daydreams wandered, the greater my longing grew for the feast I had enjoyed at the Crosswinds the night before. It had been a simpler time not even seven hours before... I had extremely good food, even better conversation and the most delicious Bitters on the Continent. In those hours, I had experienced but a gasp of the heavenly air peace and happiness provided me in an otherwise rather dour profession and lifestyle. Yet such a thing had come and gone, having become one with the past left behind in our wake as we soldiered forward. Instead, my grumbling stomach and I were led along by our insistent purple Yonderlandian directly across the Hall to the middle door granting passage into the Grand Library. Our final destination remained a mystery...yet there was only so far within School grounds that she could conceivably go to without having to leave the walls entirely.

Contained within the mighty apse built off the western face of the keep, the School's extensive Library formed a great rotunda with a grand, circular staircase servicing the ten-story multi-use area. The ground floor was entirely devoid of bookshelves, but rather played host to a sea of reading desks surrounding a circular desk set in the center of the room where the comfortable-looking seat of the Head Scribe and Grand Librarian, Tahl Frost-Tail, resided. This early in the morning, nary a Soul occupied the lofty round room with its floor-to-ceiling murals of Kaer Solaris' lengthy history looming over them, all save for a few other Librarians sorting leather-bound tomes in a far corner. Tahl himself had likely yet to rise as his grand chair sat empty whilst only the softest of murmurs could be heard from the upper floors and the Rookery at the top story; the noise echoing down through the wide circular break running up the center of each upper floor. Violet's course stayed swift and true as she steered us through one of two open doorways in the wall which led onto the spiraling stone staircase forming a wide double-helix as they curled upwards. What portions of the stairway that did not exit out onto one of the other floors instead passed through curved passages of stone, lit by gently glowing Sunstones and painted thoroughly by further murals depicting assorted scenes from Witcher lore. Eight circular stories’ worth of cozy reading nooks and overstuffed bookshelves passed us by as we rushed to mount the stairs in our friend's wake, passing then a further two stories locked behind sealed steel doors embedded in the stone passage. Naturally, we had no need to barge into the Chamberlain Scribes private domain of procedures and proper paperwork, and we emerged out onto the open and airy tenth floor; the hub of all mail sent and received within the School.

The semicircular roof of the Grand Library came to a high, sloped peak of maroon shingles from which dozens of great golden cages with lavish comforts dangled via thick chains of iron. Dozens more open portals likewise poked through each section of roof for easy passage of this floors’ great feathered residents. The many talented occupants of this floor was none other than our grand flock of Zamak Ravens who received exceedingly great levels of care and training by our equally-talented Ravenmasters. Through their many years of careful training, our Zamaks looked up to their handler as their dominant elder family members who lead the flock. Of the twelve Ravenmasters kept on staff, only two tended to be on-duty at any given time within the Rookery itself whilst the rest either rested, were out training, or were otherwise caring for their Zamaks somewhere within the Valley or its immediate surroundings. The walking space available within the Rookery, which sported a central railing with a view down to Tahl’s desk ten-stories below, was mostly devoid of overtly flashy decoration upon its stone walls. Rather, calming murals of bright-and-sunny woodlands and plains of beautiful grasslands accompanied a collection of small writing desks ringing the modest space, accompanied by some groups of shelving bearing stacks of paper and parchment of varying sizes and thicknesses. Writing implements, maps, and wax sealing kits likewise found places amidst the Rookery’s cache of supplies for sending and receiving messages; the only other supplies being those needed to care for the Zamaks themselves who only returned to their gilded nests to rest and preen as their feeding and training occurred elsewhere in the Valley. At this hour, the lonely pair of Ravenmasters sat awake with no messages to send in a private nook partitioned off by curtain racks partially drawn back. Each dozed happily in their chairs whilst the morning air passed through the many openings in the roof with a soft, persistent whoosh. Even as we passed through the quiet space, the eyes of what Zamaks were awake peered down at us with keen red eyes and gave soft caws of friendly greeting which roused our Ravenmasters from their morning relaxation. Fragrant, if musty, white smoke also billowed somewhat from their comfortable rest on a pair of padded couches as they passed a long clay pipe of potent Dwemish Tabak between them. Truly a restful morning I envied as they were spared the impending words of a very pissed-off Violet.

“Ah, three great Missus at once?” The first one asked in a soft daze, a jolly green Lesser Dragon who went by the self-appointed name of Scorch. “Sorry Masters, we were puffing rings and enjoying the mornin’ breeze through the rafters, weren't we Haavlan?”

“Aye, tis a beautiful mornin’ fer a wee pipe o’ Tabak.” Agreed the stout Dwem male who sported golden feathers grafted amidst his natural tan plumage. “Are ye in need o’ a quick missive perhaps? Or maybe ye need tah look for someone like th’ Archmaster needed to when he were lookin’ fer Master Bjørn n’ his lil shadow-in-training. Heard wha’ happened to tha’ poor young lad’s mother. Me brother's wife knew her grandmother's goldsmith fer their wedding bangles…right shite luck that was fer such a nice lil’ family.”

“Indeed…” I agreed with a subdued nod even as Violet silently continued her pace towards the door leading to the exterior balcony. “Pardon us good gents, return to your pipe and enjoy your morning as we are merely passing through the area it seems. Thank you graciously though!”

“No work? Tis good news indeed then! Have a blessed morning then, Master Witchers!” Scorch chuckled heartily as he waved his talons our direction as we exited to the outside via a north-facing door.

I gave them a gentle wave in the brief moment allotted to me by the speed of our dash outdoors and respectfully shut the door behind us as we emerged out onto the lengthy covered balcony which rung round the exterior of the Rookery. Being roughly level with the retaining wall of the School, the balcony only offered views of inside the western half of the School, including the path to the scullery and the Head Chef's living quarters to the south, the School’s modest little plot of farmland and Granary directly to our west, and the Northern Towers directly opposite of us across a short bridge over the Lower Courtyard. The Tower at the other end acted as Master Razorbeak’s fencing classroom, personal office, and private living quarters for himself and his two lieutenants-in-teaching. The other Northern Tower to its immediate east across the roof of the gatehouse was similarly a classroom, office and private living quarters all at once, this time for Paladin Thistle Briar and some of his fellow Knights of the Eclipse. There, students would be regaled with lectures on the broader strokes of world history, philosophy and etiquette as it behooved all Witchers to have at least a basic grasp of these matters. We were not quite in the same league of scholar warriors as the Knights of the Eclipse whose noble order originated amongst the Hippogriffs, yet we were expected to hold ourselves to something akin to those universal Knightly values; good manners, good education and good intentions all in equal measure. The Equestrian Empire and its numerous loyal lapdogs might have deemed the Witchers to be an unruly relic of the past, yet we still owed it to ourselves to be knowledgeable and cultured in our conduct. If not for the mere sake of appearances and the public perception of our general professionalism alone, something which was eternally needing to be proven on the world stage it seemed.

Violet's journey had yet to find its destination it seemed though, and she continued to drag us along across the bridge to the Northern Towers. At the other end, the bridge met the foot of the door to Razorbeak’s classroom and split in either direction around the tower in order to connect with the rest of the curtain wall. Our path continued due westward along the rampart towards the entrance of the Northwest Tower, which acted as an annex for both Anatomy and Bestiary classes. Dissections of specimens occurred on the lower two floors whilst the upper third and fourth floors housed a storehouse and a dedicated classroom respectively. The door opened easily to her tug upon the ringed handle and revealed an empty, squared room full of spotless marble mortuary slabs with leather-wrapped bundles of tools sat upon short tables built onto the head and foot of each dissection station. Painstakingly detailed charts and diagrams were hung from the walls which displayed the complex inner anatomies of countless creatures and smaller copied etchings could be hung from brackets built onto posts attached to every station. As we mounted the narrow wooden stairs bound for the roof, it wasn't hard to notice that whatever students were to occupy the tower later were learning about Insectoid-category monsters as I spied charts with the familiar inner workings of Kikimores and Arachasae already posted at each station. The simplistic classrooms likewise had enormous etchings of these beasts posted by the lectern at the head of the rows of relatively comfortable desks, themselves each already sporting canisters with various larval Insectoids pickled in formaldehyde for close study. Access to the roof itself was provided by a simple ladderwell tucked away in the corner behind an L-shaped wooden partition which had a duty roster for the School Guard posted in the inner face. A quick glance was enough to inform me that we would have some guests to temporarily dismiss once we got to the top in order to get the privacy she wanted. Why she chose here rather than…say, anywhere else…? I hadn't the foggiest. I was merely along for the trip as she had some serious groveling to do in order to get my undivided attention for her impending arguments.

“You two, leave us.” Violet commanded as soon as a pair of sallet-helmeted heads turned our direction with no little amount of surprise as we climbed up to join them atop their lonely tower.

“Violet!” I barked at her rather harshly as I was growing fairly irritated by her treatment of others merely because she was always in a rush. “Noble Guard, please take a momentary break down upon the wall if you would. Violet? Fucking apologize to these good stallions for being such a rude little shite to these fine stallions…”

“Ugh! Sorry…” She grunted back towards them in reply, the two Unicorns glancing between each other in stunned silence unable to reply. “You can stop standing around now…go on.”

They inclined their heads respectfully and shouldered their partisans upon their plate spaulders in a rush to leave. It was likely out of stunned fear they gave nary a word as they quickly vacated the top of the tower, leaving us alone amidst the square ring of battlements once the floor hatch thudded shut. None of us dare speak a word either as we waited as one to hear the echo of the lower tower door open and shut as the two of them exited out onto the wall below. Once the jingle of their chain hauberks and creak of their leather straps faded onto the wall towards the gatehouse, a collective sigh of relief was shared between us. The only other noise present past that was the soft flap of the proud Wolf Crest flag on a long pole in the northwest corner of the tower as it billowed in the pervasive mountain breeze. That was…until Violet turned to me with a sudden, rather unexpected question.

“Can you perform a muffling charm?”

“What, across the whole tower? I am far from a Sorceress's level of on-command control of the Power you know, even for a Lowland.”

“Yeah, I know, magic and you aren't the strongest of friends. Just cast it around us would you? Or is that too much for you as well?”

“You are being extremely rude this morning Violet…I do not appreciate that. It's one thing for Rosemary to mock my lack of talent but you?”

“Yeah, I won't even bother defending you on this one, Vi." Topaz spoke in my defense leaving Violet and her irritating attitude cornered. "Just because you're pissed off at the situation doesn't give you the right to lash out on her for it. Especially when you're trying to fucking ask her to do something for you!”

“On top of what I've already lost sleep over for you last night, let's not forget that either…” I sighed tiredly to which Violet backed herself up physically against the corner of the battlements and sat back against them with a hefty sigh of her own.

“Sorry…just…sorry…Frejdá.” She grunted out after a moment or two of holding her head in her armored hooves and taking several deep breaths to calm herself.

“All is forgiven, Vi. This time…” I said simply before I too sat down and raised my hooves in the manner of a caster whilst digging out of my mind the simplistic muffling charm I had been compelled to learn, courtesy of an embarrassingly loud Petra. “Bí Ciúin!”

Immediately I felt my heart flutter ever so lightly at the sudden rush of the Power through my inner Aura as the simple spell exceeded what was usually required for a typical Witcher's Sign. From between my hooves, an almost imperceptibly white orb of magic expanded out like a bubble to cover a space only a couple of meters squared. Hardly anything impressive, nor particularly long lasting without a charged crystal to maintain energy to the power-hungry, amateur spell…but it was enough to muffle my bedroom if I happened to entertain a guest overnight. Whether or not Violet had known all this when she had asked me to cast it…I could only assume something had slipped my lips the last time we were slobbering drunk together. There was a chance perhaps that she had simply been asking out of blatant curiosity with no prior knowledge and I was making a whole mess over nothing. That, or Petra had found it such a hilarious tale that she simply could not be bothered to keep it between us and whispered things into their ears for a quick giggle or two…

“Very well, one muffling charm as only this pathetic street magician can perform.” I said with a slightly sarcastic bow. “We have five, maybe six minutes before I need to cast this again so by all means, speak your piece Vi. You dragged my arse this far along, I might as well hear your full argument from the top.”

“Thank you.” She said simply as she looked up from her hooves and stared me directly in the eyes with her soft amethyst ones. “Frejdá…I doubt I need to remind you how much these vermin, these…parasites, deserve the end Topaz and I deliver to them. You hardly become a semi-independent Duchy under Equestrian oversight by resisting Canterlot or the will of the Empress…you of all fucking mares should know that too. The only difference here is that Āider almost got swallowed up due to that ridiculous debt problem you all had, and it was only the King who sold it all out from under you guys in order to absolve himself of them. Yonderland willingly gave itself up to Equestrian vassalhood when they realized they could save on wine and cheese tariffs and the nobility would have first claim to any conquered lands in the borderlands. Equestria takes her 25% cut of all Ducal income and the remainder trickles down from there in great clumps. Did all the common folk and laymares agree to such a measure? Not exactly, but they still profited greatly from the transfer of power and so have no room to argue against the status quo. Yonderland is the land of wine and sun as everyone likes to boast on-and-on about…while many regions around them struggle, they know only tranquility and abundance. It is an absolute fucking travesty to witness, even five hundred years after the fact.”

“Well…to be fair, the land they were originally gifted by the Thestrals and those surrounding it which they conquered are all perfect vineyard country. Idyllic temperatures and humidity, fertile soil, and not to mention the preexisting wine presses in the region they inherited along with it all. They practically began as a nation with a mighty fine vested interest in producing wines bred to compete with the likes of Eldar vintages. To do otherwise would have been a complete waste of the region and its natural abundance.”

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t negate the fact that, aside from donating a few villages’ worth of soldiers towards Celestia’s needs every other decade and a bi-annual tribute in coin and goods, they sold themselves short for a life of peace and plenty. They had known independence at one point! They had earned the right to self-governance in those rich lands you just mentioned. Why would they give that up when they could have been an independent power?! All to save some coin on exporting luxury goods to the same people they broke away from?! It is an absolute disgrace to what Yonderland could have been. Should have been!”

“I think you are forgetting that most folks in this world wish for the very same peace and plenty you just described for themselves and those they love… Fuck, I would be most willing to bet my own Fangs on the notion that the vast majority of Creation itself wants nothing more than as close to a guaranteed life of peace and prosperity as this life can offer. To be alive and Sentient is to be painfully aware of constant base needs such as the need to eat, drink, or breathe and are also quite capable of voicing our inner pains into conscious words. Two of those things I just mentioned most certainly cost more labor and money than the last, and to lack in any of them would kill most anything alive. We are lucky to have been so blessed by the Changes so as to be the recipients of such beautiful fortresses as Kaer Solaris…we asked for a harder road than that trod by most. Especially your average Equestrian peasant with scarcely fifty Crowns to their name per-year who are the common fodder for early death and ignorant superstitions which are endlessly hazardous to their health. I know it is hard to imagine…but try for even the briefest of moments to consider yourself poor and destitute like unto some sorry fuck out of some village like Bramble Woods or Harlander. What would you be willing to sacrifice in order to be guaranteed peace and stability each and every year? Your fields of oats and grain allowed to be sown, grown, harvested, and threshed in due course with the calm change of the seasons in a land simply made to be farmland, vineyard and pasture? Your extensive family is all similarly cared for and allowed to live a life free of undue horror like unto the rest of the world. Their lives are still hard and back-breaking for most…but aside from the occasional bout of plague or minor droughts, they know no further hardships than the manual labor of the common peasantfolk. Monsters, Daemon, war, plague, and all the destruction they bring are leagues away in other nations that are not your own…so why should you care that your ancestors sold what little freedoms you might have otherwise have had as an independent village? Few such independent places can claim to have ready defenses or defenders willing to put their lives on the line in order to maintain public order while every town and village under Equestrian control features a garrison of soldiers and even token defenses at the very least. I don’t know Violet…were I not a Witcher, or a Lowland, I would take the life of a Yonderlandian peasant over that of even a middle-born noble of anywhere else across the contiguous Empire; vassal state or fully integrated into Equestria proper. And that is to say nothing of both the merchant and artisan classes of Yonderlandian society who comprise a tier of low-ranking nobility all their own. They too almost want for nothing but to expand their business interests whilst freely plying their skills in an open market of potential buyers. They resigned their independence and the possibilities such a future would have held, yet they did it for a near-guaranteed promise which has been utterly held to the letter…if only every other region was so lucky and so blessed and peaceful as Yonderland.”

“I get it, I get it…” She grunted in reply after I had finished my long-winded speech regarding the peasantry. “And the rational part of me is agreeing with you on all of those points. That being said…this isn’t about the lowliest beings on the social ladder, this is about the upper rungs and their whole corrupted framework. In Yonderland, wine and blood are held to similar standards before the altar of coin…the finest of casks only go to those with the bluest blood flowing through their veins, just as the noblest of titles are reserved for the wealthiest of families. Rarely does one rise in the Cabal without an excessive pile of gold at their beck and call. Money keeps the world turning just as much as magic does, and the weight of all that metal can be felt in the power they exert over what they will. I’ve no interest in wasting the cheap wine of the average working mare or stallion…I wish to strip away from their very lips the precious Sangreal they sip upon. The greatest deed performed on my behalf by the entire De La Croix family was my grandmother! The rest of my regrettable relations have let the fat of the last five-centuries of profitable servitude to Celestia go right to their heads and arses…”

“Oh? And what did your grandmother do for you exactly? I cannot recall you mentioning her before now.”

“I don't dare mention anyone I willingly choose to forget, Frejdá… Who do you think it was that set up the savings account exclusively in my name in Mahakam far from the machinations of other family members? She was an aging grandmother desperate to see a granddaughter in her progeny after nearly a dozen grandsons were born one after the other. A little…princess…of her own, so to speak. So, she took 10% of her estate's total assets, mostly liquid thank the Gods, and set up a fund exclusively tied to whoever that first granddaughter happened to be. That way, she could dote on and spoil them like a grandmother should from beyond the tomb which was soon to be upon her. The year she passed is when Topaz and I made our move to the Witchers as she was the only one with absolute authority over the terms and conditions of the account. Once she died, all jurisdiction fell into my name by default as her extensive stipulations demanded across dozens of legal documents signed both in Yonderland and Mahakam. Of course…little could she have guessed what I was to do with all that coin that she was so kind as to set aside for Topaz and I…”

“Huh…and here I always assumed you had stolen the relevant documents pertaining to that particular account when you made your grand exit from the Ducal Palace…”

“Oh no, I did steal documents like that pertaining to several other smaller accounts that I knew I could get away with. I knew the Pygmy wouldn’t press bank fraud charges against me given the account holder for each of those accounts was technically whomever possessed the documentation as long as they were of direct Ducal descent. They were…shall we say, repositories for kingly-sized bribes which could also double as ransom funds if someone reignited yet another petty spat within the Ducal Family. Seeing as I held the documents and was the immediate daughter of the Duke himself…the bank felt no need to parse over irrelevant specifics on everything and allowed the transfer of funds to occur after I let them take their contractual cut of the money. I drained and closed all the accounts, paid the appropriate taxes and filled the leagues-worth of requisite forms so Yonderland would have no legal recourse to stand on if they tried suing for their money back. It…admittedly strained relations between Mahakam and San Palégiorno for a time…yet nothing more than a brief war of import/export tariffs ever came of it. Coin has a want to migrate in wealthy countries and before the next year was out, business as usual returned in full swing between them. At this point…I've outlasted essentially everyone who openly knows about my...expanded inheritance shall we say. Yonderland itself is quick to forget the past if it suits the needs of the now and the coin I pilfered that day has undoubtedly been replaced tenfold since then through their vast sources of revenue.”

“Why do you still kill them then? Your extended family that is. Everyone you grew up with, or were in some way raised by, have long-since given up the ghost decades ago. Are you that intent upon destroying the entire Duchy one noble at a time? Their wealth and debauchery notwithstanding, they form part of the social structure of the entire country and national identity. Take out too many of them faster than new ones can claim their titles and you could destabilize the region forcing Celestia to take away that semblance of self-governance they have enjoyed for so long… It is one of the few nations where the accumulation of wealth of any notable sort can turn the average mare or stallion into a Count or Countessa if they are lucky enough. Knights Errant and even common Mares-at-Arms have been inducted into the lower ranks of the nobility for acts of valor in the line of duty. Not that it has happened too many times throughout history…but it is still something interesting regarding your former kin. I cannot help but give a modicum of respect towards that social mobility as it is far from common in Equestrian holdings by any conceivable margin.”

“The Duchy can freeze in Hel for an eternity for as far as I care about it all…” She huffed angrily with a frown. “But to answer your question again, it is because of the saying, ‘like father, like son’. Or, ‘like mother, like daughter’. All these inbred idiots know is their own narrow view of the world as told by the upper echelons of society and their enormous echo-chamber. They look up to their elders and wish to be like them with the wealth and power and influence they wield upon the social circles of Yonderland’s elite. Family business remains family business with the only goal of the rising generation being to outclass their ancestors in terms of wealth and prestige. And why wouldn’t they? They have only each other and the royalty of other Kingdoms to contend with for attention and recognition. A scant few are quite honorable at heart and merely tend to their holdings as able-minded caretakers of their lands and the people assigned to work it…yet there's hardly enough of them out there to redeem the House of De La Croix wholesale. I leave those noble hearts alone as I've no qualm with the concept or possession of wealth itself, but with those who would use it at the great expense of others, particularly those immediately beneath them. I want to take from them what they love most in this world. I want every punishable bastard I can lay my hooves on to suffer an early death if I'm able, like they have forced their victims to endure, inadvertent or not. The Royal Cabal is bloated like a drowned pig on a summer's day wandering the Xanthus Desert…it can stand to trim off excessive amounts of that unwanted fat without destroying the nation. Like you said, new names will rise to take their place. We need only keep pruning until the bulk of the tree is clean and for the welfare of every branch and every root.”

“Why? I understand your personal reasons all too well, Violet…yet you speak as if they have all committed some unforgivable sin you simply cannot help but distribute justice for. To what end are all these killings? Should I start to worry about finding a stack of 4a’s in your possession?”

“Like Lady fuckin’ Annamarie would even draft such a Contract? Please, Frejdá…maybe just a little I feel something primally satisfying about doing this…but I do it because it simply has to be done. Yonderland has all the time and money it needs to engage in carnal distractions as can be bought, sold and indulged with reckless abandon. I don’t seek to end the De La Croix line…I merely want to cleanse the name, my name, by removing the worst examples of the depravity my thrice-damned extended family insists on perpetuating. I know it is a task that will never be over…yet even a bit of pruning can do a dying tree a load of good if you know which branches to remove. Even if nothing overtly changes within the Duchy from my actions…I can know that those silently suffering their individual acts of evil are not unduly suffering any longer. Call me evil if you wish…yet I would have to extend that label unto you as well for all you’ve done in helping me with this continued ploy of ours. Are you only just now getting cold hooves about it all?”

“Hardly…I just needed to hear it from you directly as to what your true intentions are with all of this. I’ve helped because I have been able to agree with your verdict that those vile bastards were worth infinitely more dead than alive for all those beneath them who had to suffer their abuse. I simply do not wish to be a cog in some grand fratricidal scheme of revenge for past sins committed against you directly over a century ago, in a time wherein all those perpetrators were all still alive and breathing. Old wounds can fester and ooze something fierce if not properly treated…”

“Indeed. And the only remedy that will solve this infection is full excision of the diseased tissue. If an entire leg or two must be lost in order to save the rest of the body…that is merely the cost of positive progress. I’ve no rights nor privileges within Yonderland anymore so it isn’t like I could take these bastards before the Ducal Court and take legal action against them like they were some common criminal. And that is all assuming the Court even bothered to hear my case, let alone review the evidence no matter how compelling it was. If anything, I would be handing them incriminating evidence which would be swiftly destroyed due to how interwoven their web of evil has become. There is little separation of powers within Yonderland as the nobility fills all positions of power and influence save the lowliest which they reserve for wealthy merchants and wealthy scholars. The courts would never, ever rule in our favor against them.”

“Honestly, it is safest to just assume the Justices would likewise caught with their trousers down in the chaos and have a vested interest in shutting down the entire case to save their own skin and those closest to them.” Topaz chimed in just as the faint spell bubble of white around us began to falter and fade requiring another casting.

“Exactly!” Violet nodded vigorously in reply, “Regardless…I just want these bastards dead because the world would simply be a better place without them. You know I don’t ever target anyone less than the worst the De La Croix family has to offer…do you trust me enough to believe in me again?”

“Hmph…barely…” I sighed as I sagged my shoulders in defeat. "Yes...but know I am not happy with any of this..."

“Good enough for me…” She sighed back whilst getting back up to her hooves. “Will you take up the torch on this crusade of mine? Once Topaz and I fully decide to go, we won’t be able to make it all the way westward in time to make our window in Misty Meadows. You heard the Council for yourself, it’s now or never and I don’t have the time to go off and try to do it myself and then attempt to find a smuggler’s route south out of Equestria… Word in Trottingham spreads even faster than it does around the Valley when it comes to issues on the fringes and they will have the entire border locked down tight within a couple of days. At that point, we would be better off making for the coast and just swimming south until we hit Silverfish hamlet. With Lion’s Redoubt so close to Misty Meadows though…I expect border restrictions on the Equestrian side to be overseen by the Witch Hunters themselves, particularly with a ranking Yonderlandian noble traveling within the region. If they aren’t providing some level of personal security for their guest, they will beyond a doubt be bolstering the number and strength of all secondary bodily defenses. Unfortunate…but a clean chance to strike is still a chance we are willing to take.”

“Ah yes…as if I was asked for my opinion on all of this before it was just…assumed that I would…” I groaned tiredly as vague visions of the Hunters’ pompous white-and-gold robes and armor came to mind. “It isn't like you are even providing me much in the way of choices in the matter…”

“Unfortunately there aren’t many choices to begin with now that this shite stew has been dumped all over our plans at the last second. I could try and send a Zamak to Asik but it has been months since I have last had contact with him so for all I know, he could be wandering about the Quetzal Jungles or the Kitsune Mountains on another vision-quest! Even a trained Zamak would be hard-pressed to locate him in a timely manner normally, let alone with the adventurous life he leads without Topaz or I… Most of my other personal contacts are scattered in Yonderland itself and I couldn’t hope to bribe my friends in the Scouts Elite to engage in some extrajudicial fratricide on my behalf, let alone inside a walled Equestrian city so damned close to the Redoubt. And if we miss this window, sure there's a chance to ambush them up on the High Road…but even I can say that's in poor taste after what just happened to our own delegation. Who knows when he or any other Yonderlandian will leave the safety of the homeland again? I…have done too much work in Yonderland itself and they are all the more wary for it. This is our best chance in six years to strike out again and I don't want to waste it! They are far enough away from the borderlands to only warrant a temporary conscription of extra hooves for town watch so the number of Mares-at-Arms should be within predictable limits for a walled city on a river with a royal charter backing their name.”

“That’s around some ten-score armored heads for a city that size…” I muttered in reply as I swiftly ran the numbers through my head. “Possibly even twelve or thirteen with your ex-Chief Minister coming to town, along with whatever Yonderlandian muscle he is likely bringing along with him. Those are…not ideal numbers dammit...”

“Absolutely not! Which is why I was hoping to make contact with a baker in Misty Meadows to smuggle in just a wee sample of your Venom into the castle kitchens. We used to frequent that city whenever we wished to train in urban navigation, or just needed shite lil’ places like Seaward Shoals couldn’t provide the School. I chatted up the mare who ran the place all the time back in the day and I would have even called her a friend for all those hours she had spent listening to me ramble on and on about…well…nothing really. Her daughter was slated to inherit the place to continue the tradition and they should hopefully remember me and Tope. Of course, the last time we saw them was some twenty, thirty years ago…but they were still very friendly on that occasion and could prove useful allies as they are one of four bakeries which serve the local castle. You could ask for a worse potential avenue to work with.”

“I…I would rather not involve any others who may end up as unnecessary deaths upon my conscience…” I replied, knowing that I was essentially inferring that I had already agreed to do this for her. “I will rather…figure out something on my own that will not have to involve anyone else but myself. I just do not wish to risk someone else’s life for something like this, it's not right.”

“I'll take this to mean you're saying yes, you'll kill the sonovabitch for us?” She asked hopefully with a glance towards Topaz who likewise looked softly pleased with what she was hearing.

“At this point…fuck it, yes. If only because you're a good friend and this is an exceedingly unusual circumstance.”

“Oh common, are you not even the smallest bit excited to test your agility and tactics against a sluggish Sentient? I know it's wrong to say, but damn it all the money is just too damned easy when it's like that. Monsters at least can defend themselves more often than not, even when cornered and wounded. Fat fucks like the guy you're going to be after are a fucking walk in the Gardens compared to your usual fights. It's all in making it past their hired muscle and best-laid traps. Nothing beats the terror in their eyes as they realize you made it past every one of their defenses and they can't even do themselves the honor of fighting their Fate with their sword by their side…oh the pitiful bastards. I'd pity them further were it not for how pathetic they are when stripped of their ability to command others to do their dirty work. The begging and bargaining they attempt in order to avert the inevitable is…Gods I fucking hate having to listen to it. To be frank, it is exactly why I prefer using proxies, outside of covering my own ass. It's the ones that get their hooves dirty themselves and actually excel physically that are the real tricky ones and have to be handled more personally. They tend to be armed and capable of both far keener senses as well as typically being able to defend themselves. They're also usually insulated with a better retinue of personal guards as they tend to care more for their years ahead than the old and slow ones whose usefulness and youthful years are behind them. If anything, the guards are what make it more interesti-...”

“This is all very interesting…” I sighed with some disdain as she enjoyed this conversation a little too much for my orthodox preferences. “But unlike you, this will be my first time doing something like this. Brewing up a Venom for you to use in such a manner is one matter, having me perform the act myself is entirely another. I recognize that the bastard is likely very worthy of death, but why must I be forced to take pleasure in this? Where is the skill needed to slaughter some oversized Equestrian lapdog who likely couldn't even see his own cock between his legs from around the girth of his belly? That skill is scarcely anywhere to be found in that situation, outside of navigating any of the barriers, physical or not, placed around them. In case you haven't already learned for yourself, I prefer a straight fight over any amount of sneaking around as it means I earn myself a target-rich environment for my Fangs to enjoy.”

“Fuck it all up and you'll have the fight of your life with that strong of a standing garrison on station.” She countered with a grim laugh and a smirk. “But in all seriousness…please refrain if you would. We all may have some qualities of the species our Schools are named after, yet I doubt even a serpent could outrun or outmaneuver two hundred armored guards with halberds. A Cat perhaps…but we were trained and conditioned extensively in swift navigation of urban environments. A crowded city like that will not be lacking options for evasion and escape if you're clever enough to see the opportunities around you like they taught us.”

“Hey, give Kaer Nathair some benefit of the doubt on this matter. We were called upon just as frequently as the Cats to Hunt the backstreets and gutters of big cities and towns. I've had to climb more than my fair share of buildings and crawled my arse through more drainage ditches, cisterns and open sewer systems than I care to mention… I would hardly call myself uninitiated in urban navigation...”

“And yet none of that was done while chasing down another Sentient outside of maybe the Race Wars, but you were always on the battlefields as you like to go on and on about. These are totally different Hunts, top to bottom. The rules and tactics have to be far more flexible and adaptable to on-the-spot changes in the environment and behavior of your target amongst the behaviors of everyone else around them who aren't involved but can very easily get in the way. Arranged battles between clashing hosts of swords is another beast entirely that shares few similarities with something like this. Your actions and movements have to be purposely hushed and subtle…rather than bellowing a war cry and flailing your Fangs about at everything that moves unless you want to cause alarm bells to ring out across the whole damned city.”

“So I would assume…yet some of us happen to lack such pre-existing firsthoof knowledge on the matter outside what you have already mentioned…”

“Hey, I cannot be blamed that 4a’s are easy work that usually pays well. You think I'm the bitch who invented them to begin with?”

“No, but you seem to enjoy them a bit too much for my taste.”

“Yeah, because you're a fucking relic Frejdá. The world has changed a lot since your old ass was born…what, a thousand years ago?”

“Hah…if only…I was born after the Arrival, arsehole. By a good century and a quarter at that.”

“My point still stands that you're old as shit, Frejdá. You're stubbornly adhering to a world that hasn't existed in centuries and you're holding yourself back with that fact. If you can agree with me that 4a’s can be used to righteously weed the communal garden of parasitic weeds, you can bring yourself to do some gardening of your own. You can't keep your hooves clean of dirt and help another veteran gardener out forever you know."

“Like I am some common criminal? Please Vi…I value my self-respect too highly for that. You dirtied your hooves before we even met so you continuing to do so is not as…staining if you would.”

“Staining? You mean like a ream of fabric? Sure, we can use a linen metaphor if you don't like my use of a garden allegory… So by that metric are you trying to say that you are some pristine, bleached-white rag free from all stains?”

“A well-used rag covered in stains perhaps…but the Sentient blood staining my Soul was spilled in self-defense and open warfare where personal survival is top priority and a moral grey-zone exists for most who participate. I have never killed someone outside of those notable exceptions as are allowed by the Witcher's Code, let alone for money or personal ideals of justice and fairness. I may be stained...but I have a clear conscience for my past actions, unlike you two."

“Well, welcome to the rebellion then.” She laughed tiredly before rubbing her eyes again with a sigh. “Ugh…fuckin’ exhausted… I know I am asking you to compromise your high-and-mighty integrity…yet at least you're doing it for a good cause, right? You could just be doing it because you're a psychopath who loves killing, but you're not.”

“Somehow I am far from comforted by any of that…” I muttered back with a hint of ice in my tone.

“Then don't be for all the shits that I have to give you. A gardener's work is never over so long as the garden is alive and you've already agreed to help keep it that way, if but for this one wily weed of ours.”

“I simply hate you sometimes, Violet…”

“Thanks! Join the long line of people that feel the same as you, if not infinitely more. Just let me know when you too want to tear most of them apart limb-from-limb to end their reigns of terror. Maybe then you'll have a better appreciation for the grim work we've been chipping away at for the last hundred years.”

“I think I'd prefer not to know that feeling. I suspect those chosen for death in that party are far from the type of pleasant people I would wish to know in any sort of capacity.”

“Then why the fuck are you so resistant to killing one of them? You said it yourself! All of these arseholes are irredeemable refuse fit for rotting in the gutter under their blasted Sun. Witchers are made to kill monsters wherever they arise to harm the innocent, we should not allow some ancient Code prevent justice being meted out simply because that same monster happens to be a fucking Sentient…”

“I could be branded Anathema if this goes wrong! Does that not absolutely petrify you with fear and apprehension as much as it does me??”

“No…? Together, Topaz and I have removed twenty-nine rotten De La Croix apples from the family tree, and yet, we have managed to keep our Medallions and positions with nary a complaint from Tiffy, let alone the Council. It's called living a double-life. Plenty of nobles engage in it, why not we if it's in the name of justice? The laws of the land can't touch them, the courts and armed soldiers are in their pockets at their beck and call…and using those insulators, they do as they please. What they do in public is nothing compared to their little universe of intrigue they maintain between themselves in private. Someone has to act. Why not we?”

“Because murdering like this just inherently wrong…?”

“Murder? By a mere technicality, sure…but you yourself have called them monsters from the depths of your Soul with all the passion needed to move someone like me to tears, and don't you deny it. Unless you want me to bring that whoreson up again one more time just to truly hammer the point home to you…”

She had me there… I had done such a thing more than once in response to her long-winded stories recalling these bastards each and every sin…yet one time in particular, the one she had just mentioned, had elicited more emotions from me than normal. Even when trying not to bring it back to mind, I could not help but catch images of that recounting flashing like dim falling stars across the fringes of unwanted memories. I had gone to lengths to detach the entire experience from my remembrance…yet I could still remember far too many details without a moment's hesitation. A whole family targeted by a young lurid, depraved blue-blooded stallion with a posse of like-minded degenerates of a similar age. Rape, humiliations, and torture the likes of which even the Witch Hunters would pause to take notes on with rabid interest. There was also something particularly gruesome involving the family well near a small tool shed… And horrific post-mortem mutilations with strewn body parts, organs and blood across an entire league's length of the High Road before they ran out of corpses to strew. It took much to render my stomach queasy after witnessing the countless grotesque scenes of slaughter I had seen for myself, yet it was unbridled evil such as that which simply held no logical place in this world. Evil…was a deviously fluid term, perhaps even too fluid for such a diverse concept which could be argued to be inherently a spectrum of lesser-to-greater sins. Opinions can vary wildly regarding its definition and as to whom and what it applied to; as to where the dividing line between the moral-grey of everyday living and the fine contrast of universally black-and-white decisions. Every living Soul seemed capable of some form of evil in some capacity or another and indeed, most living would indulge it more than once over the course of their lives. Conscious sin was inevitably and unfortunately an inheritance that came by-default with the gift of Sentience. A Feral, no matter how rabid and mad, was not inherently capable of true evil as they were ultimately the victims of their own instincts and their natural reaction to external stimuli beyond their knowledge or control. But Sentient beings had a responsibility to one another that some would happily flaunt for the sake of a cheap thrill. And like any vice, they would become hopelessly addicted to an indulgence in evil after evil until the world itself was used up and they still yet craved more. Indeed…some so-called ‘people’ living in gowns of silk and castles of stone were worse than even the cruelest of Daemons by their own petty volition.

“No need to bring him up in the least…” I shuddered in response. “So how does this ex-Chief Minister compare to such an abysmal goalpost?”

“Out of ten? A firm seven.” Topaz answered for me. “The bastard has a kill count as well…murdered his first wife and has knowingly abandoned at least three illegitimate foals in the forests to avoid having an open feud with Duchess Antoinette's immediate family. Last I heard, he's been sleeping with his twin cousins but I've not had any solid proof of that as of yet. And there is simply no telling how many lives have been ruined by the Fisstech he smuggles in… He sells it only to other elites, but like the nation's wealth, it trickles it's way down the social ladder into the average pony’s household. Most everyone will develop an addiction if you allow them to, regardless of whatever it is or if it is legal or not. That demand ensures he continues to earn a fortune even after resigning from his post as Chief Minister…and that same post ensures he has all the contacts needed to run his growing little empire.”

“Alright...I'll concede. You've made your case…” I sighed as one of many possible definitions for a Sentient monster was listed aloud for me. “And all of this he inherited from his own father you say?”

“Yes, and he from his father and so forth for a good few generations until you get far enough back to where Yonderland just doesn't even exist on the map. This shite goes back as long as the country itself and has a far more intense history.”

“So it would seem…very well…take me through any plans you have already made and I will see what I can do with them. It has also been a few decades since I have been to Misty Meadows…I hope the place hasn't changed too much since then.”

“Hate to be the continual bearer of bad news, but Tope and I were there not even a decade ago on a quick jaunt to the coast and the city’s exploded since before the Cleansing. And not for the better either… Slums surround the city walls and fill the inside anywhere there's space, so who knows what it'll look like these days… If you can, try to find a small bakery shop called ‘The Gilded Lily' in the River District near the docks. Hyssop was a crafty, money-savvy mare and her daughter was being raised with much the same attitude and mentality, I would be appalled if her granddaughter failed to carry on the tradition.”

“How do you even know she has a granddaughter at all?”

“Well, Hyssop’s daughter Nutmeg was courting a handsome colt when last I was there and their marriage was all-but-assured. In case you forgot, everything has the want to fuck and pass on its genes so unless shite went awry, I'd like to assume she's got some family still running the place and keeping it alive. The place has always been run by the mares in their family so I doubt anything has changed on that front.”

“So the best you have for me is conjecture as far as this ‘contact’ of yours is concerned…?” I asked with incredulousness. “Based on the assumption that the place is still in business by virtue of a grandchild who hasn't even been confirmed to exist? Please tell me that is not your one and only resource for me in that damned city…”

“What sort of a third-rate miscreant do you take me for?” She asked with mock surprise at my audacity. “Hardly darling, I've been paying a couple of the Scouts Elite to maintain a temporary presence in the area to keep me apprised of all changes to the city during the lead-up to Count Montague’s arrival. One's a Nightkin by the name of Androma, she's been shadowing their movements across the High Road since they left Yonderland and the other is a Unicorn by the name of Autumn Harvest. He's taken a temporary gig as a dockhoof unloading ships in port while on an official temporary leave from actively working for the Scouts. He absolutely despises having to perform physical labor on his allotted time off…but he's being paid decently by the port authority on top of the price I'm already paying him; half up-front, and the other half when the fucker kicks over the stool so-to-speak. He won't be able or particularly willing to assist you physically with anything, aside from perhaps acting as a place to stash your Witcher gear so you don't stand out so much. Outside of that, information is all he's been paid to collect and I do not blame him for a moment in not wanting anything more to do with this whole debacle. He only needs to do what I'm paying him for anyway, so going above and beyond is absolutely on his own volition.”

“Autumn Harvest huh? And I take it you will send both of them a message informing them of the sudden change in plans?”

“I've already made out the note last night, we just need to send it.” Topaz commented as she raised a sealed roll of paper from her satchel. “He will be far from pleased…but you can make use of any intelligence he's gathered on the city and its garrison. We expect a Zamak from Androma any day now with a full accounting of Montague and his entire retinue but she won't enter nor approach the city due to her race. Unfortunately, you'll be doing it all alone in there.”

“I’ll manage… What of the castle? I do not particularly recall theirs being a sizable keep, but then again I have never been beyond the rank shores of its disgusting moat. For all I know it could be a mess of baileys and postern doors beyond those walls…”

“Unfortunately the castle relies exclusively on hired muscle out of Asgarnia…a professional mercenary company called the Spears of the Coast. And before you ask the obvious question, no. They cannot be bought once the signet ring has been pressed into the wax on their contract. I've tried twice now over the past three years and both middle-mares I sent with instructions and a bribe were gutted and hung by the neck outside the castle gates... I'd admire the bastard's dedication to the job if they weren't the ones standing in our way. You can always try Axii if you're feeling adventurous, but their zeal to their contract is top-notch if you can't already tell. I doubt you would get very far with just a plain old Sign, even with a dozen Glyphs in your pocket to back it up.”

“Ah yes, commit another violation of the Witcher's Code by using Axii on another Sentient for non-Hunt-related purposes. Fuck the entire Codex, you are just taking a fat piss over the entire guild at this point with this line of thinking you have going for yourself…”

“Well don't you too start pissing on my parade then, I'm doing the best I can here. That being said…you might actually find Axii deadly useful out there when you need things. The gutters and alleyways hear and see almost all that goes on amidst their cities…the whispers they hear are mostly junk, but many golden nuggets of truth can be found if you know where to look. Not to mention they house all manner of feeble-minded vagrants who can prove useful as…shall we say…courier services and fodder. Have you ever been to a Court of Miracles before?”

“As pompous as it all makes me sound…no, I try not to engage with the local squalor if I can help it. That is something Rosemary and I share in common, even if I would argue our individual feelings on the matter differ by several levels of degree. That said, I cannot help but adhere to a high degree of personal cleanliness and prefer more sanitary company…”

“So you've never actually deigned to ever once get cozy with a city’s rank underbelly?”

“Outside of stumbling across their huddled camps and various shenanigans during a sewer Hunt…no. I leave them well enough alone as I try to avoid infesting myself with lice and other biting insects…”

“Quen can solve a lot of problems for you then…as long as they don't see you casting it repeatedly just to be able to stand their presence. It may behoove you to acquire several Glyph Stones attuned to Quen so it lasts longer between casts. It won't do much for the smell…but you've probably smelt worse. Either way, any town or city with bowels and back alleys will have a Court where the lowliest of society hold community with one another out of the sight of the law. They are about what you'd expect of such a place…but they've always been my first stop for information, hired muscle and ignorant folks who’d sell their own mother for a few Crowns or a whiff of Fisstech. It ain't pretty or very honest work…but you cannot piss on efficiency when it comes to this sort of shite. They teach us Witchers to make use of whatever tools are at our disposal as they are there to be used. As long as you don't actively try to get them killed or imprisoned, you can come back a decade later and the citizens of the Court will welcome you with open arms. Dead useful they can be to those who toss a coin their way with a simple job to keep them busy. And if it's to fuck over a noble directly? Well…you'll likely find willing volunteers who'd love nothing more than to sink a knife into one of their precious golden hides.”

“I…suppose I can take all of that into consideration…” I muttered in reply as I mulled over the idea of seeking out Misty Meadows underworld for assistance. “You are clearly better suited to this sort of thing than I am…”

“Better suited?” She scoffed with a hearty laugh. “Frejdá, you are just as capable of this sort of thing as I am. I've only had the chance to practice at it like any other skill we've had to learn to get to where we are now. We all start somewhere and everyone has their first go of things.”

“Either way you wish to put it, I have no wish to garner any sort of practice in this line of work… I find it detestable and highly unsatisfying.”

“Well, don't knock it till you try it as they say! Regardless, I am going to pay you beautifully for this, don't you worry! And even if your moral pride gets in the way of you accepting it, I am just going to be forcefully depositing it into your account with the Treasury anyway. You deserve a hefty weight of gold for doing this for me, on top of what you've already done. Though…I would ask you just take the damn money when it's offered and deposit it yourself as Annamarie is likely to ask why I am suddenly depositing a heap of Crowns into your account immediately after the death of a Yonderlandian noble in Equestrian territory.”

“Excluding the fact I could just wait until the smoke has cleared to request it from you, the point of this Venom I made for you was to ensure a large window of time in order to escape before it took effect.”

“O-oh…? Elaborate…?”

“I extracted the Voidkissed digitoxins of the Foxglove blossom I harvested and infused them into the Venom, along with activated Vyre Dust and some other Dark-touched items as a binding agent. The Foxglove will trigger an abnormal heart rhythm while the Vyre Dust-”

“Replenishes their vitality for a short time in the background acting like a lit fuse…that is…wow. That is actually pure genius, Fredjá.”

“Well I am glad you at least recognize it in some capacity!” I snickered softly before I continued, “Thank you. And yes, that is exactly the idea. That effect could be far better curated had it time to age with additional cleanings and distillations. As it is now in the bottle…I would give it around half-an-hour to take full effect if I were to introduce it directly into the bloodstream via a poisoned dart. Twice that if it is ingested in any way. Not a heap of time to work with, but it's better than the usual time-to-effect for this kind of work.”

This time it was Violet's turn to laugh as she seemingly could not hold back the tide of giggles built up within her over my statement. Evidently, she had some rather strong opinions on the matter.

“Well that's usually because the poison needs to work quickly or an antidote can be formulated on the spot and drunk to nullify it before it can kill. Now, that would be fine if they were some common knob without a copper to their name as they would die before a physician could attend to them. But a Yonderlandian noble with coin enough to flaunt is absolutely going to have a personal Mage or some other Arcane artisan nearby on a short leash. Those crafty shites can neutralize most poisons with spellwork alone, not to mention what they'd be capable of curing if they haul an Alchemy set around with them like we do.”

“Aye, but this is no common poison by any stretch of the imagination. The heart attack is what I intend to shine out amongst the other possible symptoms but there are several other toxic agents in there that could all kill him just as easily. Regardless, this brew is beyond anything they would be familiar with, if they are even able to detect it at all. After all, the intent is for the bastard to keel over dead from a natural-looking heart attack and for the corpse to say as much during the autopsy. Unfortunately…there is always a healthy dose of the unknown and those ingredients I added such as the Warped Basilisk Venom and Deathbells…there is a sizable chance either one of them may sink their fangs into his body independent of the digitoxins. If that were to happen...I think I don't need to mention just how obvious it would be he was assassinated.”

“Don't tell me you're doubting your own product now…”

“No, I am definitely confident this will kill anything that breathes. My doubt lies in exactly how it will do so. The digitoxins were to be released slowly over time from the violet silver nitre by reacting with the activated Vyre Dust over an extended period of time as it was processed by the liver. Their interaction would promote the artificial vitality we seek while allowing the digitoxins to seep deep into his bloodstream and flush the heart. However…because this brew is so young, I have not had the chance to ensure the individual items forming the Dark substrate I required will not leech their own effects into the victim as well. I think it goes without saying that Basilisk Venom and Deathbells would both result in a much more violent and visible death than a mere heart attack. This is all hypothetical of course… no one has exactly tried this recipe on a Sentient before, let alone extensively tested it on the same. We are sailing through uncharted waters with this one.”

“Well…I suppose you can consider yourself a true pioneer of Alchemical science! Paladin Thistle would be proud were we able to actually admit any of this to his fucking face...”

“Not that I would shirk such an honor, yet I was hoping for it to be in a line of study which didn't involve assassination…”

“Gotta deal with the cards you're dealt sometimes…especially now as the bet is stacked against us from multiple angles. We've got some high-stakes players at this table and we need all the aces up our sleeves as we can fuckin' hide.”

“You are relying on a horrifically bad mare for such a high-stakes game of cards like this…”

“No need to remind me, I stopped inviting you over for a round when it struck me how absolutely terrible you are behind a shuffled deck. But thankfully for you, this isn't your average deck of cards and a pot o’ gold isn't on the line at the end of the game. Well…there is going to be a lot of gold, yes, but that's because I insist on paying you some more on top of what I already have for your troubles with me. Regardless, this is something you are more than adequately prepared for, Frejdá. If you can make it this far walking the Witcher's Path and all the dangers involved…I would be embarrassed to know you if you couldn't pull something as simple as this off. Slither like the serpent you are inside and wriggle your way into that damn castle and kill that sonovabitch! It'll be easier than Hunting a pack of Werewolves!”

“The two are hardly comparable…”

“And yet you're still going to find out all the same. It'll be easy money for you and I won't ask you to dip your hooves into it again unless you want to.”

“Trust me, Vi…I am in absolutely no hurry here to rush forth and take you up on such a tempting offer…”

* * * * * * * * *

Chapter Fifteen: Seeking Relaxed Guidance

I awoke a few hours later, the desperate need for a proper nap overruling even my typically all-encompassing want to eat. The metabolic ‘hangover’ of digesting so much food from the night before, alongside my long labors over the cauldron of Venom, had ensured not a single atom of my being was not at least in some way still fatigued. Like the night before, I had once again stumbled my way back into the safe, comfortable confines of my personal quarters; only the bare minimum of equipment being shed as needed for basic comfort upon my bed. The daylight outside my narrow windowpane was bold, but tarnished somewhat by the signs of the approaching dusk. I had easily slept for a straight six or seven hours without interruption, something which had done many wonders for clearing my mind. Regrettably, by wearing all my armor to bed save for some minor trappings, I had scarcely found the comfiest of sleeping positions to lie in all morning. As a result, my first instinctual movement was to stretch and immediately I was met with a horrid ache in my right foreleg as I had awkwardly slept up on it. The ache continued up my shoulder and into the crook of my neck and even some ways beyond towards the base of my skull. Even using the prescribed system of stretches and joint cracks, I found the area to be well beyond the capabilities of mere stretching and in desperate need of a professional touch. While I could have made use of my own telekinesis in order to squeeze and knead those muscle groups as burned with pain, I reasoned I may as well pay someone else to do all the work for me. After all…Rosalia Rosefeather was far more skilled in the art than my own clumsy magic could ever perform on myself and required far less effort and concentration on my part. There were some places I could reach without a problem…yet that skill was hardly going to be enjoyable with such a pain in my shoulder, neck and leg.

The clock on the wall indicated it was only a few minutes past one in the afternoon and I was gracious to know I hadn't slept overnight and risked missing Violet and Topaz before they departed, let alone the Vigil to be held in Braxia’s honor later on. Along with the desire to wish them luck and safety for their extended leave of the Valley, I also wished to simply embrace the two as, with the preludes of war stirring once more in the air, it could be a lengthy time before I saw them again. If ever… Of course, such a notion had to be left behind lest I found melancholy as my closest companion for the road ahead, amidst the other worries my upcoming mission entailed. Mission… Is that what my mind was already beginning to refer to this undocumented 4a Contract I was to undertake? It troubled me that I was already finding my mind slipping into the muck surrounding the job all too readily as questions I'd normally never ask myself prickled at my thoughts. Such things as what disguise would best warrant a mare like myself, or how would I approach any number of conceivable physical or Arcane engagements against trained Sentients. The latter was something I always considered, if at least subconsciously, whenever Equestrians of any sort were in the vicinity; a response which was admittedly born of an equal helping of caution and hatred combined. However…never before had I considered such a fight with armed Sentients in such a light as I was now. They remained as obstacles in almost every situation as civilians and soldiers alike could impede Hunts through sheer idiocy alone, yet never before had I a need to sneak past them or attempt any level of subterfuge. Let alone in the active pursuit of a noble of note under their watchful protection, even if it was merely by proxy alone… Indeed, in order to even stand a chance of committing such an assassination, I would need to temporarily part with my beloved armor and break yet another in a long line of laws being left in my wake. I was nowhere near as rashly bold as the Cats as to openly dispatch of my targets in the public square in broad daylight whilst proudly still wearing the armor and colors of my School for all to see. As such, I was inevitably likely to be left with little bodily protection outside of the clothes I chose to wear, unless I were able to obtain a chain hauberk which could be worn under a disguise of some sort.

That all being said, I loathed that I had to admit that Violet had somewhat of a point when she had asked if I were excited to test my skills against Sentient opponents. My ultimate target was undoubtedly only fit to offer a satisfying death, yet his aides would cover the difference in his stead. The very idea of stealthing-about was almost appalling to me…and perhaps that was precisely why those Cats had been so brazenly open with their murderous crimes. Indeed, the thicker the defenses surrounding their target, the more gleeful they had seemed to become as they leveraged their ridiculous speed and agility to cut down armed guards with ease. And in truth…finding myself now having to ponder over the specifics of all to do with such a sordid topic, I found myself coming to something akin to terms with their actions. To a point. As a mare of action myself, I was far from a passive (or perhaps even patient) Hunter at my core, even if my training had ensured a greater mastery over my instinctual responses than I would otherwise possess. I too, upon uncomfortably painful consideration, would prefer such a brazen move as it removed more unknowable factors from the occasion. No need for a convincing disguise, alibi, precarious navigation of hidden or self-made paths, or for even pausing to ponder upon the word ‘inconspicuous’. The only path was victory, whilst all others in the way could be freely dispatched instead of a frantic scramble for cover in order to avoid prying eyes. As an old adage of the Cats themselves went, ‘leave not a one standing as may bear witness and report thine sins’. While I truly wished I too could be so uncaring as to embrace such a doctrine so as to eliminate what guilt I otherwise felt…my morality would not be so easily, or readily subdued. I would spare every Soul that I could for as long as I could help it in my upcoming journey. Only one truly needed fall by my hoof…and it would be the first life I had ever taken outside the confines of armed conflict between two (relatively) equal parties. He would be far from the first Sentient to die by my blade, yet all the rest had been clad in plate, gambeson or chain whilst armed with all manner of lethal weaponry. I could only imagine how easily one of my Fangs could pierce through a pompous frock of silk, even if that was hardly the method I would choose unless absolutely necessary. In the end, I was far more nervous about it all than I was expecting…

However…given I had already given my answer that I would do her this massive favor…I had no reason to not approach it with the same level of care and caution as I would any other Hunt. Thus, I immediately made a move to retrieve my Codex from the safety of its dedicated leather bag on the front face of my chest harness. Flipping through the earliest pages, I passed by the Hunt Ledgers and onto the neatly folded mass of parchment that comprised the entire second section of the Codex. The complicated layers of smaller portions all unfolded to reveal an enchanted map around a meter squared in size presenting a lofty bird's-eye view of the School, the southern half of the Mirror and Redclaw Ridge, and the northern half of Scarlet Pines. All these fine details were displayed in lifelike clarity as if I myself were flying aloft above the Valley, the bold light illuminating it all as if stuck at midday. With my position marked perfectly in the southeast corner of the Master's Tower by a fancifully designed arrow, it was a glowing example of the vast utility that had been developed for Witcher's work. No map remains static however, and members of the Scouts Elite trained in the art of geomancy and cartography were routinely sent out in order to update our maps with new developments as they appeared on the Continent. Unfortunately, with the Cleansing robbing our guild and our associates of much of our former income, resources and bodies to command, our modern maps were…patchwork for lack of a better term. Whilst places like the Valley, Trottingham and the regions surrounding Canterlot were routinely kept up-to-date, locations more far flung from Kaer Solaris, like the Crescent Coast, the Lunar Dominions, or a Kingdom such as Asgarnia, were entirely piecemeal at best. Limitations brought about by the Cleansing ensured that large swaths of wilderness territory were only re-surveyed every few decades or, like with the Thestral Dominion, entirely left with vague maps well over fifty-years old as none were cordially invited to update them.

Graciously, the High Road never changed all that much since its last paver was laid in place, making it one of the few constants which could be relied on for planning lengthy journeys across the Continent. Less grand or well-laid paths had been added onto the High Road over the centuries by local rulers or by Celestia's command as their civilization continued to spread itself out across our world. There would be the same old ruins to spy along the way, those same reminders of the past I myself had only but briefly seen in person. Decaying monuments to the Age of the Moon and the simpler tranquility of that now so distant era. My trip to Misty Meadows would scarcely be the longest I had undertaken, yet it would still be a three-to-four day journey by hoof. Worse yet, the High Road to my destination passed by within a few leagues of the Lion's Redoubt, now called the Bastard's Den by some. So close to their front doorstep, I would be frankly insulted if I failed to spot at least a few Witch Hunters strutting about the area and flaunting their pompous position with their equipment of white and gold... And there was always the extreme likelihood of the presence of at least one blasted Priest of the Eternal Pyre, their most elite, and most sadistic, masters of the Arcane as beholden to the indiscriminate powers of fire magic. No…such an approach would require leaving the High Road and making a path cross-country through the wildlands for great stretches of time. I was hardly enthusiastic about pondering over such a journey, even if the wilderness offered much more excitement than the known, beaten path…

The spell controlling what was actively displayed upon my map was fundamentally tied to my own Arcane signature, updating my position in real-time as I moved about and offering some other useful basic features. Gripping the corners in my magic, the geomancy spell of the map entwined itself with my Aura allowing me to will the parameters of the map to change and move towards the south following the long, winding path of the High Road. Visible as a broad granite serpent tracing lines through the greenery of the natural landscape, the High Road led my path westwards along the broad land border of the Duchy of Āider directly to the south and then near the Kingdom of Trottingham to the southwest. There were a few branching paths along the way and the route passed through, or close by, a few major settlements allowing for opportunities to resupply were I to run out of anything. With the region becoming progressively more populated, especially compared to my days at Kaer Nathair, there was going to be no shortage of possible encounters whilst making the journey; most likely to not be friendly or pleasant. Yet…even as I glanced at the quickest route there, I knew in my heart I was not quite so willing to leave as soon as I had thought. If I left the Valley as I was now, I would almost certainly feel regret for not having taken every opportunity to enjoy the School during the height of summer prior to returning to the Path. My only true deadline to leave was the one given by the Archmaster, though I would hope to find myself already well-embarked on my journey by the dawn of Sunday morning. I was far from a stranger to lengthy treks, yet my inner battle between departing with time to spare and staying to enjoy some rest and relaxation was a...furious one to say the least. Even as I stood there pondering it over, I yet again felt the call of my stomach for another fine meal whilst the rest of my body pined away for the Baths like I were a heartsick lover. The perks of becoming a Mentor were continually dangling their temptations before my mind's eye as I considered their constant access to hot meals, warm, comfortable beds, and of course, the Hall of Pools amongst other perks. And to say nothing of their constant access to Redclaw Ridge and the many other comforts to be found there amidst so many Eldar… But who would be my pupil…? Not a single Soul came to mind who was not already the pupil of some other Witcher at the School and I had not bothered to stop and learn a single name of any of the Novices on my trip through the Bastion. No...I could not be a Mentor without someone to mentor...

With a sigh, I folded my map back up in the proper fashion before casually tossing my Codex onto the comforter of my bed. A petty scheme had been planted in my thoughts which required some time to sprout before I fully committed to the idea, yet it felt appealing enough to try and pursue. Sir Tiffy and his Foxes would be making use of Arcane assistance in order to cross the border covertly, cutting down their journey from days to minutes to seconds as they would likely be deposited directly within the Vulpine Manor itself. With the door to a possible favor left somewhat ajar from my last interaction with our Sorceress Supreme, I felt fairly certain of my ability to convince her to do something of the same for myself. It went against the spirit of the Path to rob oneself of the physical journey from place-to-place, yet I was not embarking on the Path itself quite yet. Indeed...my initial endeavors once I left were decidedly not related to the Witcher's Path and in fact went against almost everything it stood for in word and spirit. It was difficult to know where to stand upon the issue given the nature of my mission to Misty Meadows…but what was I to do? I had already given my consent to performing this on Violet’s behalf. She was reckless, impulsive and up her own arse, yet she had earned my trust in this matter at least. There was always another blueblood waiting in the wings to replace whomever we removed, yet there always seemed to be some good performed by doing it. Her web of contacts in Yonderland would always return with messages of thanks from the poor Souls which had previously been crushed under the foul hooves of these pests we weeded out from their midst.

At first I had the sneaking suspicion that she was merely forging all those slips of paper and spouting platitudes whenever she proudly reported the impacts of our work. Yet, the messages were never the same, even if they all carried a similar theme. The writings varied in style and quality as well and I came to recognize the pen strokes of one particular individual, likely a learned scribe, who seemed to translate to paper what any unlettered mind could not for a modest fee. Given many of those lives positively impacted by our actions were typically quite low on the social hierarchy, it was impressive as many of them knew how to write missives of their own and only the poorest went uneducated in Yonderland. It had bewildered me that such letters could even be written in gratitude, let alone make it to their intended recipient and the perpetrator of the gruesome deed. Yet she herself had admitted her reputation amongst the lower classes for her targeted crusade of fratricide had won her many sympathizers and their messages passed through many intermediaries before reaching Violet's hooves directly. Regardless…my feelings towards such messages had considerably changed once I allowed myself to accept that Violet was not merely pulling wool over my eyes in an attempt to placate me into granting her my continued assistance. I felt some remorse that that had been my initial response to it…yet I also felt that I could hardly be blamed for thinking that way. Violet was, after all, known to lean into hyperbole whenever she felt strongly towards a particular opinion or philosophy. Still...there was much yet to be considered in this grand mental balancing of the scales.

It took little to recognize that the School of the Cat had warped both mare’s perspectives on the spirit of the Witcher's Code. Their personal definition of monsters had been adjusted to include such Sentients as could be almost universally acknowledged to be utterly devoid of Light within their hearts. And indeed, even I could agree that such a flexible definition was perhaps warranted when the subject in question was untouchable by typical judicial means. Yet, I was admittedly from a far older generation of Witchers and had spent the majority of my life faithfully orthodox to the Witcher's Code. Simply put, it made such exceptions as that difficult to fathom given the punishment of criminal elements was to be performed by the relevant authorities. Our profession, upon all forms of legal writ, was defined as ‘monster slayers'. A profession signed off and sealed by a heavily accredited guild recognized and established the world over. And yet, all the same, Violet had managed to foster a unique form of trust in me by successfully appealing to my personal sense of justice and righteous anger. I was ashamed to admit that I considered both to be a consistent burden upon my conscience, even if I was able to restrain myself when the situation demanded. Indeed, she had even prickled a sense of satisfaction out of me for assisting her on her crusade of pruning her family tree. The lurid, murderous bastard who had elicited such feelings of revulsion in me as to make me queasy…knowing that my behind-the-scenes assistance had brought an end to his twisted existence… I could at least admit to myself that I felt a certain wordless weight lift from off my shoulders upon hearing news of his death. Her ends were met through my help and good, innocent folks were freed, if perhaps temporarily, from unruly tyranny. There were...worse ways in which to try and attempt to better the world, and certainly far more deluded reasons for eliminating certain rogue elements in a world which was already growing darker by the day.

Despite her somewhat abrasive approach to conversation, Violet had yet to overly abuse the level of trust I had learned to place in her executive judgments upon her kin. And, despite the somewhat concerning level of satisfaction she garnered from killing off her admittedly fucked-up extended family, I had yet to feel truly disturbed by her actions. In truth, I too had been instrumental in the deaths of well over a dozen of them with my contribution of potent, untraceable toxins to their cause. I had been able to placate my sense of honor regarding the Code by reasoning with myself that I was merely helping a friend by brewing something she could not; what she did with the substance was entirely out of my control and supervision as she was a grown mare fit to make her own choices. And yet, here I was…poised to directly participate in an assassination of my own directly on her behalf. The feeling was akin to that of staring over the lip of a great pit of dark, murky water with unfathomable depths and unknowable hazards hidden somewhere below. Who knew how deep it went? Or what hidden dangers lurked beneath the surface which could trap me underneath and drown me dead after a long, painful struggle to breathe? I profoundly shuddered to my very bones at such a mental image…even in spite of my ability to hold my breath for far longer than the average Equine, the idea of drowning had always horrified my assorted nightmares. Even death by fire would be preferable in my mind as, eventually, the nerves too are burnt away just as readily as one's flesh and fur bringing about an eventual blessed end to the pain. Yet nothing short of overdosing on Fisstech (somehow whilst underwater) could possibly hope to dull the pain and terror of such a death. Of course…having let my imagination run rampant with the particulars of my own metaphor, I was left biting my lip nervously as I attempted to steer my thoughts back to the safety of land and away from the depths I so loathed. Not that events on the Continent were any more pleasant to consider…but they were a right sight better than pondering over the particulars surrounding a watery grave. I could not for the life of me understand how the Örn or the Störmgŭll could stand to take to the oceans upon mere boats of wood and iron without the fear of the depths consuming them whole like it could me...

I could not help but sit down in my plush armchair and sigh with a slight growl whilst gripping my head in my hooves. Without a muffling charm active, I naturally had to keep my growl of annoyance as quiet as I could so as to not bother any neighbors who might be asleep themselves at this hour for one reason or another. Regardless, I did my best to vent out what confused, irritable emotions as swirled about within my head and heart as I thought in circles about the issue. There was little honor worth salvaging in what I was tasked with performing…a task she was going to force payment upon me whether I wished it or not. I loathed the back-and-forth which raged about in my mind like a tumultuous sea in the midst of a fierce storm. Centuries of honorable adherence to the Witcher's Code had habituated me into spitting upon the vile idea of killing other Sentients for coin. Witchers were better suited for the work than most any others alive as indeed, we were better fit for most anything which involved physical confrontation. Yet, that hardly gave any of us the right to engage in wanton violence amidst the civilian population when a second, far more dangerous population was already awaiting its death at the edge of a silver sword. And while it was true that not all monsters are equal in terms of strength or relative danger, only a scarce few of their number found themselves easily overpowered by your common Mares-at-Arms. Any scrappy half-witted arsehat could take a rock and beat another Sentient to death for a few Orens. That same trick would, by stark contrast, never work when facing down any number of proper Witcher's work. A rusty fork can, in the right circumstances, be enough to kill even a mighty King. With a monster's tough, Dark-imbued hides…not even a decorated Paladin in gilt plate hoped to offer their enemy anything more than a difficult meal to consume as they fished for flesh like it were a can of potted meat.

“What do you make of all this…?” I asked softly towards my Medallion. “Is this the right course of action for us…?”

It was only somewhat pointless to ask my Guardian as to its opinion as it was still just an extension of my own Soul, yet each Guardian was always unique to the Witcher they were bonded with. Though they all took the same 'physical' form as per the School of their origin, the experiences of their Witcher would inevitably change and adapt them as their own power grew in tandem with their Witcher. They were a part of us, yet there was a unique incarnation of the Power within each of them that went beyond just another simple Arcane construct. The result was a somewhat vague, yet very much aware, consciousness all its own which accompanied us for the rest of our terrestrial existence. They all drew their strength to exist from our Souls directly as a living piece of our very own essence and extension of our own inner selves, and yet…something almost akin to a small Soul of their own dwelt within our Medallions as well. One which evolved and matured as we too grew and matured into the fullness of our callings as Witchers. Like any good Witcher, we worked in tandem yet after so much time together, I had learned she had a bit of an opinion of her own which could differ from what I told myself I believed. The responses one would receive from their Guardian were muddled and hazy at first, as if an image, scent, sound, or emotion felt through a half-remembered dream. Even then, the strength behind these impressions only gained in vibrancy and strength over the centuries as Witcher and Guardian developed their talents and polished their skills as one cohesive entity. They were hardly capable of verbal speech, or projecting full-sentence thoughts into their Witcher's mind, yet I had spent enough time with her to feel like we had a working relationship with one another and I could infer much of what she wished to convey through our special link. It was somewhat illogical to refer to my Guardian as if she were a Sentient entity of her own, yet it was a habit I had fallen into somewhere along the course of my life. While they were but an extension of ourselves, that tiny spark of individuality and consciousness within them ensured theirs could be a will of their own and an opinion which could differ from that of our own. To have consensus with one's Guardian would ensure our motions would be in sync when danger arises. Their ability to manifest in one's personal defense in the blink of an eye was a gift few alive had the opportunity to experience, and a gift it was indeed. I would not trade my bond with my Guardian for any weight in gold, Bitters, or even untold carats in beautiful faceted jewels.

The response I received from her was…muddled and confused, which was rather fitting given my own inner turmoil over the whole matter. The flash image of a dagger clattering to the ground in disgust, the alluring smell of gold, the sound of growling, angered frustration, the faint taste of blood in the back of the mouth, and the terse feeling of anticipation and nervousness. All these sensory experiences could be felt at once from the strange little quasi-Soul dangling from around my neck, presenting an unsure message of general concern. I was brought some modicum of comfort to know that she was just as conflicted as I was regarding the task ahead… Indeed, there were equal parts excitement and anxiety to be felt regarding the ending of a Sentient life outside the confines of a proper battlefield. And yet, after a few moments more, there was a sense of finality as the image of a Dark entity being shattered like glass flashed behind my eyes followed closely by a feeling of grim satisfaction. There was reluctance still hanging in the wings…but she seemed resigned and committed to the kill, seemingly taking comfort in the idea that our target was a wholesale piece of Fiend shite. I too found some comfort in that sordid fact and similarly resigned myself to the facts of the situation. A Daemon in mortal flesh was to fall by our hoof, marking a new experience in my lengthy existence that I was still not prepared to fully comprehend. I would do it, if not for the simple sake of the poor Yonderlandians who suffered under his reign, yet nowhere was I contracted to be happy about it. I was hardly expecting myself to enjoy even a single moment of the journey, no matter how much satisfaction my efforts would bring Violet and Topaz.

“Well…I appreciate your honesty at least.” I replied to her aloud whilst sitting back further in my seat and rubbing my eyes. “Gods, this is not how I expected our return home to end up like…”

In an attempt to clear my head somewhat, I laid it back upon the comfortable headrest of my chair and closed my eyes against the world hoping to retreat into a sea of calm thought. It was more difficult than expected as the worry refused to relinquish its grip and the soft clicks of my clock were annoyingly amplified in my ears. Indeed, it seemed intent on reminding me that time slowed for none but Gods and Whisps as the seconds ticked on by and I continued to sit. I could postpone the inevitable until the bitter end…yet none would benefit from such an action as that same bitterness would surely make for a heavy heart upon the High Road; a weight that would only drag the journey on into a perpetual purgatory of self-flagellating thoughts of doubt, fear and worry. My only comforts were the terrible reputation of the one assigned to perish…and perhaps…the promise of gold for services rendered did not sound like the worst possible outcome for my inner turmoil. It was far from a formalized Contract, yet the overtures of the detestable 4a could be faintly felt throughout it nonetheless. It pained me to think over what my late Mentor would think or say if he were to hear of it…and yet…things were undeniably as that mysterious Örn, Kárá, had inferred. The world around us had significantly changed since our ever-distant Golden Age, and most certainly not for the better. Witchers were still sworn to fight the Abyss, its inherent Darkness, and all its Helspawn in all their many horrible shapes and twisted forms…it was time I attempted to make peace with this new form of evil. Or...rather, it was a form of evil which had always existed but was the one exception forbidden unto us. Once upon a time the defining line between beings of Light and those of Dark felt so much simpler with far fewer layers of ambiguous grey to it all. We Sentients have always had our squabbles and infighting in our wanton struggle for personal dominance, yet in that same breath it could be said we were all flickers of Light worth fighting for; even Equestrians could be extended such a courtesy in my heart-of-hearts. And then, somewhere across the march of centuries, those blessed lines started to blur far too much and the painful truth began to set in. Not all species wish to make friends with their neighbors, have an eye for their neighbor’s property, and can field more infantry than some entire species of Eldar combined. I was sworn to protect the innocent and I could still fulfill that duty…it only took the death of one in this case. An animal of an individual by all accounts…a Daemon in spirit and a poisoned dagger poised at the heart of any unlucky enough to be born under his direct rule. No truer an enemy of the innocent and common good existed in this would outside of those beings spawned directly from the depths of the Abyss itself. I could take my peace in that.

The growl of my stomach, accompanied by the painful cramps which accompanied hunger, was more than enough to rouse me fully from my rather pensive doze. Of course, alongside all this came the call of nature as my previous meals had finally meandered their way through my digestive system after being parsed for every scrap of nutriment to be had from it. The Changes ensured all but the most indigestible of matter stayed overlong and was fully absorbed to be used by our bodies to fuel the high energy demands we typically found ourselves facing. As a result, the need to relieve oneself was rather infrequent and resulted in little matter actually being expelled from the body when compared to our contemporaries in whatever species we had once been prior to the Changes. Yet, all the same, we too needed to shit and piss like anything else living which consumed external sources of nutritional energy to sustain itself. Graciously, the School was more than equipped with facilities to handle such needs as five multi-stall lavatories were to be found scattered about the grounds as well as several smaller, more private units located near faculty offices and in the cellar of each of the Towers along the curtain wall. Another pair of lavatories were located in the Grand Library, a larger unit meant for Kitchen staff lay tucked away near the Shrine Hall, and even the Crosswinds featured a pair built into the tower wall for staff and travelers lodged there. It could prove a desperate trot, yet there were places enough evenly spaced about the School to service most everyone in need, something which could most definitively not be said of Kaer Nathair and its delapidated amenities.

Only one of these varied locations had my interest at this time however, and it lay built off the side of the Hall of Pools which was my ultimate destination. In the interest of time and convenience, I reluctantly parted with my beloved armor and slipped once more into the comfortable, stylish emerald-and-silver gambeson from before. Needing to strip naked for the Baths regardless, the gambeson made for a far-swifter disrobing which meant less hassle with straps, buckles and the multiple overlapping layers of defense. The familiar weight of my hauberk, cuirass and otherwise was far more of a comfort to me than a burden as the sense of protection it brought about went beyond the ability of mere words to convey. However, graciously for my somewhat twitchy anxiety, the Solar Valley was the safest place for Eldar which warmly welcomed me in with wide-open arms, let alone Kaer Solaris itself and her mighty walls and stalwart Guard. To shed the extra weight and slight mobility restriction for but a couple of hours would hardly get me killed. After all, for every Master given the freedom to wear something other than their armor, there were still yet dozens more Adepts, Graduates, Apprentices and Acolytes who were still mandated to do so. It was tiring to feed my mind the same calming reassurances…but it needed to be done if I were to function without an overwhelming gnawing worry eating away at my each and every thought. And yet…the knowledge of what was to come before too long had already set its icy fangs of trepedatious anxiety into my hide. As a psychological compromise, once the last buckle was fastened across my breast to close the gambeson about my bodice, my bracers, gloves and spaulders were likewise fastened atop. Given the armored plate of my boots was integrated into their very construction, my hindlegs felt consciously safe and secured whilst my mind was forcibly given to focusing elsewhere other than on my flanks and torso only being protected by mere gambeson. I could still very much feel the lack of a gorget about my neck and the familiar confines of my cuirass around my breast was a sensation I sorely missed the moment it was taken from me, not to mention the sweet comfort of my lengthy hauberk of gleaming scales…yet it would have to do.

With my longswords and Fangs set into their proper places, I finally departed my room and embarked onto the central lift in order to descend from the Master's Tower and my place of slumber. Unlike my route from the morning, I opted to pass along the front face of the upper balustrade of the Master's Hall and paused for a moment to take in the ever-stunning beauty of the School Gardens down below me. Being only an hour-or-so past noonday, there was a definite noise to be faintly heard from the Upper and Lower Courtyards as students had returned to their various lessons about the School with full fervor. Regrettably my afternoon meal would have to consist of whatever leftovers I could manage to scrounge from the Kitchens which solidly marked it as my first destination. The interconnectivity of the School ensured I could still proceed directly on to the Baths from there, though I would need to finish my hasty meal long before I even entered its domain. The amount of moisture in the Hall of Pools ensured its retinue of cleaners and attendants had plenty enough work to keep on top of without needing to also clean soggy bread or any other sodden articles of food from the pools and surrounding areas. Even Master and Grandmaster Witchers were hardly spared an exception from such a rule, though I personally was entirely sympathetic and understanding of such a request from our humble staff. The blessed opportunity to make use of the Baths was a privilege we were offered, not an inherent right we were owed by mere association with the guild. Indeed, some Souls had even found themselves entirely barred from entry due to poor past behavior or repeated rule-breaking as the staff had free reign to serve and bar whomever they would. In an event which would only solidify these rules, several casks of heartily fortified Chateau de la Toulour were once smuggled inside the Baths around a year or two into my tenure at the School of the Wolf. Though I was not present for the incident itself, what transpired had become an event echoed from off every wall and rooftop of the School and the Valley beyond as both a humorous tale and a lesson in School etiquette. A struggle to share and then hide them led to some of the wooden casks cracking and the entire dark burgundy contents spilling forth into the hottest pool in the Baths that was not pure magma. The exceedingly high temperature ensured stray ethanol rose up with the steam and the struggle for the casks had splashed the laced water about the rim of the pool. Adding to it a stray, fiery sneeze from a Dragon in the rule-breaking group which set it all alight for a brief moment and the moment was cemented into the heart of Kaer Solaris' long history. Needless to mention…but there was Hel to pay by that adventurous group of imbeciles. And as a terrible result, everyone else not even remotely involved, like myself, had to suffer along as well for their poor choices. Ever it remained my wish to lazily dine upon grapes and imbibe cold Bitters in the warm embrace of their blessed waters...

It was thanks to incidents such as that stupidity which ensured that I fully understood why they forbade even simple beverages into the Hall of Pools. As such, upon making my way through the Great Hall and into the heavy aromatic warmth of the Kitchens, I resolved to portion for myself that which I could eat in haste while still not feeling like I had robbed my stomach of the satisfaction. One of our precious cooks was so kind as to garner my attention whilst cleaning the last of the noonday meal of roast mixed vegetables and freshly-caught trout. There was always an ample abundance of food prepared for the three main meals and the intermittent lighter meals, the remainder of each being served to the rest of staff and any pilgrims or Fire Priests who had their own allotted lunch period an hour after the main student and faculty body had eaten. Staff on duty were of course welcome to snack somewhat whilst working away day-by-day in order to tide them over until their own appointed meal hour in a measure which assisted with their morale. And indeed, many kept small baskets of mixed foodstuffs nearby their assigned station for such an occasion with nuts, dried fruits and either very pale ale, or watered-down wine being popular choices for refreshment. Being a Witcher ahungered, they were most gracious in setting aside a larger pewter platter of fish and vegetables for me to enjoy. Not only that, but they went so far as to invite me into a cozy little nook in the scullery with a small table and seats enough for ten at a time. The small space was somewhat cramped given the scullery itself was not all that large to begin with, yet it was far from dingy or poorly decorated as, even in here, the walls had been the gracious recipient of plaster and a bounteous, if simple, application of paint. No grand tale was depicted here, yet the beautiful vista of some coastal shoreline at noonday had been rendered in vibrant, bright colors whilst the small crystal chandelier above was encircled by a mural of the Sun on the ceiling. A set of slender bookshelves had also been crammed into the space, seemingly offering our hungry staff something to read as they ate and rested from their labors for a time. A quick glance at the book spines of assorted heights revealed mostly works which would most concern a civilian; namely tales of adventure, both factual and fictitious, as well as tales of romance and comedy, theatrical stage plays, assorted religious texts, and general overviews of a myriad of subjects from history and geography, to international politics and esoteric philosophies. With the Valley having near-universal literacy across every citizen, it was little wonder even such simple, humble servants to a guild of great renown would likewise be a step above the typical castles’ retinue of residents both great and small. With daylight slipping away from me with every passing second until my inevitable departure from the Valley, I resisted the urge to indulge in some of the shelves’ contents as it would only extend my little meal break far too overlong. Instead, I sat in relative silence and happily consumed my food whilst some of the other staff entered and took a seat nearby me with platters of their own. I prided myself on being approachable by even the lowliest of the staff, yet I was well aware that I was also leaving myself open to a barrage of questions from an understandably enthralled group of relative outsiders. They worked with and amongst us...yet there was an inherent divide between us which some Witchers took to a cold, distant extent. Something which made the common citizen nervous and a fateful reputation which I strove to avoid attaching to myself at all costs, even if it was merely just some of my time and attention.

“I apologize for taking up one of your seats at this table…” I said with some remorse as the other nine chairs filled up quickly and I could see others making their way through the scullery to sit outdoors. "I would take this up to my room were I not destined for the Hall of Pools immediately after I finish eating, otherwise I would not need to take up this place at your table."

“Bah, think nothin’ of it Master Witcher.” A young Elk buck with budding horns commented around a mouth full of pan-fried asparagus with salt and herbs. “Take yer rest n’ eat heartily, we all know the Baths won’t allow any entry otherwise. B’sides, it ain’t like we are wanting for places to enjoy some grub 'round this fortress. A lot of us like to go to the top of the Servant’s Courtyard lift tower and have our meal there in the blessed mountain air and under the Sun. Speaking of, we keep a couple tables and lots o’ chairs up there just for that same purpose in fact, if ye ever have th' need.”

“I knew that already in due fact, I have witnessed much the same from my bedroom window in the Master’s Tower.” I replied with a soft smile of amusement. “It faces southwards so the whole of the Servant’s Courtyard is laid bare before my view every time I look out. I am curious though, do you enjoy your employment here at the School?”

“Is…this some type of performance review…?” He asked whilst exchanging mildly panicked looks with his fellows sat beside us.

“Hardly, I was merely curious given we could not function as we need to as Witchers without the assistance of good mares and stallions such as yourselves. If we needed to cook, clean, tend to the Gardens, guard the walls and all else you good folks perform on our behalf…well, there would scarcely be time for us to pursue our studies and physical training after all else was said and done. You all fulfill a dearly-necessary task for us, a long list of tasks at that even. The guild owes our continued ability to operate so smoothly due to your many combined efforts. You are of most importance to the functionality of everything that goes on within these walls and if we lose you, we lose the School. At least as we know it now... I'm sure we Witchers would figure out a duty roster to fulfill your duties...yet we would be indescribably hindered in our ability to train when so many of us would be needed to keep a School this size functioning.”

“And that right there is precisely why I continue to reside here amongst you all.” A Unicorn mare I was unfamiliar with spoke up from the opposite end of the table. “I was a maid in the mayor’s household in Sire’s Hollow as a young mare some twenty years past. Despite doing much the same sort of work for him as I perform here, the pay and conditions were absolutely horrid by comparison. It is all tough work to be sure, but I wouldn't trade my place here for any King’s court outside these walls. I have found a definite place here amongst you all. A simple place, yet a peaceful one with individuals who value my life more than that of some mere servant of an unfair power structure. And with this Valley's fortifications? There's scarcely a safer place to dwell in this world.”

“I most-heartily second all she said.” Boomed a stocky Pegasus stallion whilst raising a hefty hoof. “The same could be said for working as a farrier for Sir Iron Hedge… He and his daft soldiers oft required a new shoe be hammered out and affixed in short order. The way he and they galivanted about…you would think I were a terrible crafter from how oft they would throw their shoes, nails and all… They were Knights in name only, just a gang of young devils who've always enjoyed a lofty position in this world by grace of their bloodline. Damned fool liked to claim he slew a Greater Dragon and would point to the skull of one mounted above his mantle like that proved his point...”

“Oh? I cannot say that particular name rings a bell with me…” I responded softly whilst parsing the pages of my memory for a hint of a clue as to this one particular Knight in an ocean of lordly Equestrians.

“A Knight of the Crescent Coast.” He replied simply with a dismissive roll of his eyes. “Or at least he was when I departed the Duchy in order to reach this splendid place. Gods knows if he was able to retain his title with that laughable band of miscreants he calls friends… And that Dragon I mentioned? A fuckin' relic he dug up during some illegal mining activities he was doing on the border with the Crystallians. He was searching for gold to offset his debts and gained a mighty tale of false heroism which paid it off for him. The lucky bastard...”

“Oh? Well isn't that a lark... And how recent was your move to our Valley?” I asked with genuine interest as, while we did have Equestrian citizens seek us out for sanctuary, the number of petitioners had been understandably throttled in recent decades.

“Him? He's been here about five years now I'd like to say.” A comely Wolfess answered for him, putting a comforting grey paw upon his hoof on the table. “Birchwood is of the Armory staff for his prior experience behind a hammer and anvil.”

“Is that so? Well I suppose congratulations are in order on the successful transition of skill to our guild. Do you enjoy the work more comparative to your previous emplo-”

“Absolutely!” He blurted back before I had even had the chance to finish speaking. “Plenty o’ hooves in this Valley which need a fine band of iron nailed along their edge! The pay here is triple that of what I was making under Sir Hedge, the hours are far more tolerable, and the quality of th' steel that arrives here for smithing is exceedingly fine! Did I mention that it responds most beautifully to the hammer? I doubt I could have learned to smith suits of plate or riveted maille without such exquisite metal and expert assistance, even if it is an entirely different world than the mere forging of horseshoes. But! Smith Istavan has even begun to finally train me in the holy art of weapon smithing! I have crafted a few serviceable dirks in my time, if out of boredom and curiosity…yet those were essays in foalsplay compared to the blades you Witchers use. My wish is to gain my Journeymare’s papers from Mahakam before the decade is out, and to have my qualifying Masterpiece be one of your esteemed silver swords if I am able. I would be blessed to present any School's weapon to their rightful master so there is no favoritism being allowed to fester within me.”

“Well I encourage you by all the Powers that be to pursue that goal! Silver swords are tricky blades to fashion from what I have both seen, heard, and read about, even with a proper set of diagrams. I am pleased to hear your transition to Kaer Solaris has been such an uplifting experience for you. Have you had much in the way of this new training under Istavan?”

“Only a few months sadly, yet it has been the most illuminating and invigorating experience of my life. None can work steel like a Pygmy Mastersmith! Save perhaps the Völundr of the Örn or the Tuath Dé Dàn of the Thestrals…yet I don't see either of their peoples deigning to visit us as of late. Ah well, perhaps one day…”

“It is interesting you should mention the Tuath Dé Dàn as I had the pleasure of meeting one of their number just prior to the Cleansing. A most fascinating, if cold and distant, expert in her field, I must say.”

“No bleedin’ way! How'd you even get into the Everfree? That place has grown downright dangerous

“Simple, I am a very pure-blooded Lowland Valkyrie. Given my kind descends from theirs, and I nor my family had any mar as would blemish our reputation in their eyes, they were willing to grant me passage into Tirannwn. I was only permitted to travel to Caer Alarc’h, the School of the Swan, and my escorts would not allow even the smallest deviation from our assigned path. And in the end, I was only amongst their number for a mere month or so before the Cleansing occurred. Soon as it occurred…they dismissed me from their School and escorted me to the edge of the Forest without another word. I have not been invited back into their territory since then in order to finish my studies under the Swans.”

“What an opportunity!” Another at the table exclaimed excitedly. “What are the Thestral lands like?”

“Well, their woods have always had a darker inclination due to their worship of the Moon, but they have most certainly changed for the worse since the Cleansing. I can assure you.” I sighed with a sad tone. “I was within the ecotone of the Forest only a few weeks hence and it has grown quite Dark and wild indeed since my last sojourn in Tirannwn. Whatever primeval energies permeate that woodland has since been tainted by the Abyss making large swaths of territory very dangerous to travel even on their grand roads. That excludes their major cities and towns of course, those have long been well-defended bastions of civilization amidst the Forest. The Thestrals have only held onto so much territory thanks to the magic in their woodland, otherwise they've hardly the population to patrol their lands and control anything outside of the largest settlements. Their warriors are some of the finest in the world, and their archers are second-to-none save for the School of the Raven, yet they have never been some numerous host and cannot be everywhere at once. There is no telling how many of their villages and smaller settlements have been abandoned to the whim of the Forest in favor of finding strength in numbers in the larger towns and cities.”

“Well…ain't that a depressing accounting…”

“I never said it would be an inspiring tale. Though to properly answer your question, I can tell you somewhat of the School of the Swan as that is the only Thestral habitation I have personally been to outside of those here in Scarlet Pines. Their architecture, their true architecture as produced in days of old, is…simply breathtaking. If any of you here have happened to see any of the tree dwellings of Scarlet Pines, then ye would be somewhat familiar with their style of lofty halls with organic curves and few sharp corners. Their love of their trees and their inherent connection to its wild magic allows them to shape root, leaf, and stem to their whims without a saw or axe necessary to mar the wood like any of us would. Their love of stone structures has certainly grown over the centuries and they have mastered the art of blending wood and stone into elaborate buildings adorned by many balconies and towers. Caer Alarc'h is one of the finest examples of their budding love of stone as, with extremely supervised assistance from the Pygmy, they formed the bulk of their fortress from beautiful white-silver marble imported from my own tribe who use that same stone for our own buildings. The walls take on the form of an elaborate six-pointed star with a great Redwood as its center. It was rapidly grown to full size through great effort on the part of all of the Thestral’s Arcane specialists who gave their assistance towards the building of the School. Great crystals sang pure with the Light of the Moon are hung on long silver chains from the lowest branches providing very bright silver light across most of the exterior of the School. Smaller crystals of a similar make, which light up what the Greatwood cannot, are similarly installed atop the spires on the towers at the tip of each arm of the walls. You would expect all of that light to be visible plain-as-day from any great distance, yet you would be greatly surprised. They have enshrouded that entire section of woodland in Féth Fíada, a thick veil of Arcane mist which obscures the School from sight save to they with crystal lanterns from the School itself which will show the correct path. It has such power so as to entirely make one not authorized to be there to wander aimlessly about the fog in a stupor, finding nothing until luck favors them and they escape its radius…or they wander until exhaustion takes them and they die. There is no telling how many bones litter the field surrounding the School, let alone the rest of the forest which encircles it. Oh yes…I cannot forget to mention the stunning thicket of trees which immediately surrounds the School walls. Imagine if you would one of the beautiful pine trees as found all along the foothills of the White Fangs, except entirely made of a living crystal of pale, icy blue which sings in the breeze and tinkles like a great mass of glass wind chimes. They would not sing in a manner you or I would, yet the wind caught them in such a way which produced a melody of tones that is at once angelic yet…unnatural and strange. Something simply too far beyond the ability of words to describe and shivers the spine and Soul in equal measure.”

“That all sounds…beautiful yet wholly terrifying.”

“The same could be said as much regarding the Thestrals themselves to be frank. They are a proud race and one of the oldest amongst the Eldar, beaten only by Direwolves and Kitsune…though nary a one of the latter has been seen in aeons.”

“I have a question, if you would humor me Master Witcher. I've always been told that the Everfree won't allow any but Thestrals to pass beneath its boughs. A great wall of vines and thorns sprouts up to bar the passage of any others attempting to enter into their realm and they are hardly the most friendly of people towards others even when caught outside their own borders. How did you gain passage into their lands?”

“Well, put simply, the Forest recognizes the power of blood through its intrinsic connection with the Thestrals who have raised large swaths of it from nut and acorn. I share that blood, if in a diluted manner as it is blended with Highland Valkyrie, yet the Forest seems more than capable of recognizing that and permits me to enter and walk about as if I were a Thestral myself. In years past, other Witchers have too managed to enter their Dominion to take on Contracts by their blessing, or even personally visited some of their innermost settlements, but that time has long since passed. In the last century or so, the Old Forest has become far from welcoming to even Thestrals and has garnered a general feeling of unease. The Abyss has hit their region hard since the Arrival and theirs was never a particularly populous people to begin with. Darkness beyond that of even the Forest’s natural state has seemingly taken hold of the Wild Magicks which made their woodland so grand and lively. By the time of my short stay with them, they had already lost large swaths of territory to Abyssal incursion. Their patrols were becoming more regularly attacked by monsters and friendly paths were becoming dangerously wild and horridly overgrown.”

“And their Witchers aren't doing anything about it? That seems rather pathetic seeing how much chest-thumping they perform about how great their species is…”

“I would not be one to know I'm afraid…aside from those few Swans present with us here in Kaer Solaris, I have not met a single other member of that School since the Cleansing. I would hardly assume that Caer Alarc'h is now derelict and defunct…though I would be willing to bet a heavy purse that the institution has been commandeered by the Tetrarchy and the House of Lords to ‘serve the needs of the people'.”

“Like what happened to the Lions?”

“Manticores actually, the Lions are still at odds with the Grand Vizier after his attempt to do the same a century and some past. The general population of the Golden Dynasty isn't much fonder of them either after that mad monk’s ramblings were adopted into the local belief system. But yes, something similar to that at least in spirit. Leading Thestral leadership was eying the School of the Swan even before I arrived there and that same member of the Tuath Dé Dàn was present at the School for the very purpose of petitioning their Archmaster to allow members of that order to work as their exclusive smiths. Given that order exclusively also serves the Royal Lineage…they were to be naught but spies and political advocates pushing an agenda of hegemony. Exceedingly talented spies and advocates, but spies and advocates all the same. I was dismissed from the School before I had a chance to get my bearings with Thestral politics but I would hazard a guess that the integration would inevitably be successful as many Swans I spoke with were rather…nationalistic and overly proud of their lofty heritage.”

“So a benevolent coup?”

“Well, perhaps not so much a coup as it was a simple hostile takeover, but yes. Something akin to that I suppose when laid out plainly. With the Thestrals facing the dilemmas they do, I can understand why they would like to use their greatest warriors in their own defense. The School of the Swan only accepted blooded warriors with no less than a century of experience clad in scale and plate serving amidst the boughs, and so theirs are some of the highest quality of Witcher to be found on the Continent. Their skill with a bow can cleave the wings from off a fly at three-hundred meters on the darkest of nights, while their sabers carve out a dry patch in the pouring rain. Their best even go beyond the need of physical arrows in their quivers as their crystalline bows produce ethereal arrows of Moonlight whenever their string is fully drawn back.”

“I was actually going to ask after their fancy crystals.” The buck replied with a hearty laugh tinged with genuine interest in the question. “I witnessed Grandmaster Iryllith practicing with her crystal saber atop the battlements just the other day and I have always felt dazzled by such a thing. I would never have considered such a material as capable of being shaped into functional weaponry that doesn't snap on contact with armor. Is it true they sing it into shape?”

“They do indeed!” I replied with a smile of pride despite my species mostly lacking the talent of our progenitors. “Although, in truth, it is a truly ancient practice of theirs which has been slowly lost over the millennia as their skill with metals and exceedingly enchanted hardwoods has bloomed and expanded through their reluctant contact with other Eldar species, particularly the Pygmy. It is said in their earliest days they had the power to shape all manner of crystalline structures and their great capital of Prifddinas is supposed to be their greatest work in that regard. From what I was told by other Swans, even its simplest, outermost defensive works are formed of pure, unyielding crystals of many colors whilst the rest of the city itself is a glorious, harmonious blend of crystal, stone, and wood. The power of those ancient crystals is said to even affect the flora and fauna of the city causing crystalline growths to naturally form upon them in such a way as to not impede their daily life. I have also read that the Thestrals once could form grand halls and towers of the purest white stone like unto polished marble formed from mere grains of pure, clear silica. By the misfortune of time, none who wield such power over crystal still yet remain in their midst and Prifddinas is said to be their greatest masterpiece as can never be fashioned nor replicated ever again. Within the last millennium or so, their power has diminished until it can only be truly worked on a particular type of crystal known simply as Glainne, ones brought to our world in the midst of small meteors from the Cosmos that exude enough Lunar energy for their magic to affect their shape and structure. They are far rarer than any stone mined from the earth of course, but they are in enough abundance for them to make rather extensive use of their power across the span of their culture.”

“What a true shame they lost such a fascinating gift…” The Wolfess replied softly. “Or...at least the majority of said gift. Did you ever get the chance to witness any of these special crystals being sung into shape while you were there?”

“None from an unformed Glainne Dearcán, a true crystal seed.” I admitted with some sadness. “I only witnessed a pre-formed crystal longbow be sung back into shape and full power during my sojourn in their midst. Like how we utilize gemstones as repositories for magical energy, their crystal weapons and armor all store gargantuan amounts of energy which they use to power their weapons and armor defensive or offensive capabilities, as well as enchant their Arcane powers in combat. Over time these items will degrade with use until they eventually revert back into a seed form and will need to be entirely reformed by a professional Filí. For items which only need a metaphorical wax-and-polish, there is a unique device they would utilize which would replicate some of the divine harmonies the Fìlidh caste can sing to wield their magic. It is a sort of large, shallow dish made of the purest Glainne which they whet and rub their hooves along the rim in a precise manner so as to resonate the crystal and elicit sharp, vibrant tones of ethereal pitch and volume. Those sounds…they pierce the ears, yet tenderly caresses them…as it does the Soul whilst hearing those divine notes. There is something rather…religious about the practice, even if the species at large are rather ambivalent towards the broad concept of Divine worship and devotion. It was but a brief experience, yet I am still able to feel the echoes of the harmonies played that night. Something in my blood harkens unto it, like a call to action from another age.”

“Fascinating…” Was the general murmur from my spellbound audience as I made a unfairly short recounting of my experiences amongst those enigmatic Eldar.

Though I felt my knowledge of my far-distant relatives was rather sparse and uneducated, I found myself continually surprised at how little everyone else seemingly knew about Thestrals. Theirs had always been a closed society, even throughout the Age of the Moon. Even at the absolute peak of the Witcher's Golden Age where the most open cooperation between species occurred…their borders remained all-but-closed with all trade being restricted to a scattering of walled towns ringing the edge of the Forest. Fully mutated and graduated Swans would wander the Path beyond the leafy shade of their homeland, yet they almost always kept to their own and prioritized defending what minor Thestral clans which existed as isolated enclaves deep within other's territory; usually Equestrian due to their rapid expansion. They would still rise to defend the innocent as the Code demands, thank the Gods, yet they would most certainly be reluctant to assist any outside their own species. In days of old, they may have even deigned to extend that blanket protection to my kind as well…but even that generosity had faded into memory not long after my own birth. Most beings, Eldar or no, would go their entire lives never meeting a Thestral in person. The lucky ones might catch a glimpse of one of their surviving artifacts and the wealthiest might even be able to afford to hold one captive in their own personal collection…but for all others but Thestrals themselves, they were mostly an enigma.

The conversation with my gracious hosts would likely have been allowed to continue as their curiosity persisted, were it not for the sudden ringing of a bell hung from a bracket in the corner of the ceiling. Immediately, the conversation broke as their lunch period was called to a close and time spent asking questions was hastily supplemented by ravenous devouring of what remained on their plates lest they go hungry whilst returning to their various duties. Many a thanks did I receive as they each departed the little dining room, all seemingly quite satisfied with what they had learned of Thestrals and their mysterious ways beneath the boughs. I was somewhat disappointed in their departure in all truth as, while I had a destination in mind, I always found an eager audience with eager questions nigh-on irresistible to pass up. As the last of them took their courteous leave, I was left alone at the table with a new notion creeping into my mind as I ruminated on the conversation we had just participated in together. A notion which was only further reinforced by my Guardian projecting the image of a teacher's lectern in my mind's eye and all the implications which were entailed.

“I would scarcely go that far…” I muttered to her with a shake of my head. “Answering questions from genuinely interested parties is not the same as becoming an Instructor like Razorbeak or Paladin Thistle…”

Her response was that of a feeling of mild rebuttal, followed by a smattering of images. Bjørn and Atalis, Brynhild and Valencia, Razorbeak and Ashandra. Not Instructors as I had originally thought she meant, but Mentors. Mentors who needed only fuss over one singular pupil rather than an entire classroom's worth of students for decades unending. It was clear Ludovic had swayed her opinion for what it was worth. Which…was by extension my own subconscious decisions speaking aloud back at me, using her as its instrument of quiet instruction and advice.

“You cannot be serious…” I grumbled aloud to myself whilst moodily stabbing at my meal with a fork. “And who in the Hel is even worth that level of commitment? Unless you know something or someone I do not, we lack even a short-list of candidates just like we lack the time to parse the Bastion of its Novices.”

When an equally moody silence was my only answer, I replied, “Exactly… You know that I am at least somewhat open to the idea, but it has to be the right pupil. Someone we can invest ourselves into to the degree they require in order to survive their first year beyond our care. And…all those which will hopefully follow thereafter.”

With subdued agreement, she fell back into silence as I hastily devoured what remained of my meal; picking individual fish bones from between my teeth as I went. The fish and vegetables were beautifully spiced, if a bit dry, yet the sensory experience was a dull afterthought amidst the swirling pool of thoughts which filled my mind in the wake of her prodding. In truth, the idea of Mentorship continued to possess many allures for myself personally as I did indeed gain a deep sense of satisfaction from the cheerful instruction of others. There were few feelings which could equal that of seeing the dots connect behind their eyes as bright minds were further illuminated by the light of new knowledge. Knowledge which I personally had passed on to them in such a manner as to speed them along through the failures I had made myself when in their place. It was almost too tempting to bring to mind the other perks enjoyed by Mentors, as well as the stipend and debt assistance offered by Ludovic personally. I could scarcely hide the true reason as to why I pursued the Path as diligently as I did…as it kept my mind continually occupied by physical activity which prevented such convoluted paths of thought from occurring. I enjoyed the simplicity the Witcher's life offered as there was always the next town or village on the road ahead to turn my attention and thoughts towards. When offered the chance to sit and ruminate for long stretches of time, as I had engaged in more than once since returning home, I was forced to confront those thoughts I had previously been able to ignore. These moments typically offered chances to learn more of myself, my choices and my desires, yet they were typically not the most pleasant of experiences. Perhaps that went to show the level of discipline and…self-awareness our Instructors possessed as to endure decade after decade of inactivity upon the Path in favor of teaching the next generations of Witchers, Witchlings and Acolytes. Surely they had fully come to terms with themselves and their own feelings, yes…? It was likely wise to bend one of their ears towards the question sooner rather than later, but the true question however lay in whom I would choose to bother with such an inquiry. And with what time? At present, I lacked such a commodity in spades with so much pressing down upon me so unexpectedly.

With my hunger (mostly) satiated by my simple meal of noonday leftovers, I felt compelled to continue on with my intended itinerary and stood up from the simple wooden chair whilst gathering up my dishware. The boney remains of the fish were then cast into the sizable wheelbarrow full of other half-eaten foodstuffs as compost-to-be. All of it was destined to fertilize the soil of the School for our crops and landscaping, with any leftover sent to assist the rest of the Valley and their own gardens and farms over the coming months. Once my used platter and utensils were passed into the waiting hooves of one of the scullery maids still washing away the remnants of the noonday meal, I was allowed to finally depart towards the Baths. The lift in the Servant's Tower served my needs perfectly as it descended through the southern face of the Holy Mount and came to a gentle stop halfway down to the Servant's Courtyard. Here, I disembarked into a middling hall beset on all three walls by stone archways leading towards different sections of the underground passages beneath the School. To the west, the path meandered until it reached the Infirmary and its gentle beds while northwards lay the mess of stairs and multi-leveled stone rooms which formed the secondary Barracks and extra bedchambers for Masters and Mentors. My path took me through the third and easternmost passage which itself bridged the distance to the path branching off from the stairway down to the Laboratorium, the air turning noticeably humid and warmer the closer I approached. Before long, the large carved double doors guarding the entrance to the Baths appeared from around a bend in the decoratively painted passage and my fog of mixed feelings immediately lightened, much to my relief.

The Hall of Pools was just as majestic as ever as I nudged one of the doors open and entered within it's warm, comfortable interior. Being in the second half of the School’s hours of operation, the number of occupants was much reduced from what it had been the previous day. Those that were still students were presently occupied with their classes and physical training leaving only those Adepts, Masters and Grandmasters to enjoy the Baths in relative peace and tranquility. Graciously, that also meant several of the padded massage tables were open and awaiting a paying customer, of whom I was more than eager to join their number. I knew not as to what Rosalia’s personal schedule of service was given all our talented masseurs and masseuse worked their own hours at their whim and pleasure. My fears were abated however once I spotted the familiar creamy pink feathers of my favorite Gryphonness, seemingly wiping down the moisture on the waxed leather of her padded table from its previous sodden occupant with a dry towel. Dressed in the white-and-red robes of the School staff, most of her gorgeous plumage was hidden from sight, yet she had joined me in the Pools on more than one occasion, allowing me blessed views of her in her native form. Even at something so clandestine as cleaning her own workstation, she always found ways to catch my wandering eyes with her natural beauty and endearing charm. Though she was that way with every customer in the interests of her own income, I had the feeling (and the hope) that I caught her eye in turn. Before any others present had the chance to steal her talented talons away from me, I swooped in to mark my place in line with as much speed as I felt safe for a damp stone floor.

“Rose!” I sang softly with a tiny shiver of glee rippling through my voice as I called out to her from behind. “Rosalia Rosefeather!”

“Is that…?” She sang back softly in reply as she glanced over her shoulder from her work, only to excitedly spin around to face me fully. “Frejdá! My favorite little Lowland mare!”

Though she was scarcely taller than I, I was in no position to deny her the enticing right to address me as ‘little mare’. If anything…she was welcome to say it and much more anytime her beautiful heart so desired and it took great effort not to swoon into her strong arms. Rosalia was rather bright and exotic in coloration compared to her Gryphon contemporaries in the Valley like Razorbeak or Grym who sported the more typical brown and tan plumage one would find amongst their kind. Instead, she took after what she had described as a ‘Galah’, a species of Feral bird native to the unknown, reportedly arid regions farther south than Darkmire or even the wild jungles of the Kobolds. Rather, she sported creamy, rosy pink feathers across her neck, breast and along her wing bones whilst her flight feathers and lower half were a soft, ashy grey that was gentle and contrasted with her pink feathers in an unusual, but visually pleasing, manner. Meanwhile, her long headfeathers took on a much paler shade of pearly pink and fell over half her face, typically the left, hiding only one of her dazzlingly blue eyes from sight. Her dexterous talons which I so adored (and craved) were a fine yellow like unto most other Gryphons and sported a gleam and gentle taper which bespoke her skill behind a set of files and polishing stones; a skill she likewise offered as a professional service for an extra fee and only to clients she personally liked. Indeed, she was not only restricted to working her artistry upon talons alone and was equally as capable at weaving some magic upon hooves and claws alike with her diverse arsenal of finely-crafted tools and scented oils.

“Gods it is so very good to see you again, Rosalia.” I replied while indulging myself a mighty snug embrace and getting a strong whiff of the fruity salve she used as perfume which could outlast extended exposure to moisture like she regularly experienced.

“The year's barely run half its course and already I find you crawling back to my altar of comfort for more!” She crooned with a sultry but very playful wink from her only visible eye as we pulled apart from one another.

“Oh please, spare me the teasing.” I smiled shyly back at her, knowing full-well she knew why I had returned. “The Fallen should be returned home as soon as they are found and I was only fulfilling my role in that obligation.”

“I know my dear, and I applaud you for returning their remains home so quickly. I was merely teasing you for the sake of seeing you smile like that. Not all who possess fangs in their mouths are quite so able to flash a smile which comes across as friendly and non-threatening.”

“Non-threatening…?” I asked slowly in case she was yet again leading me into another tease of hers. “I have told you of the time I actually had to use them, yes?”

“Heh, yes you have darling. And yet for having torn open someone's jugular vein and tasted of their very blood, you do not possess the smile of one I would assume capable of such a feat. Unlike, by sheer example, one such as Master Irdvin whom I attended to earlier today who seemed in quite the solemn mood. Please do not misunderstand me, I know he is a fine and noble Witcher as any other which roams this School. I am merely saying…his is a smile which triggers whatever primal instincts reside within me which correspond to the feeling of predation…if you understand my meaning.”

“Unfortunately, yes…” I agreed quietly as I thought over other predator species who retained the sharp teeth of their progenitors like Dragons. “But, none of us can help what we are. The only control we are allowed is what sort of person we embrace as our own as we age and mature. Graciously he and many others have made peace with those instincts in their youth and have refined themselves with civility.”

“Too true indeed! Now, I take it you are here for your usual course of treatment? Unless of course you are merely here for some decidedly pleasant conversation?”

“Am I so obvious? Yes, I would absolutely love if you would so indulge me. If you are able to of course.”

“You are not so lucky as of now I'm afraid…” She frowned softly as her gaze drew my own towards an approaching customer clad in one of the complimentary white bathrobes provided in the changing rooms. “Yet, I am free after he is finished! You are more than welcome to soak and relax while you wait, the Soapers brought in a simply divine set of pear-and-mint scented bars for our use earlier this morning and they have proven very popular thus far.”

“Pear-and-mint you say…? Hm…well, there are far worse ways to kill time around here. Very well, when should I return?”

“Witcher Rye here has paid for a thirty-minute session so you won't be waiting too long my dear.”

“A-actually, I…uh…brought with me payment for a further fifteen minutes…” The dark brown Unicorn stammered sheepishly as he levitated a small purse of coins out from under his bathrobe. “If that is permissible…?”

She glanced my direction to which I shrugged in defeat as I was not about to rob her of more income, even if I planned on leaving her with a healthy gratuity seeing as I could comfortably afford it. At my shrug, she nodded towards Rye with a smile and gestured with her talons towards her freshly-prepared massage table; his small purse of coins being graciously snatched up and deposited in a small, movable lockbox resting in a nook of her table of tools, lotions and oils. With her prompting, he inclined his head respectfully in my direction in deference to my rank before disrobing and clambering onto his belly upon the padded table. While he did so, and while she was already accessing her lockbox, I decided it was smart to pay her in advance for my session and passed over the money I had prepared for the occasion. At two Orens and a half for thirty minutes of her time, she truly valued her skills highly and charged well for her time. Yet it was hardly a price given without reason as the raw talent she possessed was one few others here had seemingly mastered like she had. Hooves were excellent at working broad areas of muscle, yet talons were nimble enough to feel out individual knots and access all problem areas with extreme precision and dexterity. I personally wished she would dare to tease me under the tail a bit with those talented talons…yet the rules of the Baths were set in stone and slipping them inside me was sadly never going to fly. We had been plenty playful and flirtatious with one another from her first day amongst us fresh from the Zephyr Kingdom of the Gryphons in search of new opportunities to be useful. And yet…I felt cowed and submissive in her presence, too scared to speak my fullest intent, much as I had with almost all of my other friendly flings I had about the School and Valley. I could lust until the floor beneath me was wet with my arousal, and yet for all my Witcher's stoicism…I would never be able to bring myself to admit such a thing to their face. Indeed…such a fact proved endlessly amusing to Petra who had been the one to initiate our private little relationship once she had caught me staring at her longer than a typical patron would. I was blessed that she had the strength-of-will necessary to call me out for it and grace me with such an erotic first kiss across the bartop after a long night of Mother's Lacquer and drunken words.

I was rather fortunate to be wearing my gambeson as it hid my growing arousal between my thighs as I thought over the pleasurable company I kept in the Valley. Even then, little could be done to hide the flush of red hitting my dark grey cheeks which only amplified the rosy color. Despite my haste to flee the area in order to distract my thoughts and body, I could see Rosalia smirking my direction whilst hunched over her client's back working her magic into his neck and shoulders. Her smirking visage felt burnt into the back of my eyes as I continued to flee in the direction of the changing rooms at the far end of the Hall, haunting me with enticing thoughts best suited for the comfort and privacy of my own room. Unfortunately, I was far from those secure, private confines and my bizarre self-consciousness regarding my sex life made it difficult to be so open with it like others seemingly could be. It was no closeted secret that the lot of us were inescapably horny from the Changes as such hormones as estrogen and testosterone were powerhouses in their own rights in keeping our bodies in the peak of physical readiness, at the cost of complete sterility. Indeed, as a result of our profession and the Witcher Trials, all of us sported exceedingly fine physiques and physical stamina which seemed to endlessly entice others into seeking us out for a night of pleasure and personal company. As such, it was hardly an uncommon sight to see stallions and mares alike comparing their muscle mass against one another and essentially flaunting their bodies for others to see in the midst of their little competition. Perhaps I was merely too old-fashioned to feel as free with myself as the younger Witchers could, but I rarely found myself openly flaunting my body like they as an enticing invitation to potential partners. If Petra was any indication…I remained a timid filly gripped by embarrassment and fear when the topic of carnal desires arose. And to my continual shame, oft necessitated my person of interest to initiate whatever was to follow. I would have much rather faced the whole of Darkmire naked with a rusty spoon than admit aloud to any of my lustful thoughts and feelings for any of those I had ever taken to bed and especially those I had not… My thoughts were now a muddled, carnal mess which had lead my body on instinct alone towards my destination entirely without my active participation. By the time my mind truly returned to focus on the world around me, I had already entered into the cozy, colorful confines of the changing rooms which was mostly devoid of occupants. Even in spite of my isolation though, I tugged the hem of my gambeson lower and tucked my tail under myself out of sheer embarrassment.

After a quick trip to the latrine stalls in a separate back chamber to the changing rooms, the quick moment had granted me enough reprieve to feel like my queint was not swollen and dripping for all to see. Even as I disrobed I knew that would hardly be the first time it had occurred as being in the nude allowed any to view any other with almost complete lack of restraint and, like mine, thoughts everywhere are known to wander. In an effort to curb anything further from festering within my lustful heart, I took to returning my mind back towards the topic of Violet and the unofficial Contract she and I had formed. Of course, as soon as it was brought back to mind, along with it came those tense feelings of anxiety, trepidation and general uncomfortable sensations which sent my heart racing just that little bit faster in my breast. The same questions as before came to the fore as I stowed away my weapons and harness atop my neatly-folded gambeson in an empty cubby; how, where, when, and above all, why. I was a fool to agree to such a measure, there was no doubt to be cast upon such a fact and I could feel the weight of my Mentor’s memory upon my conscience as I returned to more overthinking the situation far more than was needed. Surely he wouldn't ever dare to give such an operation his blessing or approval, no matter how vile the Sentient target in question. Indeed, several Cats had fallen to his blade in the defense of those prominent individuals as warranted a Witcher on their personal council to whom he had been called to serve across the course of his lengthy career. Of all the personal sins his employers might have indulged in, they almost never breached the legal requisites to allow a Witcher's judicial involvement and so he left their crimes to the appropriate authorities. To take the law into my own hooves, even on Violet's behalf, was simply untenable by his standards. If anything, doing it on her behalf could be seen as even worse as, having no personal stake in the matter, I was no better than a killer-for-hire. And yet…that was precisely what each and every Witcher was by broad definition. The only true difference between us and any mercenary or assassin lay in our quarry of choice. It was not our place to blur those lines…it was too easy to continue making exceptions. I was still resolved to honor my word…but I was in such a state of inner turmoil that I was in need of counsel from one I had grown to trust. I would have to word myself carefully…yet I could not help but crave the opinions of those I trusted. I simply needed more validation towards any of the arguments for and against it all...and I did not feel up to the trip back up to pester Petra for her opinion quite yet. Not after all I had gone to just to get down to the Baths...

Graciously, I found enough willpower to emerge from out of my murky thoughts and seal my cubby shut with a barrier spell before collecting several towels and departing back out into the Baths proper. With so few patrons present, even hushed conversations audibly echoed somewhat throughout the Hall ensuring the space didn't feel wholly abandoned and bereft of life. All the same, there were a great many open places to slip into the water and relax to the heart's content whilst even the steam room atop the center of the Hall seemed decidedly less lively than I was used to hearing it meaning I had ample opportunity to indulge in whatever amenity I chose. Even as I slipped over the trough-lined ring into the second-hottest Pool, I was once more brought to a remembrance of Ludovic’s earnest offer of Mentorship. Compiled with my Guardian's outspoken opinion on the matter, I found the true beginnings of a reluctant acceptance of the inevitable started to form within myself; the near-scalding water being just enough to finally subdue my racing thoughts, if for short a time. Comfort then became the name of the hour at last as I sat back against the rim of the Pool, my aging body nestled safely in the shallow indentation using one of my towels as padding against the stone headrest. Though the temperature of the water was tremendously hot, I grew quickly used to it as my body adjusted itself to the heat allowing it to almost immediately begin to sink its warm power deep into my muscles, joints and thoughts. In particular, I was most after it sinking its wondrously heated fangs deep within the muscles of my neck and shoulder which had yet to find relief from the awkward sleeping position of my impromptu early morning nap. Once properly settled in and reclined back as much as the design of the stone rim would allow, I closed my eyes, let my limbs float aimlessly by my sides and did my best to achieve the state of calm placidity necessary for proper meditation.

Through the carefully prescribed set of breathing techniques, accompanied by the soothing, deeply-penetrating heat of the water enveloping my body from the chin down, the windmill of constant thoughts slowly came towards standstill. Those feelings of worry, anxiety and my bout of lust from earlier all sat along the fringes of my growing sea of calm awaiting their time to rush forth and engage in battle…yet that was the point of the practice. To ignore all else for the sake of blank-slate enlightenment save those things which simply could not be so easily quelled through meditation. Graciously…my qualms with Violet's request were not as pressing on my mind as I had expected them to become once I attempted to purge myself of all thought, even if it were for a short time. Instead, I was rather met with a comfortable silence for as long as I fought not to think, which remained a difficult task for me to accomplish just as it had upon my opening weeks as a Novice Viper. Always there existed something which could be pondered upon in the privacy of my own mind, a subject by which my boredom might be kept at bay by a suitably interesting distraction. Indeed, finding the sense of inner-peace which proper mediation required was a prospect most difficult for me as I could not stand the silence which accompanied it. Even prior to my senses becoming exceedingly attuned, I could not stand pure silence as it only made the thoughts within my own mind louder and far harder to ignore. It took little prompting some days for particularly dark thoughts to swirl about...and the best solution I had found was to continually distract myself. Whether that was through exercise, reading, Hunting, sleep, conversation, or just simple, good old-fashioned forcing myself to think otherwise, I was in a consistent state of war with the recesses of my own mind. My only true solace was to constantly stay one step ahead of my own worry.

I was…admittedly addicted to the intake and mental processing of information so as to silence the silence as it were. Smothering it even under a mountain of intriguing details to keep the windmill of thought turning, grinding broad thoughts into finely-milled opinions to be baked into my memory as veritable food-for-thought. To starve myself of that process, even for a short time, was endlessly difficult and infuriating…and yet I had been raised better than to always give into my wants when there were needs to be addressed and satisfied first. Just like with all the hours of my life devoted to classwork and endless tomes and scrolls, there was a point to everything we were trained to do. Even the most dull of moments had fulfilled their purpose as patience through aggravating circumstances was a life skill every Witcher needed in great abundance. Novices, and even Witchlings and Acolytes, would ever be eternally surprised by the number of hours they might end up having to wait for something to happen whilst actively on a Hunt. I knew of myself that I most certainly was very surprised and ever more irritated once the realization kicked in that the Witcher's life was not always going to be one of constant action. In fact, there was always a likelihood of needing to sit and wait until a monster or Daemon returned to their Nest if discovered unoccupied during the course of an investigation. You could be so unlucky as to happen upon something of the sort mere hours after its occupant had risen from its slumber to roam its territory. Of course, most species would naturally leave a notable trail in their wake allowing our skills in tracking to shine, yet it was highly situational if such a thing was applicable to any given Hunt. Attacking one's target in the open usually allowed them the same level of maneuverability to escape and evade as it provided us to attack and intercept. As swift as we could be, there were well over a couple dozen species of theirs who could outrun and out-evade us across multiple different kinds of terrain.

Indeed, such a diversity in our Bestiary necessitated the diversity between our Schools as, while every Witcher could conceivably handle most any Hunts out there, some were simply better suited for some Hunts over others. Taking the School of the Griffin as an example, with their acceptance standards permitting only winged species entry into their ranks, their best quarry was by-far other winged beasts as might entirely evade an earth-bound Lowland like myself. Harpies, Sirens, Plumards, Greater Fleders, Kalphites, Killerwatts, Rocs, Yarasa, Feral Griffins, Feral Dragons, any number of Draconid-category monsters, or the enigmatic Aviansie… There were a great many species in the Bestiary which could simply flap their wings and escape the reach of my silver sword, yet not that of a fully-trained graduate of the School of the Griffin. They would flee into the sky, only to find that another set of wings had joined them in the air from behind as the Hunt would resume again in earnest as the Witcher gave feverous pursuit; their silver sword flashing in the sky along with the glow of their expansive arsenal of Signs. It was a rather beautiful thing to me in all honesty, to know that for most any situation, somewhere there was a School that was especially talented in countering it and solving the problem.

Another fine example, and keeping within an avian theme, was the School of the Owl far to the east of the Continent set amidst a cluster of Isles much like the Örn’s. Though the School itself had withdrawn mostly from the public eye since even before the Cleansing, I had been fortunate enough to witness some of their Arcane might for myself. Just as Witchers would face monsters which could fly, so too would we encounter beasts of a magical origin who could command forces beyond most folk’s ability to understand, let alone defend against. While weapons and armor which were heavily imbued with precious Dimeritium were uncommon amongst the other Schools, save perhaps the elite equipment of a Grandmaster, Owl Witchers almost exclusively relied on the rare blueish-green metal for much of their works. Such was their extensive and routine exposure to it (as well as their targeted mutations) that they gained a unique resistance to its destabilizing effects, which allowed them to cast their exceedingly diverse list of Signs virtually unimpeded. At the same time, their safety was all but guaranteed from outside dangers of an Arcane nature as spells from others could simply not be cast in their immediate presence and dangers cast at them from range would dissipate like the morning wind upon nearing their position. Their skill with spellcraft was such that they could even perform intermediate works of magic as could qualify them for a middling degree from Tír Ná Liá were they to apply themselves outside the confines of Witcherhood. Most uniquely perhaps were the curious artifices which functioned at once as a Catalyst for casting magic like unto a Sorcerer’s staff, as well as a heavy-bladed silver rapier beset by many enchanted gemstones. Thus armed and armored, they would wander the Path in search of Arcane threats by which to challenge themselves, of which there were many for them to seek out and subdue. The hypnotic third-eyes of Fiends held no sway, Djinns would tremble to cross them, and even the accursed spells of an Inferni were unable to pierce their armor, all the while their unique Catalyst swords could pierce through that which otherwise could not be touched by the mortal realm. Indeed, even beings of an intensely spiritual nature found themselves at the whim and mercy of a Master Owl who had exploited every single last one of their known weaknesses. With the intense Arcane power inherent in the Abyss and all it touches, the absence of their presence on the Continent, outside of Grandmaster Vísdómir and his Apprentice, made for a sorry lack of Witchers fully prepared to face the enormous breadth of power the Abyss could wield. Not only the Abyss, but any beast or being, Feral or Sentient, which could manipulate any known form of magic. All we Witchers were trained to handle the same kinds of monsters and Daemons as they, yet they remained undoubtedly the very best trained and equipped of our guild to Hunt and slay such creatures.

Grandmaster Vísdómir had granted Kaer Solaris some of the many secrets of his School, yet most we knew were meant for he and his Apprentice alone. It was not out of some selfish reason that he did so, but rather it was simply because no other Witcher could perform the Signs and spells which they cast. The information existed within the Grand Library alongside other tomes of similar importance and power, and still none had yet been able to cast the spells contained therein. The connection to the Arcane fostered within Witchlings and Witchers who previously lacked one was a tenuous one at best. The world around us was always brimming with unseen Power which only needed to be channeled through our bodies via the prescribed set of Witcher Signs we were all taught from our earliest days. Nexia, highly-energized locations wherein invisible ley lines of Arcane energy converged, could grant a significant boost to a Witcher's casting ability for as long as they remained in its vicinity and even for a short time after leaving its presence. Yet in all reality, the amount of Power necessary to channel and cast such simple utility spells as we used was truly negligible compared to the unexpectedly high amount of energy, knowledge, skill, and focus required to cast even the most basic of true spellcraft as would be found in Arcane Universities. With the ability for telekinesis being universal amongst the School-based mutagens used in the Trial of the Grasses, our power over magic was typically rather rudimentary. Of course, the same could not quite be said for those species who underwent the Changes already in the possession of Arcane abilities. The amateur muffling charm Violet had so rudely asked me to cast was about the full-extent of my expanded capabilities with magic outside of the usual Signs. For being of pure Lowland stock, and the daughter of a talented Fáith to boot, I was a pitiful example of the rather exemplary power over the Arcane my species possessed. Those of my kind who were truly talented in the craft were even accepted to some Thestral institutions such as Ban Ard, with some even being bestowed the illustrious title of Sorcerer or Sorceress with a similar level of respect to what their Thestral compatriots enjoyed. Indeed, my greatest claim to glory in the field of magic was learning to pitifully cast a supplementary Sign born of the Örn and their chilly Isles, that of the Sign of Vetr. Summoning the power of ice, I was able to muster up a small torrent of frost from my hooves whilst Örn Masters like Bjørn were capable of flash-freezing entire clustered groups of enemies with but a single colossal cast.

With a sigh, I slowly opened my eyes to stare across the Baths without truly seeing anything but my own ineptitude. It was growing far too hard to concentrate on not concentrating when it came time to meditate. I had even forced myself through the prescribed methods to achieve the sense of calm they had emphasized so much towards each student of the guild…and yet I still slipped into meandering thoughts like an unproven Novice. To be contemplative and pensive was most becoming of a seasoned Master, yet as Masters were we not to set an example for those same Novices through our actions and not mere words alone? That included the daily rounds of meditation…something I had gotten exceedingly inconsistent with since my return to the Valley. Being home amongst those people and things I loved so much was seemingly enough stimulation to overcome self-discipline as I continued to indulge myself in frivolous thoughts and activities. There was my physical training to attend to, as well as several tomes in the Grand Library which needed re-reading in order to refresh my memory…and here I was soaking in the heat whilst my mind wandered wherever it would. If ever there was a sign that I needed to return to the Path quickly, it was how readily I had engaged in all these frivolous pursuits when there was work yet to be done. Even outside of the time necessary to formulate a plan of action for Violet's…request…there was the Path to follow immediately afterward and all the Hunts I could possibly encounter once back in the wildlands. And yet I remained soaking up the heat and wasting my own precious time. Regrettably, no clocks existed within the Baths by which I could tell how much time had passed since I had begun my soak. However, I was saved from needing to move even a single muscle to look back when a gorgeous, smiling pink visage peered over the top of my head and into view. Obviously she had finished with her last patron…and there I was, naked and sprawled out in the Baths for her to see. I was at once deeply aroused and absolutely terrified with embarrassment in the moment that there was surely no possible way she could not have noticed.

“Well, well…glad to see you will be radiating such heat of your own that no warming stones will be necessary.” She crooned with a teasing wink of her solitary visible blue eye. “Table is empty and wiped-down for your use and pleasure, my dear! Better come take your place in line before another is swifter at the cue and I cease being so kind as to alert you as to my availability.”

In truth, the forty-and-five minutes which had seemingly elapsed since my first sinking into the Pools had not felt nearly so long as that. Whether that was due to my own thoughts occupying my time so efficiently, or the heat and therapeutic values of the heated water itself, or likely a combination of the two, I was unsure. Ultimately however, my opportunity for true relaxation had finally come at last upon gorgeous wings of rosy pink and cloudy grey. Not being one to pass up on furthering my own wants when presented an opportune chance, I swiftly rolled myself over and began the process of extracting my person from the ensnaring allure of hot water on an achy body. Graciously, Rosalia took it upon herself to act as my towel mare and stood waiting for me to emerge from the water with her arms wide open and a thick towel dangling freely between them. The moment my body was free and under the assault of the cooler ambient air, she rushed forward to embrace and wrap the towel about me to begin the drying process. Needless to say however, I could scarcely prevent a sudden weakness strike my knees as I felt her comfortingly strong arms envelop me in thick, cotton warmth backed by the inner warmth of her blissful fur and feathers. Strength needed to be forced back into my body in order to swiftly recover from my veritable swoon into her arms, yet it was for naught as she had easily noticed how much of my own weight she needed to bear for a moment or two. I was truly blessed when all it did was seemingly amuse her as, while we were playfully flirtatious with one another, I had been absolutely too terrified to speak towards any further feelings or wants I might possess. She, on the other hoof, seemed happiest playing the part of the playful tease leaving my anxious thoughts to swirl back-and-forth between a belief in her attraction to me, and the despair of this just possibly being a mere pastime for her.

“My, my…how quaint.” She giggled softly as she gave me an extra-tight squeeze in her arms. “The noble Lowland warrior finds herself seemingly weakened in the arms of the School’s humble masseuse of decidedly avian origins… I am curious if such novels could be written and sold to regale an anxious crowd of readers.”

“H-hush!” I squeaked back softly whilst doing my best to avoid her gaze for the sake of my own burning cheeks. “There is n-naught wrong with such a thing, is there?”

"Hardly darling, I would buy such a curio for myself were it in print..." Came her amused reply.

Once her firm-but-gentle talons cupped my chin and ‘forced’ our eyes to lock, I…admittedly found my strength fleeting and my face utterly smouldering with the flushed heat of multiple emotions. Immediately her smile deepened and her eye sparkled with amusement and compassion whilst the strength of her arms doubled to compensate for my…momentary lapse in concentration. After a moment of squeezing me ever-so-tightly to her fragrant breast, she set me back upon my hooves and nodded towards her table before she began to lead the way ahead of me. My heart yearned desperately to feel her carry my weight over there while I continued to gaze up at her beautiful face, yet I understood that such a thing had probably not occurred to her as well. And in full truth, I was equal-parts terrified of the proposition as, while the Baths were rather barren compared to its usual number of occupants, there were still plenty of eyes to see for themselves my private intimacy. My terror of appearing intimate with others in public was something which had haunted me for literal centuries and possessed little foundation in rational thought. And yet, ever was I the timid little mare whenever such a thing happened to me. I was more than cognizant of my own willful ignorance on the matter as it was the one sense of fear my Witcher’s training seemed incapable of suppressing at will like I could when facing even a difficult Hunt. The matters of the heart were not concepts which entirely came naturally to me, even before the Changes took hold of my body. I knew what it was, was almost certain I knew what it felt like as opposed to mere lust…and yet I always felt bereft of strength and confidence when confronted with my own personal facts. I was head-over-hooves for several fine people who embodied aspects of the mortal experience I felt most enticing, namely providing me a sense of comfort and companionship which went beyond a mere brother or sister of the Hunt. I was hardly one to scoff at whatever gender or species they happened to be as it was the feelings which these exceptional individuals inspired in me whenever I had the pleasure of being in their presence. Though they were all special to me for being the wonderful people they were, each to their own incarnation of special and unique, those feelings they sparked within my breast were all of a similar nature. I sought out those who possessed the charm and gentle, endearing passion to grant my poor little heart a safe space to speak for itself without the usual fears, real or no, which plagued it. The utter bliss to be found in the soft, strong arms of Rosalia was utterly satisfying and gratifying to experience, just as the tantalizingly sensual kisses and nibbles of Petra, or the gentle, playful squeezes from Elvaarg and his gold-plated claws were simply magical in ways that went beyond words. These people were as close to stable romantic relations as a Witcher like myself might hope for, outside of finding a fellow Witcher whom I could devote myself to more fully than our usual lists of personal, friendly flings. And while I kept a watchful eye out for such a potential suitor as might benefit myself both personally as well as our duty to the Path…I was not without options in the Valley. I had simply yet to find it within myself to…‘settle down’ as it were. There were simply too many good people to love and be loved by for me to feel content with limiting myself to one person exclusively for the rest of my days, even if there was nothing in the Code which dictated such behavior one way or another.

Once we arrived at her workstation, she insisted that she and I attend to my still mostly-sodden fur prior to her laying a talon on any muscle groups. Her assistance whilst toweling me down was regrettably kept professional, yet the two playful nips of my ears from her wide, curved beak as she dried my hair sent all the signals I needed to feel content in the moment. More than that, my spine shivered most excitedly at each nip which elicited some hushed and deeply amused snickers as she continued to help. How I longed for a chance to catch her alone where we could be more forward with our thoughts...but she was ever the busybody. There was always another customer waiting in line just as I did to bask in the glory of her skilled talons and soft words. I had to wonder, even as she smiled kindly at me while we finished up, whether she were this openly intimate with her other patrons as the jealous side of myself could not stand to watch her work on others. Of course, there was nothing preventing her from engaging in the same promiscuity which gripped the School's tenants…yet I could not deny to myself that I desired to know just precisely where on her list of flirts she prized me in particular. It was tremendously selfish to dwell on such things…and yet it was a shortcoming of my own which had been in hot pursuit since my earliest years alive. In the most perfectly selfish world, all those who so caught my eye and heart as to draw me to bed would raise me up on a pedestal above the others they might possibly fool around with; a position which would hopefully ensure my anxious self-doubts on the matter would finally be hushed for good. Reality dictated such was not to be lest I happened upon truly Divine powers over seduction and attraction…and I made myself as content as I could be in those relationships I knew I did posses. I was an anxious wreck with each of them in spite of the comfort and safety they brought me… If anything, it was those same blessed feelings which brought about my anxiety as I feared their sudden loss. Or worse…some deep, unforeseen betrayal of personal trust between us which would only prove my selfish self-doubts true and horribly valid. I craved intimacy wherever I could obtain it from those sources in whom I had learned to trust that side of myself to…and in the end I was left in a continual spiral of enjoyment and anxiety whenever individuals like Rosalia were near. It was sometimes simply all I could do to reaffirm to myself that these people genuinely enjoyed me for my company as well as my body. It was not nearly as comforting as I would like…yet part of the process was trusting the other person to mean it when they promised they liked you and you are simply overthinking it all. Again…

“Annnnnd there!” She beamed once the last towel was removed and cast aside into a waiting basket of other used linens. “Might I say, you wear the color grey just as beautifully as I do my dear. If not better with such a dark shade of silver!”

As if it were not already obvious…but her commentary naturally set my face aflame once more with the heat of shy embarrassment. I relished every word of it…yet I was utterly convinced by anxiety alone that surely I was not so-deserving of such praise as hers. I wished desperately to feel that way, to feel free and open with my feelings like so many others around me could with absolute disregard for any self-conscious thoughts of inadequacy. I had literal centuries to come through grips with such things and the matured mare within me despised that same inner filly who cowered in embarrassment whenever affections were doled out in my name and direction. I wanted desperately to be anywhere else to spare myself having to answer at all...yet I had come this far just to see her. I had to trust my instincts, my true instincts, and above all...trust her to be gentle with me no matter the outcome just as she always did.

“O-oh please…” I managed to squeak back in reply as part of a lame attempt to feign modesty over exuberant shyness. “Your plumage beats out my ragged, old fur any day of the week you so choose! B-but I thank you nonetheless for your kind words, Rose. Truly.”

She gave a soft wink in reply and nodded with her beak towards the padded table for us to continue onwards. For all the flirts and mild intimacy we were engaged in, I had still paid her for a service and her time was indeed quite valuable and in regular demand. With such a humble prompting, I obliged her (and myself) by clambering up a side set of steps and onto her altar of comfort feeling more than ready to receive her ministrations. A set of headrests sat ready in a cupboard stowed within the lower frame of the table, each differently shaped as they were meant to suit a range of species so as to fully relax the head whilst laying facedown. Given I was still roughly Equine in nature like the stallion previously occupying it, no switch was necessary and I was able to collapse into a perfectly flat, thoroughly warmed-through sludge whilst the weight of my head was born atop the padded rest at my jaw. Immediately her wonderful talons set themselves upon my back, spread out wide as she dragged them across my upper and lower torso. The feeling was…simply immaculate as talons and claws were so much more dexterous and wandering than a set of hooves ever could hope to accomplish. The sensation of independent digits sliding through and parting my quasi-sodden fur was one I was willing to sacrifice almost anything to experience forevermore. Of course, her light playful pawing along the full length of my back and neck was not simply to tease me with lurid thoughts, but rather was her method of feeling out each individual muscle group with her expert touch. As such, she was able to scope out any and all problematic areas on her own without any need to inform her where the pain and tension was located as she would simply find it on her own anyway. My first session with her alone had proven to me her level of competency at her chosen art as a stubborn, persistent pain in my lower spine had been spotted and blessedly cured at her touch without even informing her where it hurt most. The process to fix any such issues was not always the most pleasant thing to experience in the moment, as she would regularly make use of her knuckles and narrow elbows in order to deeply penetrate her therapeutic healing into even the deepest of muscle cramps and crepitus of the joints and spine. Yet, the sense of relief which always followed her magic touch was a thing always truly well-worth the notable cost involved. To know there was something felt between us as well…it made whatever time I could afford to spend under her care as close to paradise as I could hope for, minus unending food and drink.

“So, I heard tale that the Shroud you brought home contained the remains of one of those Cat Witchers I have heard about. Is that true?” She asked after her talons had focused-in on the right side of my neck where the majority of my pain resided.

“A-ah! Y-yes, you h-heard right.” I gasped and grunted in reply as the blunted tips of her talons began to dig in and knead in slow circles. “His n-name is…a-ah! B-Braxia! O-one of t-the…owwww…F-First Born if you b-believe it.”

“Of course I believe you my dear, though I will admit I am not the most up-to-date on all the terminology you Witchers use even after all this time. I suppose that might make me out for a poor hostess to not be in the know regarding most of the gossip which occurs within these walls...yet I do honestly make an effort to stay informed.”

“Y-you’re fine R-Rosaliaaaa…” I groaned back in reply after a sharp jolt from her palms cracked several achy vertebra in my neck which I had failed to pop myself. “J-just look at the w-walls to s-see who the F-First Born were for t-they are…mmmmmmeverywhere for you t-to s-see…”

“Is that right? Fascinating…that explains a bit. Tsk, tsk…” She hummed almost to herself as she continued her campaign against my neck and shoulder. “Dear Cumulus, did you sleep in your armor using your own shoulder as a pillow again?”

“Y-yes…” Was all I was able to grunt back in reply as she began an intense assault upon the crook in my neck where the bulk of the pain originated from. “S-standard s-s-sleeping position when i-in a nnnn… In a-a rush…”

“Oh blast it all…this is wholly your own fault then, darling. You cannot expect your body to perform at its best when you do not make the extra effort to ensure proper support and comfort! I can respect tradition as much as the next Gryphonness, yet such a sleeping position is hardly conducive to proper relaxation. Oh dear, oh dear…such…a…nasty little bugger!”

With each emphasized word she dug two of her blunted talons deeper and deeper into the tender flesh of my neck, eliciting ever more grunts and squeaks of pain out of me. I knew she spoke with wisdom and from a position of expert authority out of a genuine concern for my well-being like a trained Healer…which made all self-conscious, self-flagellating thoughts ever the more crisp and sharp upon the senses. Unlike our weapons, various tools, and other equipment, a bedroll and blankets were not a traditional part of the standard equipment issued to newly-graduated Witchers, Witchlings, or Acolytes. It was not done to spite them out of a good night's rest, but rather remained as a token of respect for the First Born who took on a semi-ascetic lifestyle of sleeping beneath the open sky with no other comforts than what the earth beneath them had to offer. Like with the altruism which accompanied the old ways, wherein Witchering services rendered were ‘paid’ for with gracious lodging and what food or drink was offered, such heady days of selfless work were quite far behind us. Instead, exquisite and professional bedroll packages such as those produced by the Dwem, Direwolves and Gryphons had long-since become the norm for all members of our guild to carry as part of their rucksacks. Much as the spirit of sleeping beneath the stars under the bounty of the Cosmos ever had the romantic appeal to it…many of us simply craved a better night's sleep upon the High Road than what a mere patch of dirt or a grassy knoll could possibly provide. As to be expected of such high-quality products, the significant difference to be felt between resting upon their admittedly expensive comfort and the open road was one well worth its weight in gold after the first night experiencing the improvements it made over the old ways; no matter how relatively effective they remained when in a pinch. Unfortunately, such a position as using one's own leg and shoulder to provide some modicum of head support for sleep had been hardwired into my being even during my days as a Novice as it was part of the standard curriculum. As a result…whenever I was particularly lazy, such as my morning doze as landed me in such pain as I was seeking relief from, I had the tendency to default to the sleeping position drilled deep into my multi-layered web of habitations, both good and bad.

“I can see now plainly why you sought me out specifically…” She crooned once the light well of tears dammed up behind my eyes cleared as she set a pair of warming stones upon the problematic area, coaxing lactic acid away from the site with long, gentle drags of her talons across the breadth of my shoulder. “Luckily for you, I am a master of eking out relief and respite from even the most stubborn of knotted muscles and kinked joints.”

She had yet to work on anything other than my neck and shoulder and yet, I was no more capable of speaking anything in reply as the veritable sludge I had become. Even the haggard sigh I finally managed to force out took more effort than should have been necessary for such an simple action. Graciously, she was most accustomed to such replies in her line of work and was accommodating enough to pat me on the back and smile in warm acknowledgement of my acknowledgement of her efforts. Indeed, a deep sigh such as mine was a payment of its own for all her many efforts as the sound and look of genuine relief and satisfaction was something very difficult to fake. I could only hope my own was gratifying enough for her satisfaction.

“Good girl…now you let that heat set back in and tell me what you've been up to since last we met while we wait.” Her melodic tones hummed out brightly in my left ear as I found myself fighting the urge to sleep once more.

“M-mm…” Was all I was able to mumble before more strength returned to my lips so as to be able to speak clearly. “Not…really much to say, I'm afraid..."

"Really...? I find that hard to believe, given the life you lot live year-on-year. Hel, some of you just...never come back one year. Always at random...ugh, not a thing I wish to dwell upon."

"The Path calls to us every year and I heed it like I should until whatever end. Braxia is the only reason I am home early and…inevitably, I am set to return to the Path once again within the next day or two...”

“Oh…? You hardly sound all that excited to do so. Is there something the matter?”

Even my stubborn anxiety regarding her affections for me had to cower somewhat in the face of such astute observations of my change in behavior. She was being paid to massage and soothe my aches and pains, not to converse with me let alone show an interest in such things. And yet…she was taking it upon herself to check in on me with genuine, gentle concern in her voice as she sat close nearby to continue our conversation in hushed privacy.

“I will not lie to you Rosalia…I am facing an unusual dilemma and lack a form of guidance which can soothe my worry. A friend, a rather close one, has…entreated me to perform a service on their behalf. They are going to pay me for it regardless of if I wished it to be strictly considered an enormous personal favor…but it isn't something I would consider doing in any other situation of my own volition.”

“Oh…? I take it from your…careful choice of evasive wording that such a request is not quite an honorable one? Correct me if I am wrong if you wish.”

“No need, you are unfortunately correct. The action is...quantifiably justifiable…but it requires a very non-orthodox, near…heretical interpretation of the Witcher's Code. Many innocent lives may be spared from further terrorization by doing this…but it is not a matter in which Witchers need be involved as it falls outside our jurisdiction.”

“...But only by a strict interpretation of the Code…” She continued for me as realization hit her face as to what I was implying towards. “I see…well, if you came seeking my humble opinion on such a matter…there are two answers I have available to you. The first is simply to follow your gut on the matter as it is a terrific window into your instinctual response and the second, far more personal answer is to do it. If there are innocents that stand to benefit from such a deed…then it is a price I know I would be willing to take on myself. I cannot speak for you of course, yet I’d like to say I’ve caught a glimpse or two of the kind of mare that you are and that is one who is willing to go that kind of length in the service of the common citizen. You dropped your duty to the Path to return one of your Fallen comrades to a proper rest where they belong…that isn’t something that should be disregarded in something like this. And yes, I know that returning a corpse for burial is not the same as…removing certain roadblocks in an unorthodox manner…yet you are still a mare dedicated to doing the best you can for others.”

I could not help but turn my head as best I was able to look at her more properly than out of the corner of my eye and all I could see in her single visible eye was a firm, compassionate expression. She had spoken her mind as I had requested in a roundabout manner…and I felt just that bit more resolved to my course of action. Many doubts and misgivings remained clinging to my anxious thoughts but her words had brought a sense of validation which I had been ultimately seeking all along. My gut trusted Violet…and word of her impact on those citizens of Yonderland she had so graciously liberated in a manner of speaking had come of each of her previous actions. Had I the time…I might have truly considered seeking a second opinion by Petra or one of the few others I could trust to confide such tidings as mine with. Yet time itself was becoming increasingly scarce the longer I lingered at Kaer Solaris locked in a back-and-forth debate with myself over the matter. There were still several hours left in which to begin final preparations, excluding of course the impending Vigil to be held to honor Braxia’s memory and internment. Until such time however, I was still free to do as I pleased…within reason of course.

“R-Ros-” I began to say slowly until she pressed a single talon to my lips and leaned in close.

“Shhh…no, I do not and will not think less of you for doing…whatever this is. You’ve given me a decent idea as to what it is…but I suppose I will eventually catch wind of precisely who it shall be. I have a sneaking suspicion that this ‘friend’ of yours is purple and feisty as Hel itself… Regardless my dear, I trust you to make the right decision. Would you not say that some matters are simply best left to those with a will and a means to attain good ends?”

“Well…no…”

“Exactly. It is a slippery slope of logic to engage in, yet like any sin…I think an occasional, mild indulgence from time-to-time can bring about much needed change when existing forces are insufficient to get the ball rolling, so to speak. You Witchers are made to banish the Darkness wherever it’s found and if that Darkness is safely nestled behind laws and powerful blood…simply exercise your right to banish evil. Some bastards out there forfeited their right to protection from justice when they decided to let evil into their hearts and insisted on acting upon it.”

“T-thanks…” I said simply, quietly in reply before letting my swirling head slide back into a comfortable position looking ahead.

“Anytime my dear. Now…let’s see to the rest of your body, shall we? You have a long road ahead of you, regardless of where it is…I want you feeling your best for the journey.”

“I…I don’t deserve a friend like you, Rosalia…”

“As Yonderland likes to say, au contraire darling.” She giggled most amusedly as a wide smile graced her face. “You are most deserving of my time and attention. Even if our time together is usually in this capacity so you are in fact paying me for the pleasure of my company.”

“A cost I am most happy to pay for the talented work of your talons…” I replied with a soft laugh as I flashed a lazy smile back at her. “Although…perhaps someday we can meet under different circumstances where I am not simply another customer in line.”

“Oh my, that was certainly very forward for you to say aloud! Aren’t I a lucky girl, heh, heh. That can certainly be arranged, but it will more than likely have to wait until winter falls.”

“Unfortunately…”

“Oh don’t you fret darling, my down is plenty warm for two when it fully grows-in.”

I was…I was utterly incapable of processing what she was implying with such a statement. My greatest wish with her was the gift of any form of intimacy which went beyond what occurred on the massage table…and she had the gall to imply all that and more to my poor, burning face. I was saved some embarrassment by forcibly looking down towards the padding immediately beneath me, yet the piercing gaze of my giggling companion could be felt like the burning rays of the Sun. If ever there was another major upside to giving Ludovic’s offer a thorough consideration…it was people like her who went out of their way to make me feel seen, heard and, perhaps the most important of all, loved. The world outside the Valley was almost wholly hostile and unwelcoming…whereas open arms like hers stood waiting to embrace me always upon my return. My time on the Path was going to inevitably drag itself on-and-on into eternity now that I had an ever growing list of comforts to return home to.

* * * * * *

Chapter Sixteen: Time Grows Short

There remained so much left to plan and accomplish it felt, even after spending the remainder of my afternoon and evening preparing my equipment for the journey and replenishing my supplies. Even after my thoroughly relaxing time with Rosalia, which had done wonders towards mending my aching neck, I found myself still rather tense deep beneath the surface. Unfortunately, even her beloved charms and skillful talons were not sufficient enough to purge me of all worry as a novel steeplechase lay before me and I found my skill at the gallop quite lacking as it were. The act of killing itself was second-nature to me, to all members of our guild as it was precisely what our new selves were so arduously redesigned for. No…there was no concern or…really any true moral qualms to be found in killing this ex-Chief Minister on Violet's behalf as far as my true opinions lay. The more time I had to dwell upon it, even if my allotted time to do so was far more limited than I would have liked, the more I came to an understanding of myself. The tension within me was not whether or not it was right to kill, even on someone else's behalf, when the target was markedly deserving of eradication. The truth of it all was that I simply was afraid of the possibilities such a path of thought could lead me after such ardent adherence to protocol and the traditions of old.

Ever there lay within me that same anger as had gripped me so many times before, a primal rage which was at once both petty and vindictive towards Equestrians. Such enmity was an inevitable path to becoming Anathema myself were it not undertaken with the absolute highest levels of control and discipline. It was most certainly irrational to cast such a wide net of disdain and hatred across a people who were not all so wholly given to the harmful actions of their peers. Indeed, a goodly few of their number had found their refuge amongst us when their humble views of peaceful cohabitation and cooperation were deemed too radical for their neighbors and peers to tolerate. There were undoubtedly an untold number more of such like-minded folks out there across the mighty expanse of their blasted Empire… I knew better than to take upon myself such audacity as succumbing to the want to enact retribution everywhere I went. I was…admittedly not even wholly capable of the level of persistent anger necessary to sustain a campaign of such a violent, unpredictable nature. Try as I might, enraged as Hel itself against the might of the expansive enemy all around us…I would always come down from my veritable high of vengeance and return to a full awareness of what actions I had taken, good or ill. At such time, the consequences of said actions would have their reckoning and I would either be at the mercy or the approval of my own conscience if not that of any peers as might catch wind of it.

It was an infuriating thing to ponder over in truth... Violet had prodded my mind down multiple avenues and back-alleys of dark thought which normally never occupied my time longer than a passing second or two of furious anger. I would admit under oath before the Council itself, if it were needed, that I indeed thought of killing nearly every Equestrian that had proven more than an underwhelming impediment to my duty to the Path. The mouthy guard spitting in my face during a price negotiation for a mediocre Contract, the sleazy peasant thinking the promised coin for a job well done was best left in their coffers, or the insufferable prattling of the so-called Children of the Pyre parading themselves about as seemingly willing slaves at the hooves of the Church of the Eternal Pyre. Hundreds, nay thousands would have met their immediate end along the edge of my blade for their audacious, obnoxious behavior towards me and others not deserving of their derision. Behavior which had once been fully punishable by every court on the Continent by edict of every reigning monarch in power as we were once the pride of all nations. Even I had been graciously allowed to enjoy the sweet sensation of authority to be found in our Golden Age as I had commanded my share of Mares-at-Arms and others to do my exact bidding in the course of a multitude of Hunts. Whatever we required in order to ensure the successful conclusion to our Hunt, it was done with haste with those participating alongside us seemingly honored for the chance to work alongside us in the course of our duties. Their participation was financially rewarded according to the quality of the aid rendered of course...yet it was obvious in so many of them that they were spellbound fans simply overcome from the chance to assist the heroes of the Continent.

Such days...such days had long since fled into the distant past far removed from the cold indifference of the present. None but Eldar even bothered to avail themselves of usefulness to our Hunts anymore, yet Equestria occupied so much of the known world so as to almost entirely eclipse the comparatively meagre holdings of the Eldar. And as the centuries drew themselves out in full before me, the more I allowed my festering hatred to fester; easily fed and nourished by the vitriol they spared no expense in harboring for us in return. My self-control was pushed to its utter limits every time in which I was faced to endure the endless barrages of insults and curses spat in my direction as the Code dictated such actions did not befit a violent response. However...nowhere was it written that a wrathful mare such as myself was barred from enacting bloody retribution if their belligerence escalated to the point of instigating physical conflict. And such a fact allowed me to continually try and reign in my most vicious responses by venting what pressure had been allowed to build up within me up until such an opportune moment presented itself.

My racing thoughts were all that I could see or hear as I paced silently in long, antsy circles along the length of the curtain wall. Those of the Guard on duty had almost immediately adjusted to my continual laps past them and made ample room for me to pass without truly needing to adjust my heading and break my concentration. Indeed…I was scarcely the only Witcher present who engaged in such anxious pacing in one massive circuit about the School walls, as ever there was the threat of doom and dread upon the Path to weigh on anyone's mind. Regardless, I was graciously allowed to keep my thoughts to myself as my hooves operated of their own accord to try and stem even a modicum of the boundless anxious energy built up within me. Every Vigil was to be held under a proper canvas of stars and the Light ever-present Full Moon, which was just beginning to peek above the flattened peaks of the White Fang Mountains. This unmistakable sign of the coming night marked a definitive close to my allotted time alone to pace and dwell upon my own thoughts in peace. With the gentle majesty of the night beginning to replace that of the day, the abundant braziers, sconces and lanterns littering the exterior of the School and the Valley at large began to be lit aflame. Theirs was a gentle light, courtesy of the gift of fire, which cast a warm, cozy glow upon all caught in the flicker of its flame; casting dancing, shapeless shadows upon any flat surface caught nearby. Redclaw Ridge always came alight with great exuberance come nightfall as many homes and businesses both around the lake and built into the mountainsides owned multiple sources of warm light. Likewise, the High Road leading north-to-south through the Valley and parting around Mother’s Mirror saw its long string of great lanterns lit to light the path. Evermore, groups and individuals alike tended to carry a traveler's lamp or two on their person providing sources of light of their own for anywhere they may tread about the Valley that may be lit only by the Light of the Moon. The humble passage of such late-evening travelers could be spotted from almost anywhere in the Valley at near any height, save perhaps from the flattened, temple-ridden peaks of the White Fangs high above us when enwreathed in a shroud of cloud and fog. Indeed, the Valley was at its peak of beauty come the night in my opinion. Of course, such an opinion was admittedly inherently biased as I was an Eldar with intrinsic ties to the Lunar Magic of the old world...yet I could just as easily enjoy the view of the Valley under the warm glow of daylight.

The three grand marble bridges crossing the width of the Mirror connecting both sides of Redclaw Ridge were likewise adorned by large, decorative lanterns of their own which hung dormant during the day. Every conceivable spot in need of illumination was more than adequately accounted for across the mighty expanses of stone over water. Even the arches beneath each bridge possessed many such grand lights as well, providing a dazzling passage of colors gleaming against the polished stone and glistening water below. Each lamp possessed a different colored pane of glass housing its inner flame, casting mesmerizing patterns of sparkles far across the shimmering dark waters, which itself glowed from the life teaming down below. Boats found still floating atop the surface followed suit and lit small colorful lights of their own at the aft and stern of every vessel so as to avoid any nightly collisions over such deep water. Taking in such a scenic vista of the north end of the Valley from such a prime vantage point as atop the School walls…shivers of humble delight trickled their way through my body. My eyes simply sparkled in soft wonder from so many comforting colors on bright display by a happy community who felt such deep pride for their beautiful home. Of course…other forms of beautiful light permeated the Valley, namely those shining forth from the lush southern region positively bristling with a thick woodland of mixed stock. The blue Arcane flames lighting the white marble mass of Tír Ná Liá beneath the center of Grand Viaduct, the pale blue-white glow of Thestral crystal lanterns amidst the boughs of Scarlet Pines, and the majestic golden glow of our flame of defiance capping the far-distant peak of the Spire atop Kael’s Fang.

My ultimate destination for the Vigil lay at the base of that same towering Fang, near the very entrance to the Grand Catacombs which shared its space with the ancient archives of the Direwolves within the body of the mountain. And already from my high vantage point upon the wall, I could see small clusters of people already making the multi-league trip across the length of the Viaduct in order to claim a suitable viewing point of their own for the proceedings which were soon to occur. Many Redclaw citizens would naturally be in attendance as ever they were the most willing to mourn with us for the loss of one of our number. The practice was not one of equal reciprocation as most Witchers were simply too occupied by our commitments to attend each and every funerary procession held in the Valley. Indeed, it was regrettable that many of our number were entirely absent from any Vigil not intentionally held during the winter as that was simply our only true season of gathering. Still, there were many of us who forged the dearest of friendships with citizens of the Valley, myself included, and we would make every effort to attend the celebration of life for any of these friends who might so pass away. The Rookery was so kind as to dispatch missives to those same Witchers when out on the Path so as to immediately inform them of their friend’s passing. Those who could were allowed to return in haste if they so wished to mourn their passing after the manner they so chose, along with any others similarly grieving the loss. It was a small comfort to those experiencing the grief...but it was a great kindness on the behalf of the Council to even bother to inform any of us at all. Gods only knew how few outside our borders would even bother to care so much as that...

Vigils held for Fallen Witchers were not a closed nor private affair as some members of the guild would have preferred, but were rather left wholly open to the citizens of the Valley, the Copperbeaks, and any foreign guests as might be visiting at the time. This was done as an act of altruism for their sake as for them to see those who died in their defense, either directly or indirectly, was almost guaranteed to elicit a stronger support for our combined cause. Ever such a support was to be needed…and the good people of Redclaw Ridge, and the Underkingdom to a healthy extent, continually managed to deliver it in abundance. Such a relationship between the guild and the Eldar peoples at large had long been the status quo as there was quite some overlap to be found between us; not least of which being the sheer number of Eldar like myself who had chosen to become Witchers ourselves. A great many Equestrians likewise were amongst our number to be sure, yet upon their transformation…they often found they now had more in common with the Eldar than any of their former kin. Indeed, the ostracization of all Witchers by Equestria had only furthered and depend the divide cast between we and they…and our doors were typically open to them when others were barred shut. Once Vigils such as this would have drawn in dignitaries and noble blood from all corners of the Continent in order to attend and pay their respects… I could scarcely remember the last time such an occasion had even occurred in my lifetime…

Celestia herself was said to even have been in attendance for several Vigils during the earliest days of our guild’s existence, dressed in exquisite robes of golden silk that shone like the rays of the Sun itself. Word of such Vigils in those days was spread as far and fast as magic and Zamaks could travel, making landfall across every major city and town of great importance to sound the call to gather together in reverence. Such international attendance had once been done out of a true sense of genuine respect, then out of a duty to international public relations…and now, hardly any at all outside the Eldar gave a rat’s arse that we continued to endure and perish upon the Path for the good of the Continent. And yet…even as I slowly made my way along the wall towards the lift down to the Servant's Courtyard, I could see the humble citizens of Redclaw and elsewhere nearby already beginning to make the journey southwards towards the Grand Viaduct. Though a solemn occasion, a Vigil was in the end merely a celebration of life and as such, colorful clothing and bright jewelry were preferred rather than the dour black typically worn in Equestrian funerals. There was a finite, unspoken line of…overly exuberant personal design which would be too colorful and flamboyant to feel appropriate for such an occasion, however almost everyone seemed readily conscious of that fine line. Those who openly tread the line were graciously few and naturally relegated almost exclusively to those Thestrals who chose to attend for whom fashion remained subtly embedded into the very fiber of their society. Yet even their excessive use of silver thread and dark polished gemstones remained subdued just enough to not draw all attention towards themselves. After all…we had gathered from so many places as one to honor the memory of our Fallen, not attempt to out-shine one another with posh pleasantries and gleaming accouterments which dazzle the eyes.

No one unanimously agreed-upon answer existed as to what sort of afterlife awaited we Witchers, with opinions amongst us varying wildly across the spectrum as to what fate laid in store for us. Would we dwell amidst our old kin of whatever species it was which we had first hailed from? Did we have some sort of great beyond of our own? Was there a guaranteed sector of Hel reserved especially for us with all the blood staining our hearts, monster or no? Or…were we simply cursed to an altogether ignominious, unknowable fate for perverting our native forms with artificial changes, both Alchemical and Arcane…? It was a topic of deep debate for several generations and countless scholars, both secular and religious, and yet…it endured enigmatically in spite of countless attempts to pick apart the problem to its very core. I myself was rather ambivalent towards the topic and preferred to not dwell upon it for any great length of time if I were able. I was a mare driven to action and continual information intake, something intentionally done so as to leave little room to settle and dwell at the darkest depths of my own psyche. And all the same, I still encountered those thoughts and emotions I wished to evade along the very paths I had taken to avoid them. Even as I entered the upper staff lift tower and pulled the iron-banded lever to recall it back to my level, I was burdened by the continual weight of thoughts, both positive and negative. For positive, I had allotted myself a short amount of time in which to comb my mane, tail and what bits of my fur would be showing from under my armor before my mirror in my bedchamber prior to departing. Overall, I had simply sought to make myself visually presentable for a Vigil; both out of a sense of common decency and duty, but also because I rarely had the opportunity to safely put some effort into my appearance to look nice for others.

Yet, in the midst of my many swirling thoughts, I felt utterly convinced that something was amiss no matter the number of times I checked my person for any potentially missing items of importance. My mane was straight and neat with the lower half bunched up behind my head in a loose ponytail while the front was allowed to fall upon my shoulders; the silver strands harmonious and complementary to the silver-and-amethyst earrings I had thrown on, on a whim. My armor had been freshly cleaned only the day prior and had been given an extra polish so that even the simple buckles and Dracnoid leather shone with a soft gleam, something which complimented the freshly-bathed silky gloss of my dark fur. My harnesses were firmly strapped-down across my waist and torso and every necessary attachment, from my weapons to my various supply pouches and satchels, were in their rightful place as per every guild regulation. Everything was seemingly in place for tonight and the days ahead…and yet something continued to feel like it was sorely missing from my arrangements and its inexplicable absence left a pit in my gut. I had a backup plan…yet I prayed I'd be spared the fuss of needing to resort to making use of it.

The road ahead always had its enormous share of the unknown in store with each and every journey taken upon the High Road, however this time felt even more fraught with questions I had yet to find answers for. There was always a thrill which came with facing the unknown of the Path, yet this time felt far different. I was at the mercy of forces which I had never experienced before, at least...not in the way that I was to experience before too long. Equestrians had fallen to my weapons in droves with even a collection of garrison troops and town watch to be found amidst their number due to the whims of war and poorly-executed arrests. But never before had the average guardsmare or garrison soldier fallen under the realm of an enemy to be exceedingly wary of... Taking routes or steps to avoid an aggravating encounter with their number was rather beneficial to one's mental clarity, yet in this situation...each and every stallion in chain, plate or gambeson was to be considered as highly dangerous obstacles to be evaded and mislead by any means necessary. And as if to act as the keystone to my groaning archway of misery...anything above the most miniscule of mistakes would be necessary in order to see myself, and perhaps even the reputation of the guild as a whole, through it all unscathed.

The lift came to an unexpected stop midway through its descent to the Servant's Courtyard within the atrium granting access into the subterranean passageways of the School. And to my gracious surprise, my soon-to-be companions were Brynhild and Valencia, both seemingly fresh from the Baths themselves judging from the strong scent of pear and mint wafting from off their well-groomed fur. Both of them looked rather pleased and content with one another’s presence, rather than the uneasy tension of a butting-of-heads between Mentor and Apprentice which had occurred the last time we had met. I could only assume the two had managed to find some sort of recourse that was fit for both their needs and good progress had been made from Valencia’s earlier attempt at mischief. The pair greeted me warmly as they boarded the lift beside me, each still fussing somewhat with putting on the last of their equipment from their earlier immersion. Given the stern situation I had last encountered them in, I felt that it was hardly my place to ask after the state of her training whilst on our way to a Vigil. The mood was light with them and I hardly wished to spoil it by potentially digging up some matter which still remained sore between the pair. If they wished to go into it, well…my ears were more than open to listening to whatever charming stories they had to tell. And indeed, such stories as those held by Mentors and their pupils were amongst the most charming to find in such dire work as ours. The progressive transformation of the student into a Master in their own right over the course of decades spent in dedication to one another and the myriad of roles each had to assume along the way as both parties grew from the experience. Such a dynamic, that of teacher and student…it had such a unique…allure to it the more I pondered on in silence over the matter. That was of course until they engaged me in conversation which went beyond the customary pleasantries of a simple greeting between two parties.

“Well, fancy meetin’ you here!” Brynhild boomed pleasantly in her strong feminine tones whilst patting her pupil on the back with a stocky hoof. “Valencia n’ I were just having a wee dip in th’ Baths after dinner n’ a run o’ th’ Narrows!”

“Hel yeah we did!” Valencia declared proudly with a happy wag of her bushy white tail. “I even managed to climb and leap the Falls without a single mistake! Unlike last time…”

“That she did!” Her Mentor beamed with an equal level of pride and satisfaction. “Them stones ain't covered in much algae or moss like they'd be in other months, but she still performed expertly with proper paw placement n’ perfect pacing for each leap. She struggled at the Wires…yet few of us truly master such things so early. Not all of us are as agile, nimble and well-balanced as Cats and Vipers upon a trapeze.”

“No truer thing could be said.” I replied with a laugh. “Though I will not deny I cannot stand such heights even to this day. I would have preferred to have more Highland in my blood so as to have a better chance of inheriting their fearless stance against vertigo. Having wings decidedly blesses their owners with an overwhelming sense of confidence against heights of any size or nature.”

“Ain't nothin’ wrong wit’ bein’ a Lowland, Frejdá.” Brynhild frowned softly whilst her own majestically large wings shuffled at her sides against her armor. “You lot ever have th’ advantage o’ magic over my people. Very few o’ us can cast spells on our own without th’ help o’ mutagens and th’ Grasses. So many o’ us have wings that it's damned easy for tha’ fact to feel rather insignificant when everyone else can fly just as hard n’ fast as you can. N’ I suspect you feel th’ same regarding your people when it comes to acts o’ magic, no?”

“Absolutely, though I was never particularly strong with the Arcane before the Changes and they have not done much to expand my power over magic.” I admitted with a hint of bitterness towards…whatever circumstances had resulted in my lackluster inner Aura. “Nor was I one of those rare Lowlands born with wings so I could attempt to compensate for my inadequacy in magic with speedy or powerful flying.”

“Ah right, I forgot you lot can be born with a set o’ wings from time-to-time. Been centuries since I last seen one o’ them…”

“Well that is simply due to one not being born in the last…Gods knows how many centuries…”

“I didn't know that!” Valencia blurted out once she found an opening in which to speak without overtly interrupting us. “Are there any that can fly and cast spells? That sounds like a terribly strong combination of power!”

“Am I to assume you mean to ask if there are those who can fly and cast genuine spells that go beyond just our Signs?” I asked to which her furious nodding was my only reply. “Ah…well, yes they do exist. When you see me, you see essentially the entirety of my species as far as appearances are concerned. A Thestral that has proper body mass, a lack of wings, and looks decidedly more alive than dead. You would expect my people to be born with wings far more frequently given both Highlands and Thestrals have them, but in due truth those born with wings are exceedingly rare, even by Eldar standards. Each thus far though has risen to become a great leader or warrior amongst my kind for as long as their flame is allowed to endure. We named them Aingeal, or ‘Angels’ as spoken in Common Speech, and they are awe-inspiring to be in the presence of as the air about their person is positively oozing with Arcane energy. I have heard tale of some even being capable of entirely levitating themselves about by the power of magic alone without the need of a single flap of their great wings. I will not lie…there is not a year which passes in which I do not possess at least a small part of myself which wishes I had been born thusly. Envy is hardly becoming of me…yet so too is being dishonest to myself in the face of personal truth.”

“Bah, talent behind a tome o’ spells is impressive n’ all, but I’d like tah see them pitted against a Hræsvelgr, a true Highland flier wit’ their enormous wings o’ gold!” Brynhild chuckled as the broad lift came to a stop within the enormous set of storage halls level with the Servant’s Courtyard. “Tell me, do these Angels have th’ wings of a Thestral or a Highland typically? Wit’ both our genes in th’ mix, I bet there’s mighty tense competition between th’ two for dominance o’er th’ morphology you manifest amongst yourselves.”

“There seems to be no predominant type which manifests so far as I know, either is an equal-opportunity option with both forms manifesting on known Aingeal from history. Whether their wings are swaddled in feathers or that of leathery skin hardly seems to matter in the end as they are still fully-capable fliers when properly trained. Given the scale of their inherent Arcane power however, the Thestrals are always eager to assert their dominance in the art and aggressively insist they be the ones to instruct our Angels. The High Lords of Tirannwn are known to be quick to snatch up any of them that are born amongst us so as to teach them the full breadth of magic they alone are privy to. My kind are strong with magic, more-and-less, yet Aingeal seem capable of achieving a level of power that even Thestrals can grow envious of. They do lack a strong core of flight experience across their culture however, simply due to their strength in magic obscuring most else they would otherwise teach their warriors. Their culture demands a rather rigid social hierarchy so in that those with particular talents are identified extremely early in life and almost forced to hone that talent into full mastery at the expense of other skills. After all, if they are to excel in that talent, then they are able to conquer whatever challenge stands before them whilst their fellows talented in other fields fill in the other roles of combat and strategy. So, all that taken into account…I would be willing to bet a proper Highland Hræsvelgr would fly circles about an Aingeal.”

“Ah…right damned shame that… Eh…what should I care? They shall forever best us in the art of magic whilst we shall best them in the skies and the Pygmy and Dwem compete in a similar fashion under the ground below. Air, earth, n’ magic. The fundamental components of our lil’ world we call home.”

“Balance in all things just as intended. Nothing too strong or too weak.” Valencia commented simply yet wisely to which Brynhild gave her a smiling nod of approval.

“Precisely!” She boomed with a hefty pat on her pupil's back which sent her stumbling somewhat over her paws as we exited out onto the Servant's Courtyard. “Everythin’ out there needs a counterbalance to it, else you run th’ risk o’ one of them achieving dominance at th’ full expense of all else around them. Ain't nothing to gain from full perfection, from one entity o’ any sort havin’ all-power o’er all. There's nothin' to learn since no mistakes are made, nothin' new to experience since it is all known already. Ain't nothing worse than that kind o’ stagnation, Valencia. If yer not swimmin’ with th’ current n’ tide in this world, yer doomed to sink to th’ bottom…one way or another.”

“I can scarcely disagree with that assessment…” I concurred solemnly as a melancholic mood had lightly settled across my sensations of the moment. “However, I can also admit that the concept of personal perfection can be most alluring for most anyone with ambition. But…that is a topic which is best left for the confines of the debate hall I think.”

“Aye…bit heavy for th’ present moment.” Brynhild agreed with a nod, matching my stride with Valencia in the center between us. “Let us speak of other matters then my friend! We have yet a lengthy journey ahead of us before we reach Kael's Fang so let it be a topic that will captivate us for the duration.”

I was rather grateful that she had so readily agreed to the change in topic and from there, our conversation turned to that of Valencia and the recent events of her training. The young Direwolfess had been seemingly cowed by how verbose the two of us mares were becoming without her, and so wished to turn the topic back to herself for a time. While she herself waxed most verbose regarding the details of her most recent practical examination in Alchemy, we made our first steps upon the broad expanse of the Grand Viaduct. There were an abundance of others already on the path forward continuing the continuous stream of attendees I had spied earlier, thus the air around us was bursting with dozens of small conversations all mingling as one. And it was in such diverse company that we made our way along the white marble pavers across the great span of the southern Valley; the many lamps of the Viaduct jumping to life of their own accord with the loss of ambient lighting. In addition to the abundance of beautiful multicolored lights and the air filled by the droning of others' conversations, there was also a terrific smell of various foodstuffs wafting about on the breeze. Indeed, there were a humble myriad of large carts hitched to the staff of several local eateries making the lengthy trek with us with the sole intention of providing Vigil-goers some refreshment at the conclusion of the ceremony for a very modest price.

Those Witchers we spied amongst the mingling crowd pushing onwards were all dressed to perfection and publicly presentable, with freshly-polished armor and such a recent visit to the Baths that the scent of pear and mint could continually be caught on the breeze. Redclaw citizens made up for the abundance of steel in our midst with their modestly colorful assortment of local and ethnic clothing, with many being accented by beautiful works of finely-crafted jewelry and other eye-catching baubles. The air was alight with the bright sounds of happy people all traveling as one, each group plodding along the way at whatever pace best suited their needs as the meters stretched by. The sound of gently rushing water also filled the air as a consistent soft undertone to the general bedlam of the moving crowd, emanating from the confines of a pair of narrow troughs lining the inner face of the chest-high railings to either side of the pathway. Fed from the same hearty spring which continually spilled down to fill the Mirror, these troughs were used to bring water to the numerous little places of rest studding the length of the Grand Viaduct, each of which contained a small public fountain. These small spaces likewise contained several narrow grow beds containing a bevy of flowers and aromatic bushes which each dusted the air with their unique scents amidst the many others rising from the assembled crowd around us. At the same time, great glass lamps which dangled from columns built from off the guard rail continued to glow ever brighter as the course of the Sun overhead continued to make its way onto the maw of the mountains. With perfectly-level pavers and such bright ambient lighting, one could easily walk and converse with their friends to near-reckless abandon without the fear of tripping over themselves or colliding with another group similarly traversing the lengthy expanse.

The first of the two Gate Towers reinforcing the bridge was upon us before I knew it given the depth of our lengthy yet lively conversation. The seemingly sudden appearance of such a looming edifice of white stone before us took me somewhat by surprise even though it had been clearly visible from the start of our journey. The tower itself was built atop, and around, one of the many mighty stone piers supporting the Viaduct from below, barring the path forward via a pair of portculli at either end of the underpass. The underpass itself went on for some thirty meters under the hulking mass of the Gate Tower above accessed via a set of four spiral staircases located in the far corners. Several gated portals lay to either side of the underpass as well, each leading directly to several lift chambers of similar design to those found in the School. These descended some two hundred meters straight down into the heart of Tír Ná Liá which gleamed a bright Arcane blue, a color which was only amplified against the polished white marble of the multiple halls, towers and other grand edifices of the University. Though I had been inundated with conversation with my companions, my heart dropped the moment that same blue glow sparkled in my eyes from the University below. I had been jarringly reminded that I was due to enter this same space in only a few hours’ time in order to petition Rosemary for the grand favor of a one-off teleport to Misty Meadows. The sudden hitch in my voice that accompanied such a rude reality check scarcely went unnoticed by Brynhild and she made no effort to be subtle with her next round of inquiries.

“Oi! What's so important that ye stop talkin’ mid-sentence on me?” She frowned to which Valencia giggled. “Better be bleedin’ important…”

“N-nothing I wish to concern you with.” I replied with some hesitation. “I was…merely reminded that I have to speak with the Sorceress Supreme once this Vigil has concluded and I am not exactly excited to do so.”

“Tha’ bitch Rosemary?” She snorted with a hefty pat of reassurance upon my shoulders. “Damn…that there's a rough deal indeed. I hope it's worth it to ya, Frejdá.”

“I hope so myself…we have softened our terms towards one another somewhat in recent days so I am also hoping she will be magnanimous.”

“Well then, I wish ye luck ye hopeless cunt!” Came her reply through the boisterous mirth of laughter. “There has yet to be a time I've seen tha’ mare do anythin’ for anyone other than her own sweet arse. Ye've better luck wrestling ah brooding Manticore Matriarch wit' yer bare fuckin' hooves!”

“Thank you for your sincere attempts at reassurance…” I sighed dryly with a roll of my eyes in her direction. “I am so very comforted to know that my poor innocent self is so thusly protected by such a passionate bitch of a guardian.”

She had to raise her voice above the sound of Valencia absolutely losing a lung to some hearty laughter of her own as she replied, “Someone has to be here to see to your wellbeing when dealing wit’ that Witch…”

“I do sincerely hope you don't ever dare say such a thing to her face…”

“Not yet, but wit’ that mare, there ain't no lengthy supply o’ patience in me to tolerate her shite fer long. She's the reason I have yet to become an Instructor in full here…I would end up hangin’ myself if I had tah hear her shite each n’ every meetin’. Razorbeak's a fuckin’ breeze to speak wit’ compared to her and we ain't been on good terms fer years.”

“Is she really that bad?” Valencia asked rather sincerely. “I rarely even see the Sorceress Supreme around the School…”

“N’ fer good fuckin’ reason…” Brynhild snorted with disdain. “If yer tah learn Witcher's magic, who better than ah damned Witcher to teach it? I don't want tha’ bitch tah leave a sour taste abou' magic in my pupil's mouth just because our Signs are beneath her majesty's high-n'-mighty skill set.”

“She does have a point there…” I conceded with a sigh. “Unfortunately, Rosemary is the type of mare who immediately tired of the rudimentary elements of her craft and ever seeks the challenge of learning something new. In the grand scheme of power, our Signs are a damned fart in the wind compared to the might at her command. In her eyes, Signs are so far beneath her level of talent that the Council was forced to compel her to teach them when she first took her position at Kaer Solaris.”

“Damn…so she really is a bitch like everyone says.” Valencia frowned. “Why does the School keep her around then if she's such a bad Instructor?”

“Competency in her craft. When the previous Sorcerer Supreme’s family crest was granted amnesty, he vacated the post the same day and teleported himself and everything he owned directly out of the School back to the Dominion without so much as a letter of resignation. The Archmaster was forced to hold trials in order to pick the next Master of the Arcane from those magic users who dwell in the Valley and, if it isn't obvious, Rosemary won out above all her other peers.”

“Wow…and I've heard we have some seriously strong casters here. Still…she sounds like a bitch to me.”

“Tha's because she is one.” Brynhild huffed dismissively with a heavy stomp of her armored boots upon the pavers. “I know th’ cunt could gut me or burn me from th’ inside or somethin’ in a thousand different ways wit’ just a flick o’ her hoof…but I ain't ‘fraid to say tha' she's a damned bitch who needs to keep her damned nose to herself.”

“I can see that plainly for myself, though in the interest of fairness I suggest that we change topics lest she be near enough to actually test your many assumptions as to what she could do to you.”

“You afraid o’ goin’ hoof-to-hoof with her then?” She snickered slyly with a cheeky glance at my weapons. “Didn't take ya fer th’ cowardly type, Frejdá! And here ya are all dressed up wit' no one tah fight...”

“Cowardly? No. I merely do not wish to prod the hornet's nest while I know the nest’s occupant has multiple troubles and shortcomings of her own which have molded her into the mare she is today. You would do well to learn more about those you take enmity with so their perspective might make more sense and true motivations brought to light.”

“Bah…I'll take some cheek from ya, Frejdá. But don't start waxin’ on like yer th’ fuckin’ Archmaster. Got enough o’ you long-winded philosophers in this School as it is. A Witcher’s place is to fight against th’ odds, no matter th’ way in which they choose to foolishly challenge us. We either choose tah power through with all our might and hold true to our purpose, or we have entirely failed ourselves and the guild. Not tah mention all yer Brothers and Sisters of the Hunt who’d find out about yer grand failure before long…if ever.”

“I will hardly disagree with all of what you just said, however I would be hesitant at best to consider Rosemary as odds that we must overcome like she were some kind of arduous trial to endure. We have both passed our Trials and the worst of it is behind us, what is one Thestral Sorceress with an overinflated opinion of herself?”

“You seem dead-set on painting her in a good light, Frejdá…” She grunted with a mixture of concerned confusion and slight annoyance. “What gives? Last we spoke about tha’ cunt, she had just spoken poorly o’ yer knowledge o’ some Godsdamned book n’ you were sulkin’ fer hours! ‘Damn tha’ fuckin’ thrice-thrashed magic talking corpse of a mare!’ was th’ thing you said which stuck out to me th’ most…I do hope to find a suitable chance tah use tha’ one to her face one o’ these days!”

“That was also more than half-a-year ago now and recent events have bizarrely rendered her in a softer light than she was cast in when last we met. I have a rather massive favor to try and ask of her so I feel it is best if I at least attempt to maintain a veil of magnanimity towards her lest I let old wounds interfere with my ability to be rational and tactful in conversation with her later.”

“Is tha’ right…? Well, I ain’t going to even bother askin’ what yer after wit’ tha’ bitch…” Came her gracious reply. “Th’ less I know o’ her activities, th’ fuckin’ better…”

With the first Gate Tower now far behind us, our conversation was allowed to drift away from the touchy subject of our Sorceress Supreme and back towards our young Direwolfess who had yet to speak her fill about her own accomplishments. As we walked, we were regaled with grand, well-spoken tales of her own bravery and stoic resolve in the face of continual adversity as only found in our line of work. The Narrows in particular had proven to be especially difficult for her to adapt to and had stood as a major hindrance to the progression of her physical training as they barred the way to more intense regimens and ever more advanced techniques. A rather innocuous name, the Narrows referred to a multi-league trail which made a circuit about the southern ring of the White Fangs designed to combine endurance, agility and combat proficiency into one major trial. Weaving in and out of the mountainside at a height of around twelve-hundred meters, the Narrows featured sections of both natural cave systems as well as those dug out purposefully, either by ancient Direwolves or Copperbeak Dwemari, and came positively infested with all manner of traps, combat trials and consistently dangerous terrain necessitating exceedingly high levels of agility. Pits of spikes, rapid changes in elevation, sections of intense climbing or terse crawling through tight tunnels, portions spent diving headfirst into pools of water below wherein supplies for the path ahead could lay in wait at the bottom. Pendulums swinging forth from hidden alcoves, narrow ledges spanning dozens of meters across the span of glacial waterfalls, long sections spent deep below ground with only one’s senses other than sight capable of steering them through. And of course, no mighty challenge would be complete without engaging in combat with the spectral apparitions of various monsters at select caves and scenic overlooks at regular intervals. ‘Wounds’ inflicted by these apparitions was never meant to seriously harm, yet the pain induced by contact with their forms would be enough to draw tears to the eyes were their silver swords not fast enough on the defense.

Due to the inherent dangers involved with such a lengthy venture, lives were regrettably lost along the way at a rather inconsistent pace; never to such an extent as to warrant removing the Narrows from our curriculum. It was not expected of an Apprentice to be capable of completing the entire twenty-five league circuit until after undergoing the Changes, or even the first quarter of the journey until after at least a few years of intense physical and mental conditioning after the Trial of the Sword. Given the span of centuries of consistent ownership and maintenance, a large majority of the course had been implanted by many machinations of similar make to the Gauntlet, allowing those overseeing the Narrows to adjust its relative difficulty based upon the one making the physical gallop through it. Our Mentors and Instructors were meant to push their pupils out of their personal zones of comfort for the sake of their own personal growth, yet all knew better than to demand more than their pupil can possibly muster. The jubilant victory won quickly by one student can just as easily prove the defining campaign in another’s long war of life that is fought unto the very gates of death itself. None here wished the needless loss of a promising student and so, throughout the Narrows, small Arcane beacons sat dormant within small alcoves carved into the stone wall along the way which could be used to summon a Healer’s assistance were something to go very awry which did not result in death. We were to polish and refine our students through rigorous trials…yet with the need for numbers greater than it ever was before, we needed as many to survive the process as we could muster. Poor technique and insufficient knowledge were ailments which could be solved with time, effort and diligence…avoidable death merely to ‘sift out the weak’ was simply not something we could afford to entertain.

Novices of the Bastion would undergo something much smaller within the confines of the Bastion, transforming the relatively open space into a similarly difficult trial of its own. Missing several of the more dangerous elements of the Narrows, the Maze as it was so simply called was comprised of a legion of lightweight wooden walls and pillars which could be freely placed, tethered with magic and used to set up a winding path through the internal area of the Bastion. And it was not just an event restricted to the ground floor and the four raised embankments against the wall, but rather made extensive use of the empty inwards-facing sockets in the wall used in the construction of the Witcher Tourney’s raised seating platforms. With these, and the span of the wall and towers to some extent, the Instructors were capable of adding an entire second level to the madness, something which was kept hidden behind further walls and great reams of canvas to prevent any peeking of the lay of the challenge down below. Given the Bastion and Trial of the Sword were almost entirely dedicated to the basic and intermediate fundamentals of physical combat, the Maze was much more a test of speed and combat prowess rather than sheer agility, solving puzzles with Signs or any of the other far more advanced tests presented in the Narrows. Multiple veteran members of the School Guard would also volunteer to act as roaming sentries within the winding paths of movable wooden walls, standing ready to pummel the ever-loving shite out of any Novice which happened upon them unless they were beaten first.

Wooden weapons were of course still issued to all who participated, yet it was a test which left all but the best free from a smattering of painful bruises while the worst off typically spent a week in the Infirmary for finding their skills lacking in the face of such a challenge. With their goal being to reach the center of the winding path in as short a time as possible whilst defeating every opponent which crossed their way, it was a safer method of pushing our soon-to-graduate Novices just that much further. For those exceptional few for whom the School Guard were still minor stumbling blocks on their path to glory, special sessions of the Maze were held in their honor which featured several Witchlings as an increased challenge…and a no-holds-barred duel with Razorbeak himself at the very center. Given the sheer scale of such a challenge for non-mutated warriors, no matter how skilled or physically capable they might be, all those who did manage to make it to the center were allowed a five-minute pause for breath and a draught of water as a reward prior to the final challenge. Once it finally came time to fight him, these aspiring champions of the Maze would be allowed to collaborate between themselves communally in order to assault our Fencing Instructor as one. A clever test of their ability to work as a team alongside other Brothers and Sisters of the Hunt, the outcome was determined by who was first able to disarm Razorbeak…and then how many, or few, of them it took to take him down thereafter. For such a battle as that…none but the avid spectators observing through portable scrying pools outside the walls of the Bastion walked away from the event without a maelstrom of profuse bruising and perhaps even some broken bones. For the sake of the older Witcher’s entertainment, these were typically held during the height of the winter months for the maximum number of participants and observers to be present.

And at last, to whomever managed to actually best Razorbeak, there lay in store a bevy of prizes and exclusive opportunities for that protégé of a Novice and the path which could lay ahead for them. Casks and kegs of their favorite alcohols, gifts of fresh and non-perishable foodstuffs, mementos and other keepsake trophies, possibly even offers by local smiths to craft a piece or two of custom equipment made to their liking and specifications. And, grandest of all, it was they who had the right to choose as to who would be their Mentor rather than the other way around as it was for all other Novices. Whilst the rest had to make do with pressing forth with all soundness of spirit in the hopes of catching the eye of a potential Mentor, these exceptional Novices had the honor of choosing for themselves as to what future lay in store for them. Their natural talent for the art of war ensured they knew early as to what techniques and doctrines of battle they felt most comfortable with, something which would go leagues in setting the basis for whichever School they wished to follow after. And indeed, it was exceedingly rare for such a Novice to make a seemingly wrong choice and petition the Council for the right to change Mentors and their affiliate School to that of another.

Valencia had, despite her best attempts to imply differently, unfortunately not managed to best Razorbeak, even with the assistance of three other Novices who had likewise managed to navigate the span of the Maze and reach the center. However, there was something to her fiery performance in the face of such an overwhelming challenge such as Razorbeak which had struck Brynhild as particularly daring and endearing. The results of that fateful day for both of them was more than evident and Valencia was in the middle of her third year of training under her illustrious Mentor. There was still much of that same fiery spirit within the young Wolfess, yet there was a growing sense of maturity blossoming within her which was visible with every passing year I witnessed the pair. And yet again, I found a small pining within me to experience something of the same for myself once again. I had played the part of the Novice, the Apprentice, the Witchling and the Graduate over the course of my own meager existence…was it finally time to breach the veil of the unknown and experience what it was to be the Mentor? The thought was returning to my rambling mind with ever-more-concerning regularity ever since I had first allowed the notion to fester within my subconsciousness. My Guardian encouraged it, as did many other of my peers at Kaer Solaris…even the Archmaster himself had gone out of his way to extend me an exceptionally alluring Mentorship contract, something he rarely did save in the face of excessive need. Such a need being the preservation of certain skills and knowledge which only existed within the minds and bodies of our best. And while I was hardly the best the School of the Viper had produced during its regrettably difficult existence, I was the best of those who remained after the Cleansing reduced my School to mere dregs fit only to be safeguarded in the arms of a far larger School. Ludovic had been so gracious simply for the reason that I was a truly precious asset to the guild. I was the de-facto leader of the School of the Viper by virtue of being the oldest of the Witchers to survive, not for any grand heroic deeds or exceeding skill or cunning on my part. No Archmaster helmed the Vipers through the tempestuous seas of the present…just a mere Master in title and a rather frightened mare hid in plain sight directly behind it.

“Ya still wit’ us, Frejdá?” Brynhild barked close to my ear with such suddenness that I gave a small yelp of surprise which sent Valencia over the brink with boundless mirth. “Yer lookin’ moody in th’ face again n’ this ain’t th’ time for tha’ nonsense so out wit’ it, Sister.”

“Very well…” I sighed, dropping my voice somewhat so our crowded conversation felt somewhat more private. “I…am having thoughts of Mentorship.”

“At last?” She asked pointedly with a cocked eyebrow which said it all. “Or did Violet get yew into a scheme tah try n’ pull wool over my eyes wit’ some clever joke?”

“No…no jokes or jests to be found here.” I sighed again with even more resignation than I thought I felt. “It is something Ludovic inquired after the other day once again and…he made a rather compelling case for himself this time around.”

“Oh fuck it all…” She grunted moodily with a hefty snort from her nostrils. “Don’ tell me he gave you a better damned Mentorship contract than mine…”

“Alright, then I will not. Regardless…I cannot deny the idea has taken further root in me than I would like to admit. Yet I struggle with the simple fact that there is simply no Novice that we know of at this time who could fulfill the role of Apprentice for me. And…with our edict to return to the Path post-haste…I’ve not the time to parse through the recruits for a suitable candidate.”

“Eh…th’ right one fer you is going to be out there somewhere, Frejdá.” Came her confident reply. “You made it through th’ Cleansing without a scratch, this won’t be any sort of challenge to you forever. There is nothing you can’t accomplish if you try fer long enough n’ hard enough.”

“Hmph…tell that to my name in the Master’s Hall…” I grumbled back irritably as my lackluster list of Heroic Hunts came forth to haunt me once more from the well of memories.

“Bah! Be tha’ way then, Sister…there’s always some sort o’ hope to find along th’ path to th’ distant horizon, ya just need to look up from yer damned hooves n’ look around once in awhile!”

“I am. And all I see here before me now is one old, goading bitch and her smug little Apprentice.”

“Who you callin’ smug??” Valencia whined with a pout whilst Brynhild simply indulged herself in a small chuckle of her own with no little measurement of satisfaction.

“Goadin’ bitch? Right…remind me tah introduce ya to th’ real bitch in me someday… You’ll be beggin’ tah see this smug lil’ face o’ mine before a full minute has even gone by!”

"Hmph...sure."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Seventeen: A Vigil By Moonlight

The thronged mass surrounding us was at once comforting and endlessly claustrophobic for a veritable social feline like myself. I always had a mixed response when pressed into a friendly group of this size, no matter how rare of an occasion that had become. A mixture of peace and panic which fought tirelessly against one another within my head as I tried my damndest to focus upon being in the moment and not allowing wayward emotions spoil a good moment such as this. The public turnout for any Witcher’s Vigil was typically quite strong given our intertwined pursuit of survival, yet Braxia was to be graced by nearly half of the Valley’s inhabitants. No Fallen Firstborn had been discovered in centuries with the ultimate fate of well above two-thirds of their number lying recorded somewhere within the Archives, and the remains of around half of their number interred in the Grand Catacombs. So for one to have been found, if so innocuously as I had done, the word of such a Shroud returning to the Valley had been propagated far-and-wide in short order, drawing in many an Eldar to witness the humble proceedings. It was doubtful there were any here who had actually known the stallion in life besides the limited time Sir Tiffy had spent in his company so many years ago…yet that hardly prevented the denizens of Redclaw and beyond turning out in droves for the occasion. There were only one hundred of the First Born created after all, and it was thought the last of their number to possibly be found had been laid to rest over two centuries before; long before many in the gathering crowd had even been born into the world in the span of time since then.

The Court of Vigil was able to contain this mass of bodies rather comfortably however, having been built in an age when such massive gatherings for the honored Fallen were the status-quo. Resting atop a natural plateau of granite which formed part of the foothills of Kael’s Fang looming so far above, the space had seen extensive masonry work performed to polish and beautify the area in preparation for the ceremonies which were to be performed. A grand amphitheater with ample seating for some eighty-thousand had been carved into the side of the foothills, all arranged to view the great marble slab sat in the center of the orchestra space known as the Altar of Final Vigil. It was here a simple copy of the small Shrine in the School Gardens could be found, namely that of the great sconce of stone burning with golden flames. Burning as eternally as the flames of the Shrine and the Spire alike, this humble pyre burnt in honor of the memory of our Fallen, as well as to honor the Archivum of the Direwolves and the millennia of knowledge stored therein. The Council of Elders was naturally already present as they occupied a half-ring of seats thronged round and behind the Altar, conversing with one another or with gathered lines of eager inquirists with questions with which to beseech them. The great fan of the amphitheater was one solid piece carved from the mountain itself, broken only in the center by a grand recessed doorway bearing gentle images of Death which led into the Grand Catacombs centered in the roots of Kael's Fang.

The carts so laden down by food and drink as their masters had been able to haul with them were dutifully parked off the beaten path so as to be respectfully out of the way of the evening’s proceedings. These specified areas were either side of the main concourse at the mouth of the great plateau the Court of Vigil resided on, forming the shape of a large letter H wherein carts of various size and use could be stowed. This fine summer evening however, they were fully occupied by an equally fine train of vendors selling all manner of sweet, savory, pickled, fried, dried and every other conceivable form of preparation that delectable sustenance can take. Mighty casks of graciously aged white oak could also be spied amongst the farthest corners of the zone, piled some eight-high and stamped in the proud golden wax seal of Perfect Harvest Brewery which managed all the Valley's alcoholic exports. The great amphitheater was already thick with Vigilgoers who had already claimed many of the lower rows for themselves and others in their group, leaving only the higher levels with scattered availability. And with so many bodies occupying the zone, the noise we had experienced whilst traversing the Grand Viaduct was only multiplied tenfold as tens of thousands of independent conversations all mingled as one in the air. I was grateful that so many had turned out for the proceedings...yet it was admittedly verging on the unbearable for my senses to endure. It was a cacophony of noise upon the ears…so many individual voices all speaking as-if as one making it impossible even for my trained hearing to pick apart anything coherent from the bedlam.

It was due to such overwhelming amounts of sensory stimulation that crowded spaces were generally uncomfortable situations for Witchers. With all our senses breaching well-beyond what is considered typical or normal for our respective species, the presence of thousands of voices, scents and sights was a tremendous strain to compensate for. I was scarcely the only Witcher present that was easily given to a continuous token amount of situational paranoia… After all, it was difficult to fully relax oneself when the body has been conditioned to be in a constant state of high-alert against all mortal threats. And yet, as if specifically to ease our burdened minds, a great throng of the School Guard were always present for each and every Vigil. The ceremony included them at points, mainly in the capacity of providing a sense of kinship which can be had between mutated and non-mutated warriors, yet the presence of their weapons and armor also brought some sense of peace to my mind. The looming journey into the unknown which lay in wait for me in Misty Meadows had poisoned my mind and veins with a sinister anxiety which had even begun to overrule the usual sense of calm being home in the Valley brought unto me. It was all so infuriating…yet a word once given was still a word I intended to fulfill. Here I was to celebrate the memory of one of our own who had passed…all the while tormented silently from within over the impending death of an outsider worthy of spite and malice.

There was little pre-arranged structure to the seating arrangements in the Court of Vigil, which had resulted in an entire mixed assortment of groups and individual parties making seeking out any in particular a difficult task indeed. Even from my place in line making its way slowly up the ramps to fill out the seats of the amphitheater, I was finding it more than a little difficult to spot any familiar faces in the crowd with whom I would like to sit beside. Horns, feathers, scales, talons, claws, beaks, muzzles, hooves, cloven hooves, long fangs, short fangs, manes, tails, quadrupeds, and the occasional biped…there was an eternity of species diversity to be found here compared to the lands outside the White Fangs. Ever did I find myself stricken and overwhelmed by such a stark remembrance of such a fact as this. Not a one of these faces round about me, old nor young (save one that I knew of) had ever met or even known of Braxia before the Vigil had been announced. And yet, in spite of so much unfamiliarity, here before and around me were the good peoples of the Solar Valley who had gathered to honor this hitherto unknown Fallen Brother of the Hunt out of the goodness in their hearts. Their personal lives and concerns and conversations all continued unabated, more or less, from what they had been prior to entering the Court of Vigil, yet all the same they had all put aside their greater concerns and gathered here as one.

Such was the respect and admiration I so adored about the fine folks I was so proud to know and call my neighbors and acquaintances. These were the people who knew my true worth, both as a Witcher and as an aged member of the Lowland race, and saw fit to regularly remind me of my value. My anxious thoughts and worried heart would ever doubt my worthiness for such an honor, yet the consistency with which their reminders came was a soothing salve to my Soul like no other. These were the people with whom I would gladly break bread with and sit beneath their roof whilst we spoke in confidence with one another regarding the truest of thoughts held below the surface. I had scarcely done such a thing in truth, yet it was the simple fact that the concept did not draw any discomfort from my mind was a victory in and of itself in my eyes. To place one’s trust in others is a dangerous and unpredictable affair for any being to undertake…so to be able to do so within my heart was a moral victory which was as sweet to the senses as it was uncomfortable to do. To trust was to be vulnerable…and I trusted the Valley and its inhabitants with my life for every second that it was worth.

“FREJDÁ! HEY FREJDÁ, UP HERE!”

It was but one of many echoing voices bouncing about the pristine natural acoustics of the Court of Vigil, yet there no mistaking the distinct sound of my own name being shouted over the din of the crowd. With haste I cast my eyes about the amphitheater hoping to catch glimpse of which of the familiar faces about me was the origin of such an enthusiastic call for my company. My gaze loomed over all, fluttering from body-to-body sat beside one another in contiguous rows in a semicircular shape before me but spying no source of the call. Only when the call was repeated a third time, this time accompanied by a second and third voice and some frantic waving of arms, did I at last spot my place to sit. My journey to reach them still took some effort yet as many others were still making their way up the sets of stairs to open seats leading towards the top of the amphitheater. After much weaving in and about other groups making the climb, my long journey came to a close upon drawing level with Violet, Topaz, and lovely little Habaara herself somewhere halfway up the amphitheater. Given my favorite little Dwemess was dressed after the manner of her people in lengthy robes of black silk woven with fanciful embroidery of golden thread, I was able to safely assume that she was officially free of her duties for the night. Rosemary herself I had already spied down below seated amidst the other Council members all dressed at their finest, a view which had sent further shivers of icy cold dread coursing through my veins as I caught sight of her beautiful dress of plum and burgundy. Ever there were to be reminders of the tenuous future it seemed…yet I took comfort upon finding my seat with a blushing Habaara to my right, while Brynhild and Valencia made room to sit at my left.

Even with a passing glance towards Violet, I immediately could infer that she and Topaz had ensured that Habaara would be sat beside me so that I could leverage her place at Rosemary’s side in order to further help convince her to do me such a massive favor as I was to ask. I had made my intentions to ask Rosemary as much to both Violet and Topaz during the evening meal and was gratefully met with approval for my forward thinking on the matter. I could not admit it to them directly, but I had not come up with the idea for the sake of any grand plan worthy of an illustrious Sorceress or a world-class assassin…rather, it was out of the sheer convenience of it all and the time and stress which came with it. To save myself a lengthy trek through unfriendly territory, and past the very heart of the Witch Hunters entire system of fortresses and redoubts no less…I was simply after as much relief from stress as I could muster from the situation. I was still rather unhappy about it, yet I was set on my course by now and would not broker any deals with the concept of getting cold hooves from the challenge set forth. I liked to entertain the thought that I was driven by conscience, yet at the same moment I was deeply prideful in my own way and such a challenge of friendship and skill was one I simply could not back down from. Of course…my survival was all on the assumption that I made it through without alerting the city garrison and whatever Witch Hunter presence as might be within the walls already…

All the same, I could consciously feel the weight of the moonstone bottle of wine tucked away safely in my overstuffed satchel, alongside the hefty jar of potently-sweet Imladaar honey that were to be my, for lack of a better term, well-intentioned bribes for the little Dwemess. As an amateur apiarist, and a homebrewer of fine Dwemish meads as taught by her own mother, Habaara was simply too easy to tempt with foreign, exotic honeys which could be subsequently used for experimental or difficult brewing recipes. Rosemary… Rosemary was a different kind of mare in comparison to the Witchers and other non-Thestral citizens that I was used to engaging and making deals with, a fact which made our planned future encounter one of many unknowns for me. I had opened the door a crack through our most recent interaction, or so I would like to think…yet that was little guarantee her small spark of magnanimous behavior was not simply just a once-off occasion. To further my bargaining power however, I had also taken the crystal artifice containing my remaining collection of Shade Petals. If the Sorceress Supremes' cooperation required a further Petal or two in order to secure teleportation assistance…I could put the cost from my mind in light of the dozens more blooms lining the lengthy stalk which still retained the bulk of its value. The rest was up to me and the amount of silver with which to line my tongue with guile and persuasion…

There endured a pervasive hum of noise about our little group as hundreds of other little groups made their way up the ramped stairs across the span of the amphitheater in their pursuit of available seating. At the same time, staff from the School and members of the Priests of Fire began to distribute simple chalices of silver engraved with runes along the rims amongst those already seated for the coming ceremony. As per tradition, part of our honorifics for the deceased included drinking the beverage of choice of the Witcher whilst they had been alive so as to join ourselves in spiritual fellowship with the Fallen. Ever did the faithful warrior, soldier, scholar, or any other hard working person deserve one final drink of their most personally prized hooch of choice, and so we all were to imbibe a chalice's worth in their honorable name and memory. With so many thousands gathered for the proceedings, Braxia was to have enough drinking partners per-attendee to last him through the endless time of whatever afterlife he dwelt in. Of course…that was all on the assumption that he and all our other Brothers and Sisters were indeed able to watch over us and bear witness to our words and deeds. Were they trapped amidst the frozen confines of Hel or, worse yet, lost entirely to the Void that lays beyond time, well…then we at least have what remained of them a proper farewell in good fellowship of heart.

I was at least mildly intrigued as to what we would be enjoying this evening as I doubted Sir Tiffy knew him so well as to know Braxia’s hooch of choice. His remains, as well as that of his equipment, had been in the possession of the Reliquary for two days already, receiving the various cleansing rites and rituals of blessing and fortification as pertained to several species and religions so as to make sure any relevant Divine parties were satisfied with the proceedings. Blessed incense of cloves, cinnamon, myrrh, Greatwood pitch, and the oily essence of leaves from the Vigil Tree was utilized in these rituals in a scent which clung to all it touched with gusto, leaving its fragrance in its wake for weeks afterwards. It was a scent I had long come to associate with the Fallen, resulting in a twinge of melancholy anytime my nose caught whiff of its presence. Occasionally, even the individual ingredients used in its creation could stir up a similar melancholy in my heart when smelled, regardless of the situation I happened to be in at the time. As if any of us were looking for further reminders as to the fleeting frailty of existence and the abundant loss of life we had all endured and continued to endure as we made our way through the Age of the Sun…

The Court of Vigil, a typically quiet and solemn place when not in use, was livelier than I had seen it in recent memory as the stream of participants ebbed unabated along the length of the Grand Viaduct towards our location. Everywhere the eyes chose to linger was another group of tightly-knit friends and family all traveling along and sitting together as one whilst embroiled deeply in whatever topic currently dominated their thousands of individual conversations. All manner of rich and comely dress was to be seen as well, filling the amphitheater with a collage of bright, bold colors amplified by tasteful adornments of gold, silver, and precious stones. The typical Vigil was always a call to assemble by the local community which would inevitably draw several thousand to the Court of Vigil to pay their respects, regardless of any personal connection they might have with the Fallen. Some did it out of solemn duty to the dead irrespective of origin, and others simply participated for the spirituality inherent to such a ceremony as a way to further their personal devotions and convictions to the Divine. Those Witchers that always participated were particularly given to the notion of granting true fellowship to the Fallen in their final moments spent outside their final rest within the Grand Catacombs. Theirs was a philosophy of love and solidarity which strongly reflected the criteria for a strong family unit as they observed the Vigils of their fellows purely out of a want to show their respect and fellowship. There was always good food and drink to be found after the proceedings reached their conclusion, yet this was never their end-goal; nor was it necessarily to participate in some of the rituals performed.

Ever was there to be a certain respectable stoicism engrained amidst the very roots of our guild which held its own origins amidst the warrior cultures of all species as had integrated our Schools into their lands. Such individuals as wholly given to these actions were the truest of Brothers and Sisters of the Hunt. Theirs was the self-appointed task of ensuring none of our own were sent to their final rest without the company of the only family any of us truly had…and there was something tangibly beautiful to that. Of course, I was not counted amongst their number by sheer virtue of being away on the Path every year-on-year, yet I did make an honest effort to attend those Vigils that occurred during the winter months. Not all of them were graced by my presence, however…I was admittedly a distractible mare who was similarly debilitated by bouts of laziness when presented with extended opportunities to stay in any one place overlong. My present stay at Kaer Solaris was revealing enough of my truest inner nature which found itself ever reveling in the pleasures of the flesh. Delicious hot meals at regular intervals making use of proper utensils whilst sat at proper tables surrounded by good fellowship and beautiful ale. Blessed sleep found upon a mattress of down and under blankets of the finest wool and cotton to rest a mind and body made weary from the Path. And to say nothing of the admiration and respect we commanded in the eyes of the citizens of Redclaw as compared to the terror, hatred and spite held in contempt for us by Equestrians…

My Mentor would have skinned me alive were he to know that such carnal comforts had endless secret allure to one such as myself, even during our time spent working so close with one another. He had taken a mighty chance by Mentoring such a young, upstart Lowland like myself with little magical talent, but a taste and penchant for combat from even my youngest years. From the untrained filly I barely remembered spending her days mimicking the fighting forms of my parents when they trained at home, to the young mare recklessly swinging a wooden sword at as many training dummies as I could reach…I had never been born to scry the night sky like my mother. Rather, I seemed to take after my father's strong line of proud warrior blood as I had taken quickly to the bow upon my first hunting first with him in the wilds near our forest home around the Mount of Fabled Stars. It had always confused me back then as to why my mother had been rather disappointed when he and I had returned home that day triumphant, a beautiful Feral doe tied to his back with one arrow clean through the heart and a second, smaller arrow haphazardly piercing through its lungs. Of course, as I swiftly grew older and my arrows began to look more professional like his, I understood that she had wished for her genes to have stood out more in me over his, even in spite of her own visions of my destiny for Witcherhood. The secrets of her illustrious Arcane craft were boundless in comparison to the meager magical talent I possessed, yet in the end his warrior genes had held the line and granted me an inheritance worthy of my future. His time in my life had been far too short, cut off too soon by an Abyssal incursion near the early Equestrian city that once was known as Tredigor.

A particularly aggressive Chasm had erupted into being in the midst of the city of yore, supposedly the result of a festering den of evil which had quickly brewed out of control in the depths of the undercity. With cooperation between Eldar and Equestrians in much better, and more regular, standing in those days, he and a regiment of our Night Marshalls had been called upon to assist given our relative proximity to the city. The School of the Viper had likewise been called upon for assistance, but lacked in numbers given their inception was scarcely a half-century past and the crippling debt the Kingdom and School were burdened by. The threat they had faced there…my mother had never elaborated on, nor had I ever the heart to learn in the countless years since so as to never taint my memory of him. The portend of Fate which brought the most fear to my mother had come to pass shortly thereafter…when the noble dead were escorted home by those few who survived upon their shields. Tredigor was lost and few of its citizens managed to escape the carnage which had unfolded there…yet it was said that it was thanks to the heroism of his actions that day, along with the valiant efforts of the First Born Vipers and his fellow Marshals, that ensured the Chasm was closed and the region at large was saved. As to what sort of act of heroism he had performed…I never truly learned, even in the darkest corners of the Archives of Kaer Nathair upon my ascension to the rank of Master. Such a devastating loss to the School so soon after its costly inception had seemingly proven too much of a shame to bear and so any records were subsequently purged by order of the King and Archmaster both. The region had been saved, yet the cost to the pride of the Kingdom of Āider had been torn asunder leaving no other recourse but to bury the past as far down as could be attained. And with my mother refusing to speak of it anytime I had the courage to ask…I had come by a long, hard road to the realization that I would have to satisfy myself with those memories of him as survived the ravages of time itself. Those short years I had spent amongst my own kind felt like such distant memories so as to feel like the life of some other mare whom I was scarcely familiar with…

“She’s in another world entirely, Habaara. You might want to give her a good shake or two!”

“O-oh no! I could never be so intrusive as that! That is far too rude.”

“Well then watch and learn from the best, I’ll do it for you then!”

Caught in the midst of the depths of my own thoughts for the umpteenth time, the final snippet of their conversation had managed to draw enough of my attention so that the massive shove from Violet, reaching over and past Habaara to reach me, did not catch me wholly by surprise. I still allowed her hoof to make contact with my shoulder so as to not rob her of the satisfaction of hitting me, but I spared no punches with the look of boredom which which I initially used to make my reply to her actions. After all, it was the least I could do for her magnanimous generosity on Habaara's behalf.

“A light tap will do just fine next time, your Highness.” I smirked softly as the typical revulsion hit her face at the royal honorific before I turned to a timid Habaara and said, “I apologize for her antics. Was there something you needed my dear?”

The blush of her golden cheeks deepened when our eyes locked and she chirped softly in embarrassment before finding the strength to regain her composure enough to ask, “O-oh! I…I s-simply asked how y-you were doing this f-fine evening. That is all! Nothing pressing or important. I swear I did not mean to interrupt your path of thought, please forgive me.”

She was such a delightfully comely little thing…a gentle beacon of homely energy which seemed as fragile as a candle’s flame in a breeze whenever I drew near yet ever burning brightly in her own way. In no state, sane or insane, could I ever find reason to draw ire with her and I made damn well sure I told her as much.

“Please, my dear.” I smiled softly at her which only deepened the hue of her blush. “There is no interruption happening here this evening with you involved. Besides, I waste enough time as it is trapped along that same path you mentioned. A break is always needed for this constant tangled mess of thoughts that I always seem to have.”

“O-oh, well…I am happy to act as a form of r-respite!” She beamed, her paws and wings shuffling softly without her permission by how embarrassed she seemed of the action. “V-Violet said that y-you all were to be s-sitting together and invited m-me to accompany you all, which was m-most generous of her.”

“Indeed it was! I am glad that she did so on my behalf, although I will admit I am surprised that you are here on your own. Is Kahrobâ occupied this evening, or…?”

“O-oh, well…you know him, h-heh.” She stammered with a cute shrug of her shoulders. “A crowd of this size is…H-Hel for him. Too much n-noise, too many b-bodies…he will be happy to h-hear my recounting of t-tonight’s events when I return h-home.”

“Ah, yes…I can understand that sort of trepidation…” I concurred with genuine sympathy. “I feel likewise to be frank…but, I can find some peace in the fact that I am surrounded by people I can place some faith in. Besides, we have the benefit of sitting together in good company, no?”

“Y-yes! That we do!” She smiled back, glancing about at our other company seated nearby who had graciously fallen into conversations of their own. “I am v-very glad of such company as y-yours!”

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual my dear. Ah, yes! I almost forgot! I brought you some gifts in honor of my early return and I hope they are to your tastes.”

The forgetfulness was feigned to be sure, but the intent behind my gifting was very much genuine as I wished her to have both items regardless of my other intent to butter-up Rosemary. In the end, I had chosen the gifts specifically due to her love of them and how much I knew she would enjoy them, even if Rosemary inevitably turned me down. Even as I thought of such a dour outcome, I grimaced; only being saved by my convenient turning away in order to physically dig through my satchel. There was a reward due for her patience for any blundering she may endure as I made a grand expedition past the boundaries of my typical comfort zone. The rare honey was the first of my gifts to emerge, the beautiful Lowland crystal jar glittering softly in the light of so many great sconces and braziers dotting the amphitheater. Her head cocked inquisitively as I presented her with the beautiful little container, only for her expression to turn to one of shock and joy upon fully witnessing the unmistakable waxen purple seal attached to the velvet label. The viscous, silvery amber contents within were likewise a dead-giveaway as Imladaar honey was produced by an endangered species of bee Lowland apiarists had carefully bred over millennia. They grew larger than even beetles, with glistening carapaces like polished silver and fat abdomens which glowed like unto a simple firefly, yet with the Light of the Full Moon. Fed a diet of rare nectars and pollens, the honey which they produced was lightly touched by Divine Lunar power and brought strength of spirit to Eldar. Coupled with its smooth, rich, slightly fruity taste with undertones of mint, it had become a delicacy in many a fine household in Eldar enclaves the world over. Unfortunately, its ever-growing rarity forced its sale to be prohibitively infrequent even within the Lunar Dominions themselves and so it was that I was compelled to make use of the last of my own personal stock for this endeavor. Whatever the current market price...seeing her reaction made any thought of it immediately vanish in the beautiful glory of her joy of the moment.

“By the Deep Ones, is that Imladaar?!” She gasped with equal parts awe and shock. “H-how did you know?!”

“Well it is hardly a secret you kept under a tight lock and key, my dear.” I replied with a soft chuckle as even her nervous deposition was temporarily quelled in the presence of such a treat. “We both know what wonders of flavor you could accomplish with something like this and just a pinch of just the right breed of brewers yeast. It’s only fitting you have some now so we may enjoy the first tasting together when I truly return from the Path for the year.”

“O-oh yes, most certainly!” She beamed as her gentle little talons eagerly cupped the crystal jar which I bestowed unto her. “Though for something like this, I would absolutely be remiss if all I did with such a treat as this was to brew a simple honey wine… No, no. This will require an accompaniment of only the finest ingredients…but which?? Oh Gods there is only enough for a mere liter of product…this will need to be perfect… Nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves? No, I brew that blend enough as it is… Dwellberry and mint? No…something floral and supple like a crisp wine or a supple brandy…”

Already the great cogs of her beautiful little mind were beginning to whirl and spin with a thunderous energy that was out of the ordinary for her, yet felt entirely within the realm of reason. After all, for all her timid shyness, she was positively bristling with life and a warm, bubbly energy which made her presence one of much-needed brevity in an otherwise cold world. There was simply no denying the little Dwemess in whatever she desired as she was simply pure in heart and spirit, seemingly impervious to the concept of contempt or the manipulation of others. And as such, my gift to her was in full appreciation of that fact. I was truly just celebrating her as a person and what her charming personality meant for me. Even my fears and doubts felt like less of a burden upon me, if but for a passing moment as the looming future had yet to truly relinquish its icy grip. All the same, seeing the elated joy upon her face as she slipped into a quiet monologue to herself regarding how she would approach the brewing process…it was simply precious. My gift had been readily taken with such gusto that even I had no need to pause for a second of doubt as to whether or not it had been well received by its recipient.

“I-I s-s-s-simply do not h-h-have the w-words…” She stuttered helplessly, straining my hearing to filter out the cacophony around us in order to catch her every word.

“Then make no sound.” I smiled back before reaching into my satchel for her second gift. “And steele yourself perhaps, for I have something else that might take your breath away entirely. It is admittedly a re-gifting, however I feel you could make much better use of this as a true connoisseur than I.”

With a modicum of flair, I withdrew the slender moonstone bottle of Thestral Moonwine and allowed the light of the amphitheater truly allow the stone to dazzle. Her beautiful green eyes shot open nearly as wide as her beak did as the gleaming container was reflected in their very depths. Such a thing was a prohibitively expensive indulgence which could easily drain the coffers of both her and her charming husband even in spite of their relatively healthy income. When other daily concerns force along the flow of income to expenses…such a treat as this was never to grace their table barring any potential waves of financial foolishness. There was pitifully little of the precious alcohol housed within the slender, exceedingly illustrious bottle; a scarce dozen ounces or so of wine barely capable of satisfying the needs of two glasses… Having imbibed some of these auspicious Thestral vintages many years past, even the lingering memory of the splendid flavors was enough to elicit a miniscule shiver of regret in giving up something so exquisite. Yet…seeing the amazement in her face upon being gently bestowed her second gift was worth every Crown that otherwise could have been earned by its potential sale and every drop I would have otherwise enjoyed myself. Such was her shock and awe that she seemed almost catatonic for a brief moment, utterly unable to formulate even a single spoken word of reply.

“Warn me if I need to steady your posture. I would say you have more than earned something like this after your many years of faithful service to your Mistress. Please…consider this as a gift from her and I only just so happen to be the delivery mare chosen to ensure it reaches you.” I grinned from ear-to-ear with all the warmth the moment had brewed up within my breast, raising a hoof and hovering it just slightly behind her back in the event she fainted.

She was graciously spared from having to formulate any sort of coherent response the next moment by a great hush which had rapidly set into the crowd around us, all eyes turning to look down upon the Council sat down below us. From even further behind them came a short procession of attendants of the Reliquary clad in their humble regalia of white trimmed in golden thread and their faces partially masked by ornate hoods sewn into their robes. Their passage along the Grand Viaduct was hounded close at hoof by the grey haze of numerous censures of Glovewort incense gently swinging from the waists of every member of the procession. Upon a grand tower shield of white gold and beaten copper, borne between four of their number, rested the Shroud housing the terrestrial remains of Braxia. There was much anticipation as the group drew ever closer, several of their number heralding their procession by bearing aloft graceful lamps adorned with small chimes which rang and sparkled in the night air with gentle dignity. Eventually their arrival to the Court of Vigil proper was announced by a twined pair of enormous horns of stone which straddled the rim of the amphitheater from top to bottom; the bells laying flush with the granite plateau of the Court and stretching out towards the Valley, whilst the mouthpieces were found above the highest row of seats and only accessible via a narrow stair carved deep into the stone. The sound of these mighty paired instruments, known by their makers as the Throats of They Who Have Passed, reverberated through the body, mind and Soul in equal measure as their deep, somber notes echoed about the great wooded expanse of the Valley stretching out northwards before us.

Though only two horns were initially blown, their tremendous spirit was only amplified by the mighty ring of mountains around us, cascading across all with the sheer might of pure, unadulterated sound which vibrated the air almost visibly with its majestic, somber power. Indeed, the sound bounced about between and below the peaks of the White Fangs so that none within the Valley could scarcely not take notice of the event taking place. So very many good folks had made an appearance this evening that it was likely even the lively din of Redclaw Ridge was subdued enough for its noise to echo about between each and every building lining either shore of Mother’s Mirror. It was only one note which was played, yet being sounded by well-conditioned Pygmy with lungs akin to that of Giants, the note endured on as an all-encompassing blanket of sound for an entire twenty-five seconds before finally allowing the Valley to hush back to a state of quiet calm. A shiver of indescribable feelings washed over me even as the last dying echoes of the horns faded into the past whilst countless other Vigils flashed themselves before my mind’s eye. There was a truly great sadness to be felt…yet there was relief as well in knowing that, even though a complete stranger prior to his discovery, I had grown a rather large modicum of connection to this Fallen member of the former School of the Cat. His passing had occurred during my own lifetime…one of the last remaining bastions of the First Born snuffed out in some forgotten hole in the ground occupied by one of the nastiest beasts in our Bestiary, the same beast which slew him. My small kinship with his remains was more than I was expecting to experience…yet no matter my motivations, it felt gratifying to see that his memory was being honored. I knew little of the stallion, yet there was no denying that I still felt kinship with my extended relation and truly wished him a pleasant afterlife…if such a thing even awaited us, of course.

Once the Shroud had been transferred from the shield to the Altar, each of the Reliquists arranged themselves in a ring about the Altar and chanted each a line from the Litanies of the major pantheons whilst swinging their censures and wafting yet more incense over the Shroud. Regardless of the Fallen’s own belief (or lack thereof) in the Divine, the Council refused to allow any to pass into the Grand Catacombs without an appeal to each pantheon to which the Eldar honored with spiritual allegiance and devotion. It was all we could do to grant our honorable dead a proper chance at something…well…better than what we the living continued to endure. In the interest of equal opportunity, we invoked the sacred words of their Gods and Goddesses as a plea to them all for mercy and clemency for our Fallen. And indeed…it truly did seem as my mother had once long ago described. The deafened ear of one Divine might yet give way to the willing ear of another if such a plea is made in their prescribed manner…and might be so magnanimous as to bend that ear so in need of esoteric appeal. Minor miracles and feats of magic were well-known to occur when the faithful were given to holy supplication, though the granter of their wish may not necessarily be the same as the one first entreated. Where one Goddess might turn up their nose to one plea, the God of another pantheon could just as well grant the same plea its proper audience. And with so many thousands of faithful Eldar gathered about in unity of spirit and purpose…I would hope that such a magnificent thing as that would dazzle the heavens above like a burning flame in a darkened world. Surely one would be so gracious as to bless the Vigil, the Fallen, and every member sat honorably in attendance. As the last murmured Litany was uttered forth from the throng of Reliquists, the hazy smoke of their incense still hanging low and clinging to the Shroud, they bowed in reverence towards the Altar before retreating to sit in attendance upon the lowest ring of seats. At such time, the Archmaster got to his mighty paws and spoke with a great fullness of voice so that each and every ear present could hear his words as clear as if he were mere feet from them.

“Hark! ‘Tis a good thing indeed to see so many of you arranged before the Altar of Vigil this evening! In fact, such a sight as this…has been one not seen in this amphitheater in quite some time. Few here may now truly remember them, but there was indeed once a time wherein each and every seat of the Court of Vigil was occupied and countless temporary seats and clouds assembled in a futile attempt to accommodate the overflow of bodies. This is the closest to such a sight as I have seen in my many years of commanding the helm of Kaer Solaris and my honorary place as leader of this Valley. I will not blame any who have not been in attendance for any of the previous Vigils that we have performed here. After all, there is no obligation for any of you to fill these seats save those obligations which you set yourselves. My thanks is eternally extended towards those who have yet to fail to attend any of these solemn occasions so as to provide our Fallen with all the company they could ever ask for in death. And my thanks is likewise continued for those of you who made the conscious, commendable choice to join in solidarity with us here tonight to honor one of the very few who had borne witness to the genesis of our guild. Take heart my Brothers and Sisters of the Hunt! And all you gathered here with us! For tonight…we celebrate the life and legacy of Master Witcher Braxia Melitus of the once-honorable School of the Cat!”

Right on cue, the Throats issued forth their bellowing call across the Valley and between the peaks as an even greater hush fell over all present. The stillness of the moment was utterly pristine…every muscle, every thought…hushed and made still by the somber power of the mighty stone horns. A series of low, almost wailing notes were then sounded across the Valley, eliciting instinctual shivers of melancholy and utter ecstasy of the spirit throughout the body like rolling waves of wordless thunder. For the sake of the Fallen did these instruments weep their mighty lament, amplified and emboldened by the acoustics of the mountains and by the fiery spirit of every living Soul within the Valley. It was an earnest call to unity. It was a mournful dirge for the dead. It was a mighty prayer unto the Divine as only Pygmy could embody. And yet…as their booming, haunting call faded from the air, a second call of higher pitch answered from the summit of Kael's Fang, the coiling horn of beaten brass coiling itself up the length of the Spire to the mouthpiece located near the great sconce of golden fire itself. Its lofty tones were then swiftly joined by dozens of other horns built as part of the holy shrines and temples crowning the flattened White Fang peaks as a harmonious melody of sound reverberated through every atom. It was simply too much raw, unspeakable emotion for one mare to ever tolerate…and so I wept. But I was not alone, for around me there was scarcely an eye to be seen, even Violet and Topaz, that was not welled up with tears in the heat of that moment. Tonight, all who had ears to hear were now part of the Vigil, regardless of their physical presence seated amongst us around the Altar. It was only when their cascading chorus of notes ceased to echo the night sky that Ludovic found his chance to speak once more.

“Verily, verily I say unto all of you gathered before us…it has been far too many years since such a noise was sounded o’er this Valley! Such fire! Such power! The spirit I feel here with us tonight is truly immaculate, my friends! And each and every last one of you is responsible for helping bring this beautiful moment about…and for that I, and we the Council, are most tremendously grateful unto you all for allowing such a feeling as this to come about. Now! Without any further ado, let us commence! We will be honored to have Grandmaster Tiffy address us now as the only known living witness to the physical life of our esteemed Fallen upon the Altar of Vigil.”

There was a brief pause as Ludovic returned to his large, padded seat whilst Sir Tiffy, clad in a dark heavy cloak around his form, rose to his hooves in solemn reverence for the moment. with a respectful nod of acknowledgement to the Archmaster as they switched positions. The reverb of the Throats, alongside the beautiful harmonies of the other temple horns, had boldly ushered in a sense of peaceful calm tinged with the ever-present melancholy which followed us about in the wake of our lengthy, bloody lives. Even a cursory glance about the amphitheater bespoke the sadness which had gripped almost all those gathered, with even Bjørn and his otherwise rowdy compatriot Örn utterly silent and focused in on the stillness of the moment. Indeed…it was extremely likely that only the youngest amongst us were without knowledge of the importance of what was going on around them as we honored the first of the First Born to be discovered and in over a century. A fragment of our long-distant past, a once-living witness to the genesis of our Order, had finally come home…and there was much cause to celebrate such a thing, even if we all knew the risk in bringing up such a distant past. There was not a Soul alive in the Valley foolish enough to believe that the current events of the present day were preferable to the peaceful conditions of the Age of the Moon…and to remember those heady days of yore was an open invitation to feelings of loss, sadness and despair. I was…uncertain as to just how much of such uncomfortable emotions I would allow myself to experience on the eve of my own impending journey.

“Welcome! One and all of you, my dearest friends, comrades, and neighbors!” Boomed Sir Tiffy in his bright, wizened tones across the amphitheater. “I wish nothing but the greatest of bounty and happiness to you all as we navigate this grim world we find ourselves held captive by. My Brothers and Sisters gathered present tonight will know better than any the cost in blood paid every passing century, giving of yourselves to the lofty calling of driving back the Abyss which has so destroyed this world and her many peoples. Yet it is not just we Witchers who suffer at the wretched claws of this dark world…for there is like to be naught amongst you here who has known nothing of the bitter truth of living alongside the ever-growing threat regrettably called our ‘neighbor’. For dire sins which are not ours are we all here this day… Yet harken here, to the words of this pitiful, old Witcher…we must never cease to meet together in solidarity of spirit and might!”

His gaze loomed over all before him, at once piercing and wholly gentle as he cast his eyes round about. His face bespoke all the emotions roiling away beneath the surface of the hardened veteran; a deep sadness tempered by the raw emotion readily found amongst the audience amidst the thralls of near-fatherly affection he felt towards us all. It was an honor to know him. A living piece of history like myself who had seen the ever growing Darkness plaguing our precious world. There was so much which could be said for it all…

“You are all truly beloved.” He continued after taking a pause to what his tongue from a chalice on a table beside his seat. “There is nothing I would not sacrifice in order to see such a gathering as this return to this splendid Valley. The Archmaster speaketh most true when he spoke of how this Court of Vigil would be full to bursting with those gathered in unity of spirit to grant the victorious dead their dutiful final slumber. And likewise, I wish to express my deepest gratitude for all those here tonight. For whatever reason that you chose to attend these proceedings, I thank you all the same for being with us. Now! Let us speak of this Shroud which graces the Altar this night, and the stallion within who once trod the same Witcher's Path my Brothers and Sisters of the Hunt now tread year-on-year. Behold! A Relic of a former age!”

With no little amount of that cheeky Trottingham flair we all knew and loved, he drew back his heavy cloak with his magic and proudly stood before us with a renewed vigor and firmness of spirit. Even as the fabric began to fall away from his back and shoulders, I immediately took notice of his unexpected change in armor as the orange leather of the Foxes had been replaced by the bold blue felt of the School of the Cat. Everything was just as the diagrams and surviving Relics depicted, with a rather handsome coat of brigandine worn atop a high-necked shirt of maille and thick, padded leather trousers reinforced along its outer face by more hidden brigandine plates. Accompanied by spaulders, tassets, and outer sleeves of further brigandine beneath a layer of blue felt, as well as a row of steel splints reinforcing his bracers and boots, his protection was excellent for the level of mobility it provided. As the perfect example of the heavy end of Light Doctrine warfare, it was an eternal shame to me that such a beautiful pattern of armor had to be so ignominiously retired from active use. However, given the horribly vile actions of its former masters, it was a measure I understood was necessary for our frayed public image. Given his age, and how tailored the armor was to his precise physical form, I could only assume he had taken up the colors and accoutrements of his former life to pay homage to what honorable legacy which remained in the School of the Cat. I could think of nothing more fitting to remember the passing of a First Born than to honor the memory of what they had stood for in life…and in his days, the School of the Cat was indeed a most redeemable institution. One that had earned its place amongst us as true and honest Witchers.

“For those of you with eyes burdened by visions of the distant past, you may recognize these colors! Behold, the School of the Cat as it had once proudly been!” He continued, making sure all saw his bold change in uniform. “For centuries did I call these colors my own! Proudly did I tread the Witcher's Path bearing this Medallion as I slew monsters and Daemon alike, all in the great name of my School! And there was indeed once a time wherein I and my fellows were welcomed graciously into the halls of Kings as honored guests…if you can even find it in yourselves to believe such a thing. There was indeed a time wherein a Cat was the elite tool of choice by rulers and peasants alike to solve the ever-pervasive problem that are monsters which move faster than most eyes can even perceive! Vampires, Arachnomorphs, Foglets, Chorts, Shaelmaar, wrathful Umbra and all manner of wretched, fleshy horrors of the Abyss itself. Horrors some of you here have even encountered yourselves in the wider world, Witcher or no… The world lost such a tremendous force of will and spirit when my former fellows forged their own accursed path ahead into the Dark…which is why this night is one of great celebration! For with us tonight is one of the first Cats to ever prowl the Path and who remained true to the righteous way to the very last of his mortal breath! Behold, Grandmaster Braxia Mellitus!”

All eyes were then naturally drawn immediately towards the Altar and the silken Shroud laid atop its polished white surface. With the fine precision of those expert hooves and talons which had wrought such mighty works across the Valley, the Altar lay in perfect order with the great stone doors leading inside Kael's Fang, as well as down the centerline of the Grand Viaduct making for an aesthetically pleasing visual symmetry from the raised seating we occupied. The air vibrated once again with the thunderous call of the Throats and as one we all stood in silence and inclined our heads in reverence towards the Shroud. Many also closed their eyes in this time as well, choosing to picture in their minds’ eye what tales Sir Tiffy would choose to regale us with in order to better acquaint us with someone so far removed from our present day. Of course, he had even confided in me earlier that he had never truly known the stallion in person so it was anyone’s guess as to how much we would learn from what he had to say. Unless…

“I regret to inform you all that I did not know Braxia as a friend in his hour of living…” Tiffy admitted with a great softness in his tone that the natural acoustics even struggled to amplify. “Or even as an esteemed acquaintance. He, like all other First Born like himself, were cut from a tougher ream of cloth than is woven in this day and age. It was almost cause for celebration on the rare occasion he, or any of the others, returned to the Lion’s Redoubt for the winter just so that we would know they yet lived. And even then, they would never tarry overlong with us…it was an almost cold, distant berth many of them gave each of us of the Second Born as they saw our Trials as watered-down compared to the Hel they had endured during the first-ever Trials which make Witchers of ordinary people. Nowhere else could you find such dedication to the Witcher’s Path as they, however. Theirs was an inheritance of pain, suffering and hardship, a tragic Fate beset upon this world by the woeful actions of they who have forever stood in opposition to us all. And such an inheritance is boundless with its bounty…indiscriminate, cold, vicious and cruel. But did this proud Witcher shirk from his duty? Did this stallion’s life end in ignominy like so many of my fellows of the following Foundings which fell to Darkness by way of greed and vile self-indulgence? Nay! Like the truest of Witchers, this stallion died in the heat of mortal strife with an utterly foul Daemon of another world wholly foreign to our own. Were his remains found with his silver sword still sheathed upon his back? Taken by surprise whilst he slept or cut down from behind whilst he fled? Nay! His blade was drawn and its edge was as sharp as glass, still ready and most willing to deliver the fitting end these creatures deserve! Behold, a Witcher of the noblest of shed blood!”

Whilst the audience inclined their heads towards the Altar, Vivian rose with a rolled scroll of parchment which she gave over to Tiffy for him to read aloud. Typically this was the time wherein those who knew the Fallen would recount a few tales of their time with them or regale us with a retelling of some of their greatest feats in life. With little personal experience to go around with such an ancient Witcher, whatever was written had to be what knowledge could be obtained from the Archives. Tiffy, and those like him who had broken away from the School of the Cat, had been most unfortunate as to rescue only fragments of their own Archives prior to their departure from their former comrades. This would certainly be shorter than most other Vigils I had attended as this portion alone usually loomed over half the length by itself if enough choose to stand and recount their memories.

“Though Fate was kind in bringing the Fallen back into our welcoming arms, such good fortune always has its price…and in this case, the victim was knowledge itself. Grandmaster Braxia’s life preceded my own by far more than a century and his exploits stretch back to a time which has become most fragmentary and unclear…even to those of us who had lived to see some of those same events unfold. Through our combined efforts, Miss Vivian, Miss Rosemary and I scoured the Archives for what scraps of knowledge we could obtain so as to paint a more full picture of who this stallion was. So, here now let it be known some of what he did wrought from his sweat, blood, steel and silver! Behold! Braxia was but a humble Earth pony of the fledgling speck on the map that was Equestria in the first century of the Age of the Sun. Hailing from Canterlot itself as the son of a farrier, he had gained knowledge of the sword and armed combat from a tour of duty with what was called the Queen's Watch in those days, a volunteer militia of the able-bodied willing to work beside the Eldar in pacifying the wildlands of the fledgling Empire for settlement. Once the Old Hunters were formed to combat the Abyss, he was amongst the first to raise his hoof to give of himself fully to the common cause which they stood for. And so such a selfless act was then repeated when the Order of Witchers was formed from the remnants of the Old Hunters. And we many of you here will know, only one hundred of their number survived the First Witcher Trials ever to be performed not far from where we now stand. His service to the Order was pure and without stain from what we could glean of the Archives, with many Daemon having personally been felled by his hooves in that time. It was he who stood by Archmaster Lyncarl to petition the Council of Elders to approve the dissolution of the Order as several notable Kingdoms began chomping at the bit to stake a claim to our number. Though that impetuous spirit would become our eventual downfall into egregious sin, such boldness was necessary in order for our guild to become what it is today! He, and his fellow First Born who went on to form the School of the Cat amidst the Spineback Mountains, managed to subdue the Abyssal threat in what is now southwestern Equestria on their own within a span of only a decade. While some other Schools took decades more to absolutely pacify their immediate surroundings, Braxia and his fellow Cats made playthings of the Abyss with their speed, grace and precision. And indeed we were like unto a pack of predators, moving with a surety of purpose and fury to pounce like a Felid upon our prey. And now…for a reading of what this great stallion accomplished in his life upon the Path.”

He paused a moment to take another draught from his chalice before slitting the waxen seal binding the scroll closed with a hunting dagger from his belt. The somber silence continued whilst he unfurled the roll of parchment and gave a teary eye down the length of its contents.

“January the 27th, of the year 110 of the Age of the Sun. Prince Amber Salve of the House of Cabochon, his wife, his four children, and thirty-and-five of his best personal guard are discovered torn to shreds whilst in late transit between the Prince’s private residence in Misty Meadows and his winter chateau in Yonderland. A Class 1a Contract, amongst the very first ever to be penned to parchment and given a Royal Seal, is immediately issued by the boy's father, King Jasper Cabochon of the former Kingdom of Weiss. Braxia is noted as being the first to sign his name to the Contract, followed swiftly by Witchers Sherry and Damocles, fellow First Born Cats who had likewise proven their mettle in dire combat and bitter Trials. Their investigation was swift and thorough as any Witcher worth their salt would ensure, and their collective findings revealed the truth to be worse than they had originally conceived, even for the mass slaughter of so many well-armed soldiers. Amidst a tangled mess of roots, branches, rocks and upheaved earth, it became clear that it was a Leshen and a particularly ancient one at that. The young Prince and his retinue had foolishly thought little of marring the ancient woodlands of Ashka which, in that time, had extended unbroken from the western shores until it met the Thestral Dominion. Though dead wood fit and dry for firewood lay scattered about near unto the High Road, their mark was living wood for reasons uncertain, drawing the natural ire of the woods’ own wrathful custodian. Through the night did they track this beast through the woods, boldly striding into the very heart of its territory as a direct challenge to its power whilst brushing aside any attempts made to ward off their approach. And behold! Once they came upon the shaded glen which it called its Nest, they found not one Leshen but many! ‘How can this be?’ Many a student here may ask, ‘These beasts are fiercely singular and territorial towards others of their kind!’ And to that, I would say well done on your introductory studies of Relict-category monsters dear chaps. But, there is one occasion in which more than one of these otherwise isolated creatures might be found with more of its kind…and that simplest of genetic impulses to produce young and continue the ever-repeating cycle of life and death.”

I had suspected such might have been the case, but now had my suspicions confirmed as to how so many stallions in chain and plate could be so utterly obliterated from recognition by a single adult Leshen. Though many of their number likely would have fallen, I dared to think that thirty-six well-trained warriors would have proven capable of subduing such a threat. The answer, however, lay in their asexual life cycle wherein so-called Leshen Matriarchs would choose a particularly old and lush forest teaming with rain and abundant rivers and creeks, all to literally set down their roots and produce some young. Like species of poplar or aspen trees, their root-like arms and legs would burrow underground as basal shoots, gestating for several months or even years before emerging from the earth as young living shoots that are at once pieces of themselves as well as separate entities entirely. Once they had broken through to the open air, the Matriarch could finally remove itself from the ground and return to a Leshen’s typical woodland caretaking instincts; never straying far from its Saplings as their vitality is similar to that of young trees and required similar levels of care. Every step one of their kind takes upon living soil connects them with the root network of every living plant in its vicinity, and so to openly put one of its precious trees to the axe and then burn it in the rough vicinity of its veritable children… Their flagrant ignorance of the situation had been their undoing and any communities near unto that woodland were most fortunate that its wrath was not further kindled against non-combatants who were entirely uninvolved. Not all Leshens are so kind as to fully mark out their territorial borders with scratched rocks, abstract masses of tangled roots and ominous totems of their power…but a Matriarch would have left those and more to warn away any and all would-be trespassers. They were a dangerous nuisance…but I felt personally that they were rather fair about it compared to other beasts which gave no warning with where their arbitrary borders began and ended outside of a threatening, often deadly display of force.

“Deep into the earth had the Leshen mother’s roots sunk! For from the lush greenery of the shaded glen did numerous Sapling Leshens grow! Much like unto small Spriggans do they appear when still sprouting from the earth for they have yet to earn the easily-identifiable Cervid skull fully grown Leshens sport. Yet the Matriarch was not idly sitting by as they courageously approached its innermost domain, for ever were their movements swift and precise as they could scarcely leave a hoof on any surface of the forest lest it be ensnared by roots. And lo! Didst they come unto the very roots of the Matriarch as what could be called ‘maternal instincts’ took complete control over the creature, rendering it near Feral with rage. Theirs was a fierce engagement, spanning the length of nearly three hours as the three Witchers engaged in hit-and-run tactics with the Matriarch and trading blows with both it and the countless Feral beasts inhabiting the woodland. Atop a mountain of corpses did the battle finally draw the curtains upon the final act…and behold, though the Daemon had been burnt and blasted by Signs and Bombs, its very form hacked to splinters upon their silver swords…the beast refused to yield before them. Witcher Damocles suffered the loss of his left foreleg, Witcher Sherry lost the ability to speak, and almost her life, from a deeply-slashed throat, and Witcher Braxia himself lost his right ear and eye to a perilously deadly swipe of its claws. They did not shirk from their Divine duty and half-arse their attempts to pacify the lands within their borders! Each of them sacrificed something of themselves that night Hunting that which would inevitably come to further violence with further innocent lives. And perhaps to the young, what I speak of is naught but tall-tales of the old and the senile…yet if you are dutiful to your studies in history, you will know of the truth in my words when I dare speak of how things once were. With their talents, training, and camaraderie combined, these Witchers had brought the beast lower than it had even brought them. As the most capable and intact of the three still left wounded but standing, Braxia found the strength to make use of the silver Chains of Ŭrthrí, weaving an ensnarement about the Matriarch until he had staked the beast to the ground."

"Through raw fury of his own for the injuries he and his fellows had endured, his strength triumphed over that of the Matriarch’s and finally, the moment presented itself allowing for the Daemon to be properly beheaded and put to rest. Though it had been a close battle, the beast had claimed all the lives that it would as Sherry managed to survive thanks to the intervention of her Brothers of the Hunt, allowing the three Witchers to return to the Lion’s Redoubt in triumph. Braxia, as his was the sword which had truly slain the Daemon, was honored as the Triumphator of the Hunt and personally presented the severed head as a trophy and testament to the Contract having been utterly fulfilled to the letter to the slain Prince’s grieving father. For their efforts, and due to the severity of the Contract, the Council awarded Witchers Braxia, Sherry and Damocles as Witcher Adepts with only twenty-and-one years of service to the Path, rather than the forty-and-five as is prescribed by the Council. I say again my dear friends and neighbors…never once did these Witchers retreat from the Hunt, holding their ground against a Daemon cornered whilst protecting its young with all the ferocity befitting such a frightful situation. It is examples such as these which form the lifeblood, the essence of our guild! Our duty has remained unchanged from the moment of our conception unto these very words I speak here this night. Grandmaster Braxia stood for everything we do now…and I would dare to say that he was as fine an example of Witcherhood than any of us here today. The First Born were truly something unique to this world…a bright Light shining as a beacon in this Darkened world as they carved the bloody Path we now tread in their stead. And that is the question I wish to leave with you all as I close this tale of a legend lost to time and only now finding its way back into our care and knowledge. Are we worthy inheritors of such a legacy as theirs? If this Shroud could speak forth its truths unto us for even a moment…would it praise us for our continued fulfillment of our eternal duty in their stead? Do any of us have the fiery passion and singleness of faith in our cause that the First Born possessed like so many Zealots emboldened by the flame of righteous cause? If ever there were a worthy goal in which to set oneself towards…it would be to follow in their example and fight until we too can be spoken in the same breath as one of these mighty Witchers of yore.”

It was at this time one of the Reliquists stepped forward to present to him with the same beautiful pair of swords which I had recovered from that Nest, both blades fully drawn and gleaming in the fire light whilst their sheathes were placed along either side of the motionless Shroud. Although they had been sheathed for their transit to Kaer Solaris, they had yet to be symbolically sheathed properly for the final time as their duty was brought to a close for all to see. Whether they would be repurposed someday to grace the back of another equally-deserving Witcher, or would remain within the safe confines of the Reliquary as a remnant of the past…it was hard to say for certain. Fine weapons like they were worth more than their weight in the purest of gold and indeed they had lost none of their intended functionality, even as their previous master had turned to dust beside them. Yet…at the same moment they were indeed true Relics of a time long lost to us, belonging to a Witcher School which technically no longer even existed on official records for what amounted to treason and fratricide. It was a terribly difficult and delicate problem to find an answer for, and one that was best left to the wisdom of the Council to decide, not an unlearned plebeian like myself.

Taking the steel sword first, Tiffy strode over to stand on the left side of the Shroud hoisting the blade high into the air for all to see as he said, “Hardened steel and iron will, thy actions will speak of those you’ve killed. In saving life and dealing death, evermore till thy last breath. Against the Dark and for the Light, thy lifelong duty ends here this night.”

In unison, I and many others present repeated back to him the lines which had been spoken as a benediction to the service provided by the Fallen, no matter how ancient their deeds were. As the loud chanted murmur of the crowd settled into silence once more, Sir Tiffy made a grand, if humble, show of raising both sword and sheath in the air as one and slowly bringing the two together. The hush which held the amphitheater in its clutches was sufficient enough for the clack of the crossguard hitting against the locket to be heard clear as day across the entire assembly, fittingly sounding in every ear present as the call of duty’s end. This process was then repeated at the right side of the Shroud, this time with Braxia’s silver sword being held aloft for all to bear witness to. Likely visible to only those with the keenest of eyesight…but there was no mistaking the gentle gleam of tears on the old Witcher’s face as he glanced between the sword in his magic and the Shroud laid in state beside him. Were the Fallen someone who had passed recently, the Shroud would have been removed by this time and placed beneath their head allowing the audience to see the visage of the one being honored upon the Altar. However, in the case of skeletal remains, it was seen as distasteful to withdraw the Shroud so that the state of decay could be hidden from sight so as to not taint the image of the proud warrior they were in life. The Reliquary made clever, respectful use of shaped inserts beneath the Shroud in order to present a form which alluded to that of a fully-fleshed body being hidden beneath it. Indeed…this Shroud would never be removed again once the purification rituals had been performed and the Fallen laid in state upon the Altar, accompanying them to their very tomb.

“By strength of spirit and blessed silver, from tainted Darkness we are delivered.” Tiffy continued, his voice audibly fraying from its usual calm resolve. “Your deeds are many and countless by number, tearing accursed flesh asunder. Fear not the Darkness, do not shirk yet the fight…and bring us tomorrow…and the Moon’s eternal Light.”

With another refrain of his closing prayer by the audience, and the bone-chillingly cold snap of a sword being sheathed for the final time, Sir Tiffy inclined his head and placed the weapon beside its former master. Another cry from the Throats was then echoed across the Valley, followed soon after by the answering calls rung round the White Fangs and the one atop Kael’s Fang. I knew not if their call could be heard from the marble balustrades of Canterlot Palace, yet I hoped with all my might that their sound was as obnoxious to Her Majesty as the flame of the Spire itself. Of course…there was also the possibility that the mad Empress only relished in such a mournful sound as it announced to all that yet another Witcher had been lost to time and another of her mortal enemies was now removed from the situation for good. Regardless of her feelings (or lack thereof) on the matter, the Vigil continued unabated as Sir Tiffy gave us all a formal bow and returned to his seat while Rosemary stood to take his place. As per-usual, her dress and appearance were immaculate and well-becoming of a Lady of noble birth regardless of its mixed heritage. I always found it amusing that she insisted upon continually wearing her enchanted moonstone diadem even with the Sun having safely set for the day. What other Thestrals were present in the audience had either taken them off entirely, or exchanged them for something fancier as the Moon ensured a comfortable atmosphere to sit and relax.

“Good Witchers and citizens of the Solar Valley!” She commanded in her melodic tones. “What an auspicious occasion! To be present for the Vigil and burial of such a founding member of a prestigious institution is an honor none of us truly deserve, however we are still honored to be here for it tonight. Though my scouring of the Archives was utterly thorough, and without a single page left unturned I assure you, there is frankly little that is still known of Braxia Mellitus’ personal habits. In particular, his favorite spirit of choice…as if any Witcher could be bothered to have an undying obsession with anything else…I must say my dear Witchers in the audience, please do consider softer beverages in your palates at least once in awhile…I would love for at least one of these Vigils to be blessed by the sweetened perfection of Thestral Moonwine someday… I digress, however as that will likely never happen. In any case! We the Council have decided to honor Grandmaster Braxia’s Vigil this night with a tasting of the Solar Valley’s oldest vintage of Mother’s Lacquer! A most honorable substitute I will say and a delight for any self-respecting connoisseur of fine spirits!”

With a great wave of her hooves glowing with the Power, a mighty whoosh of air gusted out from where she stood across the assembled audience causing every silver chalice present to immediately fill to the brim with the potently fruity liquor. Though the vintages I typically purchased for myself were rather aged and well-matured in their blessed white oak barrels, the draught in my cup was of utterly pristine quality and maturity. Even before the first drops had graced my tongue was my mind overwhelmed by the heavy aroma emanating over the rim as my eyes were lost in their deep burgundy hues and royal plum. The flavorful bouquet was exquisite to the taste, flushing the entirety of my mouth in sweet, sugary nectar with the most pleasant burn I had ever had the pleasure to experience from a fermented beverage as it trickled down my throat. Even if I had actually tried, I doubted that I would have been able to restrain the moan of satisfaction which hissed from my mouth as every breath of the night air brought about fresh waves of fruity flavor to my tongue. Sip by miniscule sip did I relish in the symphony of fruits which danced and sang most heavenly in their own precious way and though the urge to guzzle it all down at once, the act of refraining was as satisfying as the drink itself. Every last drop was costly, nay priceless…a literal fragment of history to be enjoyed for every atom that it was worth for as long as politely possible. I tried to avoid dwelling over the overwhelming expense of so much prime, original Lacquer being consumed all at once as, after all, this was being done to honor one of the First Born. If ever there were Witchers deserving of such expensive and rare casks cracked open in their name, it was their league of excellence which was owed such tribute. Habaara seemed especially excited as, while everyone else took a healthy draught (or more), she occupied herself with sipping her drink in miniscule amounts whilst also sniffing it regularly and even dipping a talon in just to observe the full color of the droplet in the firelight. I had to wonder if her taste in alcohol and the finer sides of its general enjoyment were traits she always possessed, or if her service to Rosemary had inundated her with a crash-lesson on the particulars of high society over the years. Regardless of the origin, the skill had benefited her capabilities as a brewess and her talents had ensured that I was an eternal patron of her humble private vintages.

Once the crowd had enjoyed their first sips of the delicious spirit, Archmaster Ludovic rose once more and stood at the foot of the Altar facing us all, taking with him the parchment which he had received earlier from Sir Tiffy’s care. He then regaled us with another tale from the life of Braxia, this one from the year 125; a full year prior to my own birth and multiple leagues to the northwest. A Dagannoth Queen, part of a species of large, semi-aquatic bipedal reptiles, had emerged somewhere from the depths of the Western Sea and established a Nest in a submerged seaside cave just south of Port Sandy, now named Sandy Shoals. Standing at over a meter-and-a-half tall with claws nearing twenty inches and fangs that breached ten, an average adult Dagannoth was a true nightmare encounter. Capable of deadly attacks on dry land or out at sea, their tough, scaly hides ensured excellent protection from most retaliation as would be had by the average fishermare. Much like a beehive, the vast majority of eggs laid by any given Queen are unfertilized and thus develop into female adults which perform all the hunting, the rearing of young and all other aspects of maintaining the Nest. Being able to reproduce in exhaustively staggering numbers from just a single Queen, Braxia and five other Master Witchers had been called upon to exterminate their Nest and slay the entire brood to the last. With the assistance of half a battalion of Hippogriff warriors, whose nearby shores and lucrative shipping through the region were both gravely threatened, they had engaged in a two, nearly three-week war against the beasts.

Bolstered by Felid grace, stamina and agility through the Cat School’s own brand of mutagenic recipes, their progress in dealing with the Dagannoth threat proceeded thoroughly and without mercy for even the youngest of their spawn. The beasts, straying somewhere near the intellectual line of Sentience, were reportedly unprepared for the assault and had grown lax in fully concealing their spreading network of Nests over time. Some were even found to be almost or entirely unguarded along isolated stretches of the western shoreline making for easy prey for the Witcher’s blades. Though, as their campaign wore on, the beasts became further and further prepared as slippery survivors of previous attacks brought word of the veritable crusade of genocide. Casualties began to mount with several Hippogriff warriors and two of the Witchers losing their lives against the attritional and brute-force tactics of the Dagannoth which had spawned in such numbers the Scouts Elite abandoned any effort to make a full accounting of it. And yet, through it all, their quest to tame the western shoreline was brutal and effective as they whittled down the monstrous threat in droves. The group reportedly even needed to rely on a large rotating arsenal of silver-plated weapons and a small army of attendants and smiths in order to keep up with the continual wear on their equipment as even the Witchers had yet to perfect the silver sword at that time.

Their battles and the trails left behind by their fleeing survivors all eventually led to the same final retreat wherein the Queen herself had first Nested, to that submerged cavern beneath the waves which held the last of their kind. It was not enough to attempt to detonate the entrance with Bombs or kegs of explosive powder as the beasts’ steely claws allowed for them to slowly burrow through even solid granite if they persisted long enough. To seal them below ground would only delay their return and their desperation to escape would only speed along their progress that much further by every being’s instinctual adherence to the concept of self-preservation. No, such an infestation of the ever-dangerous Dagannoth spreading so quickly required a full investigation by the Witchers present as well as visual confirmation of the deaths of all those found within. Unfortunately for them, the initial Nest was revealed to be of such a size and scope that the root of the veritable infestation was in fact caused by not one, but three Queens which had managed to broker a mutually-beneficial coexistence with one another. Such a thing was extremely unusual to hear of given individual pods of Dagannoth tended to group themselves only with others born of the same singular Queen, yet rare cases like this could occur. Were a Queen so blessed as to find itself with the perfect Nesting conditions for their kind such as a surplus of easy-to-obtain food and an impressively large cave, one of the rare male specimens of their kind might just be so enticed as to make an appearance.

These so-called Dagannoth Kings are enormous beasts towering over three-meters tall which allowed them to fight for territory with things equally as massive, and to squash anything smaller than they. Graciously for Braxia and his companions, the group was spared the gauntlet of struggle which even one of these Kings could provide yet they were not wholly lucky either. The largest and oldest of the Queens present in the Nest had indeed successfully mated and produced two young Queens which would undoubtedly go on to establish Nests of their own. Even without the daunting presence of the former royal consort, confronting even a single Dagannoth Queen presented challenges which were unique to them alone. Whilst Kings could be expected to fight exclusively with melee, ranged, or Arcane at the expense of the others, Queens possessed power over all three making them exceedingly versatile in combat. And as if they weren't enticing enough for a dangerous Witcher's Hunt, their hide was seemingly capable of constantly shifting between what it was and wasn't resistant to as it's defense was never full-proof, only adaptive to whatever it was currently being assailed by. It was due to this, and several other creatures capable of similar fears, that it was rare to find a member of our guild who went without the company of some form of piercing ranged weapon; be it knife, arrow, dart or bolt. Accompanied by our silver blades and short roster of Signs, we were able to fulfill each branch of the Trinity of Battle leaving us ready and capable of facing almost any known threat wandering the earth.

And so they fought in the cramped darkness of the cave, the Hippogriffs having to make do with their lanterns and fires set by the Witchers as they began their work of scrubbing the location clean of the dagger-mouthed reptilian menace. Swords flashed with righteous fury in the gloomy, damp darkness as their silvery-blue blood was spilt and spread across the floor and walls amongst the carnage of their pitched battle which lasted hours. Casualties mounted as the Dagannoth threw themselves in waves upon the stalwart Hunters as the brave Hippogriff Hoplites suffered loss after loss and the Witchers losing three of their own under the weight of attrition as no earthly warrior was ever truly immortal. The Queen and her royal daughters however were capable, cunning hunters themselves and engaged in hit-and-run tactics amidst the waves of the more typical adult females only lending to their combined ferocity. All this death and slaughter culminated in a final assault upon the innermost sanctum of the Nest as the battered-but-unbroken group of warriors made their final push to solve the problem once and for all. The battle waged ever more dire as nary a Soul which survived the encounter left that cave unmarred to one degree or another and it was only truly by the grace of magic, Potions and mutations that the group managed to survive at all. Each Queen was clever, seemingly able to wordlessly communicate with the others so that none of them possessed the same set of strengths and weaknesses at any one time forcing the attack and defense to swing wildly about the Trinity of Battle. Once the first of the royal daughters fell however…it spelled the end of their perfect trio of defense as their options for change became more limited whilst the Witchers and Hoplites retained some advantage in numbers. Cats were not typically pack hunters so readily capable of group tactics as Wolves or Ravens, yet that day the two Witchers left standing had managed to fight with their fellow warriors like unto a starving pride of lions stalking their cornered prey after a prolonged chase. With few further Souls being extinguished amidst the flurry of claws, teeth, flung dorsal spines and water-based magical attacks, the second young Queen fell to a crippling blow to the spine when a Witcher and Hoplite combined their fury behind the lengthy haft of a Doru spear.

Finally cornered, alone and with all her spawn molding on the floor in their own gore, the old Queen was only able to defend against one type of attack at a time leaving her open to the damaging effects of another. With the Witchers providing the magic and both parties bringing with them some form of ranged and/or melee weapon, the Queen was literally bled to the last of her blood as she fought as a beast possessed. Possessed by both rage for the mass-slaughter of her precious daughters both great and small, as well as the panicked terror of a wounded animal with nothing left to offer but its final bursts of strength while it still drew breath. The second Witcher succumbed to her wounds and the brave Hippogriff Hoplites were slain to nearly the last mare and stallion of a detachment once numbering in the dozens strong of spear and shield. And yet, in spite of all the blood, the terror and the carnage which they had endured, Braxia and his few remaining companions brought the roof of the cavern down upon the beast, crushing it to nothing but gore and broken stone whilst barely escaping the inner sanctum as it collapsed. Denied the intimidating head of the largest Queen by virtue of their own desperate actions, the four survivors made off with trophies taken from the younger Queens and as many of the adult females as each wounded warrior could carry.

The Scouts Elite, or at least their earliest incarnation from such a long time ago, had found their path of destruction so stupidly easy to follow up and down the coastline that their attempts to calculate the number of Dagannoth slain was abandoned by the third day of their formal survey at a pleasingly-even number of 1,750; the true number likely two-or-three times that. What Fallen could be recovered were retrieved from the final Nest along with their weapons and equipment whilst their Vigils were held where we now sat, only some five-hundred years removed from the Vigil now being held in Braxia's name. The noble and most-honorable Hoplites who had given so many of their own lives in the pursuit of this Heroic Hunt were likewise granted honors in the same ceremony as those Witchers who had likewise Fallen in battle beside them. Indeed, it was revealed that their own tombs laid near unto that of the Fallen Cats in a special chamber carved specifically in honor of their combined sacrifice during those fateful weeks and could still be visited to this day in the winding depths of the Grand Catacombs. Such an honor was not overly common given the lofty standards of performance to which members of the guild were held to on a yearly basis, requiring the most stalwart of mortal hearts and bodies deemed equal in the eyes of a Witcher. In a peculiar way...I envied such a death over even that of Braxia's as the implications involved were far more heroic in my eyes. These were mere mares and stallions of the Triumvirate, another of our longest-standing allies of yore who boasted numerous famous Witchers of their own, yet these were not the mutated warrior mages of our guild. These were mortals, relying purely upon the natural strength of their legs and their courage under dire circumstances and yet their nerve never failed them. Not a one cast aside their heavy aspis shield and fled from the battle in disgrace as it was their cohesion in battle which ensured our allies endured the turbulent changing tides of time and progress. These were warriors in the truest sense in my eyes...unaugmented beings performing heroic feats of bravery under extreme conditions and horrific casualties amongst their comrades-in-arms. If any were worthy of lying beside the likes of the First Born...it was certainly these exquisite examples of the warrior spirit.

With such tales of heroism and selfless sacrifice to tingle the nerves and stir the spirit with thoughts of grandeur and dutiful service to the cause, the Archmaster set down his roll of parchment and raised his chalice aloft towards the assembled audience. As one we too raised ours in kind, holding each piece of hammered silver up to the night sky and allowing the contents swirling within the full unbridled blessing of the Moon above. What followed was a full thirty-seconds of pure silence as most present closed their eyes and reflected again upon the words spoken in honor of the Fallen before us upon the Altar. It was here that we were to do our part in remembering his sacrifice, as well as those of they who had stood and fought beside him in those recountings which had just been told. We were blessed with tales that few others had likely given ear to in several centuries as the exploits of subsequent generations of Witchers and Acolytes continued to add tales of their own to the endless records of the guild. Not only that, but many Schools retained Archives of their own which failed at many points to share notes with Kaer Solaris meaning an untold number of stories just like Braxia's were undoubtedly lost forever to the unkind care of time itself.

Of the many certainties to be found amongst us this night however, the most surprising was that there were some chambers of the Catacombs that would at long last receive visitors other than the Reliquists performing their weekly labors. To think that such heroes as those Hoplites who had been honored with burial alongside the likes of the First Born could be so forgotten amongst the thousands of other Fallen in the Catacombs…it was a sad thing to ponder over. Yet at last these Souls’ story had been told to a new generation of listening ears, most of which would go on to seek out there place of final rest to garnish their tombs with flowers and other token offerings. It was the least any of us could do to try and remember any of our honored dead, no matter how long ago they fought and died for our sake. With our moment of silence brought to an end, Ludovic brought the chalice to his lips and drained it to the last followed by the rest of us gathered round. One final drink for a Witcher taken far too soon from the world which never deserved him. If only any of we were so lucky as to be remembered in the same breath as his now that it was once again brought to light.

“You all bless us this night by the warm spirit which has been kindled here amongst us. ‘Tis a true pity that a First Born such as Braxia was not allowed a longer legacy befitting the sort of deeds which we have heard thus far. Yet we can rest our heads this night in true peace of conscience as we have done our duty to the Fallen. Not only the legacy of Braxia, but the honorable service rendered and the lives sacrificed to achieve it. Namely that of our stalwart ally, the Hippogriffs, and their brave warriors who fell in battle as furious combatants of the Abyssal threat. A list of their names has been compiled by the Reliquists and will be readily available to any present that may be interested prior to their visitation to their tombs. I thank you all once again from the deepest recesses of my very Soul for your presence here to mark the ultimate fulfillment of a Witcher's duty brought to its close. Let us all take some time over the coming months to study our histories and make a remembrance of those who came before us. Not only the deeds of famous Witchers, Mages and other heroes, but those of your own personal genealogies. Make time to understand the roots and branches from which we all have sprouted so that we may stand blameless before our ancestors in our twilight hours of life. Nolite Timere Tenebras, Tenebrae Timeant Nos. Fear not the Darkness, let it fear us instead my friends. Go now in good tidings and praise be unto all of you for attending with the Council and I here this night. Go in peace with one another...and hold close those who mean so much to you now. None of us know when it will be our turn upon the Altar to be remembered by all those who will continue the Path without your company, or you without theirs. We are all precious in the eyes of the Divine...let us live up to that perception.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Author's Note

Happy New Year Everyone! :)

Chapter Eighteen: Bargaining With a Sorceress Supreme

"A-are you sure you w-wish to disturb my Mistress at s-such an hour...? I-it has gotten quite late i-indeed..."

"Unfortunately my dear...I've not the luxury of waiting long as my window of opportunity is narrow and my need is rather great. And let us both be frank with one another...there is no chance in Hel that Rosemary has laid her head down to sleep as of yet. Not when there is a notable chance of a sign being made manifest in the stars on such a night as this. The Divine are sure to take some notice of the Vigil of a First Born after so long. Or so one would hope at least, heh."

"I-I am certain you are right, F-Frejdá..." She audibly gulped, glancing about with a look of timid fear. "B-but I m-must admit...I am...quite n-n-nervous to attempt this. Her concentration is n-not one to b-break lightly..."

I felt for the little Dwemess, I truly did...yet I had set an itinerary for myself and I had left my plea for the last possible moment like the indecisive, nervous wreck that I was attempting to keep in check. Once the more lightheaded side of the Vigil had begun to wind down and those in attendance began to make the long journey home, Habaara was amongst those who was pleased with the time she had spent here and wished to turn in for the night. The food, company and atmosphere had been so very pleasant...so much so that I had almost allowed myself to relax back into a state of calm and miss my chance at catching her before she fully departed. At my humble request however...she had listened to my simple (and highly annotated) query and (somehow) found it in herself to acquiesce me. Now that we had made the long journey to the central gate house of lifts descending down into the University, she was understandably losing her nerve at the thought of interrupting her Mistress for anything less than the end of the world itself. As my need was not quite so dire as that, I had to admit that it was rather frivolous of me to bother her at all when my own four legs and the High Road alike were still fully functional. Yet...I had psyched myself up in order to even attempt it in the first place, the least I could do was indulge myself in the outcome of my efforts. Whether or not she knew, or felt, that she had been bribed into helping me...I hoped that she would find it in her beautiful little heart to forgive me. There was no need for her to follow me into Rosemary's office and add words of pleading to my own as all I truly needed of her was her access to the University grounds after hours. I was not there to thieve, murder, nor even to cause a ruckus with Rosemary over personal differences. I had come to ask a relatively simple favor of a Sorceress of her caliber, a motion which would take but a moment of her time and with hardly an ounce of effort necessary on her part. And yet...Habaara outwardly expressed that which I truly felt within...

"I understand. However I still am burdened by my own need at this hour and I will accept any and all reprimand which may await. I appreciate you coming this far with me all the same, Habaara. You do not need to follow me into her office if you are feeling too uncomfortable with this."

"N-no, I will aid you, F-Frejdá." She squeaked softly with a resolute nod. "A f-friend in need is not s-something I wish to turn m-my back on. N-not after all y-you've done for m-me."

"All the more then is my gratitude for your generosity!" I beamed softly in reply, eliciting more blushes from the poor golden darling. "I know it is forward of me to make such a trivial request of the Sorceress Supreme, yet I trust her above the other Arcane users present to ensure a safe teleportation for me. The last, and only, time I requested something like this of Sorcerer Ería, he deposited me in the middle of a mountain range some twenty leagues removed from my destination and I cannot afford that same loss of time that a misaligned destination vector would cause. The Abyss has only grown more concentrated since that time and one can only guess as to how much further its ability to interfere with teleportation spells has become. As much as it hurts to say it...I trust Rosemary far more with getting it right the first time and to wholly compensate for the distortions."

"Well...I g-guess there's s-something to be said f-for your candor i-in this m-matter..." She stammered back, reluctantly embarking through the stone passage behind me as we made our way into the eastern inner chambers housing the lifts down.

The interior of the gatehouse was extremely reminiscent of the Barbican guarding the bridge leading into the School, made of the same flawless white granite which afforded the built-in defenses a decorative flair that other fortresses tended to lack. Even the murder holes from which boiling water, stones, Bombs and other such deadly items could be dumped upon attackers below were lightly gilded in gold leaf, catching the hearty glow of polished copper lanterns hung from the walls upon dainty spindles. Dutiful Guard likewise stood at attention at their posts within the lift hall, each casually guarding the three doorways leading to our destination some 150 meters below. They waved us inside without hesitation and several of them even gave Habaara a friendly personal greeting as we passed; hardly surprising given she was a daily sight in the University by way of her position. This late in the evening however, the University had technically closed its doors for the day and most staff had returned to their chambers to rest and relax after their rounds of lessons and advising their students. And rightfully so as theirs was a schedule which rarely showed any gaps under the continual weight of students both local and from lands as distant as the frozen northern tundra of the Crystalline. As such, the University was rather expansive in order to accommodate so many eager minds and so much boundless knowledge; the whole of the campus occupying multiple acres with a narrow, yet very lofty, collection of towers, halls, stairways, stained glass and decorative balconies, all serving the thousands of students who had come from near and far to pursue fairly-priced higher education. During the day, the air between the close-knit towers was alight with the happy hum of eager chatter and bustling activity as its occupants pursued their daily tasks, yet come nightfall, the space grew still and almost dreamlike. Indeed, it was but further testament to the unmitigated power over thought and emotion which majestic Thestral architecture possessed at its whim and command whenever the eyes were allowed to gaze upon its elegant form and flawless function. Ever was I reminded that the masonry of my own people was a fitting successor to their own mastery of the craft...yet in many respects there was a subtly to the art of shaping stone which we had yet to comprehend like they. We held our own, and indeed even received the nod of approval from Pygmy and Dwem alike for our efforts, but it could not disguise the fact that we were still foals playing with rusty hammers and dull chisels compared to the likes of all three great artistic species.

The gentle blue glow of the University's exterior lighting was allowed to fully shine against the abundant polished white stone around it, something which only reflected and amplified it so that fewer flames need be lit to fully illuminate the campus. A curtain wall beset along its full-length by graceful watchtowers encircled the University, further reflecting the light inwards upon the campus from off its perfectly-chiseled ashlar blocks. Being the brainchild of a veritably ancient Thestral initiative, much of the University possessed an undercurrent of Arcane energy which fueled a menagerie of devices and contraptions within the campus. Doors which opened on one's approach and closed themselves behind you of their own accord, scrying pools for instant communication between opposite ends of the campus, books which sailed softly through the air in order to sort themselves upon the shelves, and even the dozens of lifts necessary to service so many lofty towers all gained life from the metaphorical spirit of the University. As such, students who were accepted were graced with a physically comfortable existence with many tedious, minor tasks fulfilled by the school's design in order to offset the mental burden they had taken upon themselves. Indeed, they could expect to live as close to minor royalty as an educational institution could provide, at the cost of a high standard of dedication to their personally selected studies. One of Tir Ná Liá's fundamental aims was to provide advanced education for the bright minds of all species and nationalities, yet that goal did not go so far as to lower what were otherwise rather fair expectations set for those in attendance. Even the yearly costs of tuition, food and lodging, which were already within reach of much of those with middling means, could be renegotiated, sponsored, or entirely waived on a case-by-case basis by the Headmaster. If the prospective student showed stellar promise in the eyes of the University, even the lowliest of the earth could be granted the chance to show the truth of their inner talents to the world as the gift of knowledge and learning alike took many guises. Of course, this was all under the assumption that these individuals had the grit and gristle within them to withstand the demands and expectations set for them. Wavering stamina and crippling doubt can strike even the sturdiest of minds still in the midst of learning new materials and was something which was taken seriously by the staff. Those who went even beyond that and indulged themselves in the sin of slothfulness however...those are they who swiftly found their arses expelled in order to make room for the countless others patiently waiting for their turn at the University.

As a full professor, and the Dean of Arcane Studies to boot, Rosemary had carved for herself a very comfortable niche in the midst of our vast cadre of various masters of arts and sciences. Indeed, she was reportedly even a highly-prized magic tutor for those who proved worthy of her precious time, however she could be found interjecting herself into other fields as she might have knowledge in. There were several other professors of magic on the University's staff roster, all of whom were thoroughly capable of weaving elite spellcraft just as easily as they could instruct such skills unto others, yet none had gone to the lengths that our Sorceress Supreme had in order to rise to her position. Indeed, one would be more than justified in calling her rise to power within the University (and indeed the School of the Wolf) as a ferocious tour-de-force full of that same haughty confidence we all knew her too well by. Freshly exiled for reasons known only to her and the Lords and Ladies of House Amlodd, Rosemary had emerged it seemed from nowhere all at once some twenty years past. From the moment of her arrival to the Valley she was already in the midst of making moves on multiple fronts in order to establish herself in a place of authority and respect amongst us, something she surely found lacking amongst her own. No sooner had her veritable caravan of luggage carts arrived that a letter of còmhrag was issued against the School's then-current Sorcerer Supreme Tanaka; an ancient challenge of combat on equal terms used by Thestrals and Lowlands alike to settle disputes of intensely personal nature. There was nothing personal regarding Rosemary's challenge however, as she held no personal enmity for the stallion. Hers was entirely a campaign of conquest in her own name for her own ends. She truly believed that she was more deserving of the role by right of her knowledge and power, and made such a fact known to all immediately and without hesitation. I had to regretfully make do with an abundance of second-hoof accounts of their seemingly legendary battle as I had been occupied by the Path at the time it happened. As everyone stated, it was hosted atop the expanse of Mother's Mirror between two of the bridges as not even the Bastion felt large (or safe) enough for a battle such as theirs. Both combatants held themselves aloft above the waters surface by their own might with the first to dip fully beneath the waves forced to concede defeat, all per the stipulations set forth in the official document she had presented. The death of either challenger was never a prerequisite for these sort of formal affairs and, while such a stipulation could be put in writ, Rosemary merely wished to give Tanaka a thorough thrashing rather than killing him before a crowd as the ultimate humiliation of his career.

The details of their battle were frustratingly fragmented and confusing to fit into chronological order from so many varying witnesses who may or may not have even been there. Yet the results all spoke for themselves in the end as she won his position by right of winning their duel. Much the same occurred with the Dean of Arcane Studies of that day, a duel for power before a crowd of student witnesses which resulted in a second notable victory for our resident Thestral half-breed on the same day. And now, Rosemary ever so-proudly hoisted her titles aloft anywhere she pleased and with the requisite strength and proof to bolster her ego wherever she went. Her unfettered devotion to the expansion of her own strength and knowledge opened multiple doors amongst us that were undoubtedly sealed forever against her in the Dominion and...I had to admit it, I found it rather admirable. Compared to my mediocrity, hers was a successful life built upon centuries of hard work and unyielding strength of will and character. The formal letters of còmhrag was even said to hang in a place of honor upon her office wall as a trophy of her victory, a saying I was curious to find out for myself now that I found myself making the long approach to her office for the first time in my life.

The interior of the University was delectably posh and intellectual as the senses could scarcely tell one was actively walking through the innards of a stone fortress. The masonry was exquisite and seamless, yet any would be pardoned for failing to notice it when the walls were made host to lengthy tapestries and endless rows of finely-carved bookshelves. If the countless well-bound tomes failed to catch the eye, one would have to be entirely blind in order to ignore the immaculate tapestries woven of glowing threads of silk and crystal depicting various acts of discovery and innovation from across our combined histories. Enchantments beyond my comprehension further brought these quaint scenes to life by projecting glowing phantom images across themselves giving animation and 'life' to these otherwise still images from the past. The floor beneath us was similarly furnished by means of an exquisitely soft, and exceedingly long, rug dyed a deep indigo trimmed in gold and silver thread; a furnishing which extended unbroken throughout each and every hall and corridor located on the same floor. Just as abundant as the shelves and tapestries were the comfortably furnished reading nooks tucked away within shallow alcoves in the wall complete with chairs, desks and a selection of blank parchment and spare writing implements including custom oak gall ink dyed a vibrant red or violet. The ceilings...I had to fight my own instincts when it came to the spellwork on display which projected the night sky in all its majesty overhead with its glittering stars in the countless billions. More than once my poor, tired guide through the winding passages of the University was forced to halt our passage to rouse me from my own rapture with the calming comfort of the night which spoke to the very blood within my veins. Though the era of frequent visits from members of the Dominion had long since come to a close, their inexplicable mark had been left upon the very identity of the University as seen in such simple marvels of it's inspired design. The interior was gently cool, softly lit and full of fine furnishings and decorations imported from the heart of Prifddinas. All things befitting the residency of Thestral nobility and their entourage of attendants and so forth as was now ancient history. Their builders and first occupants had long since returned to the shaded boughs which they do loved and in their place were the likes of us and those of their number who had fled to us for shelter.

Of course, there was also nothing quite like their peculiar candles, hearths and lanterns all brightly lit by Arcane flames of gentle blue; a spell which was most beloved by Thestrals and Lowlands across the Continent. Seeing as they burned without need for physical fuel, fed life by grace of the magic of the University itself, they produced no smoke being more the apparition of fire rather than an actual act of combustion itself taking place. As such, every log in the hearth or candle in the stand or lantern were fashioned from pure gleaming silver which sparkled and reflected the light that they were crowned by with majesty and beauty. Coupled with highly polished hearthstones and faceted lenses in each of the lanterns, and there was illumination enough for all but the most day-sighted individuals within the University. All these things combined made these charming flames excellent for indoor lighting for locations full to the brim with flammable items of multiple sorts; particularly those with an abundance of books as there was no chance of losing precious tomes to a roaring blaze, nor was there any eye strain when compared to reading by traditional candlelight late into the night. The glowing white crystals used by Kaer Solaris were equally as applicable for the same utility, yet the architects must have seemingly found their glow to be too harsh upon their nocturnal eyes within the confines of their masterpiece of stone. By virtue of these same flames, the University was able to regulate its own internal temperature as necessary given the amount of heat they produced (or lack thereof) could be finely-tuned to produce both a freezing chill or a sweltering heat. Given the numerous species pursuing their education within these walls, the ambient temperature within most spaces was kept rather temperate so as to accommodate as many at once as possible. In their private dorms and offices however, students and faculty alike were allowed far greater control over their personal flames and could adjust them to whatever level they felt made them most productive.

And even as the thought of productivity came to mind did I begin to spot the ragged survivors of the late-night study gallop; either in small, exhausted groups of bleary-eyed academics discussing a class assignment, or isolated loners curled up in the corners with piles of scribbled notes and open books. To think that, at least for a time, these student's only earthly worries were meeting the bar of expectations set by the Headmaster and all other worries were seen to, more or less. The goal of the institution was, after all, to extend a fair chance at a degree for all students as the entrance exams ensured the weak-willed never set hoof, paw or talon within. Tír Ná Liá was challenging, almost brutal in some eyes...yet it was always fair and equal in its distribution of stress and expectations. And the ultimate reward for all of this and all else as might beset a young, bright mind? Why it was a prestigious degree in whatever field(s) of study they slaved so diligently for, a credential which, even in spite of the Cleansing, retained much of its clout and appeal outside the Valley. Intelligent individuals with the strength-of-will to endure a Thestral University and emerge victorious were always to be in high demand in the outside world as Kingdoms grew stronger and their needs grew larger and more complicated to manage in turn. All things which required learned professionals with training and education actually worth a damn.

Starting as we had in the center by way of the lift from the Grand Viaduct above, our path to Rosemary's personal office was somewhat lengthy as it occupied an entire domed hall to itself on the southern tip of the campus. Arranged as it was in the form of a six-pointed star (a sacred and recurring design in Thestral architecture), the straightest path to any of the six points lay at ground level as one could avoid the convoluted series of bridges and lifts connecting the various towers together. Instead, our journey was mostly one of passing through endless doorways as we cut a path through the various buildings in our way, amidst the small, open courtyards between towers sporting an abundance of flora to calm the mind from study. So infrequent were my visits to the campus that I had even forgotten these little gardens possessed an equal abundance of rare moths and butterflies which fluttered about on graceful, dazzlingly colorful wings as they supped and pollinated on the bounty of flowers provided to them. Honeybees were likewise in abundance in these delightful little bits of nature amidst the maze of white stone, gathering in dainty little hives of pure white wax courtesy of the Biological Sciences Department and their eager entomology and horticulturist students. And, as it was only fitting that she too found something to distract her attention, Habaara could not help but stop for several hives as we passed by in order to happily greet the bees and inspect their hive for proper maintenance.

"Hello my little friends!" She crooned brightly like a mother would her child, holding out her talons for the small insects to land and greet her in kind. "A blessed evening to you all!"

Her simple friendly offer was readily accepted and before long her claws were crawling with the gold-and-black striped honey makers. She showed no sign of fear nor hesitation towards them unlike some other mares I had known whose only reaction to insects was deep fear and revulsion. Indeed, her touch was one the bees were intimately familiar with through her obvious diligence towards assisting in their care even though they were not her own personal hives. I had the pleasure of witnessing her at work in her own apiary on more than one occasion, even assisting her with honey extraction the last several years when time permitted me once her hives grew too fat with bounty. She knew her way around the little creatures with all the grace and love of a mother, or in fact, perhaps was even seen as a queen bee in her own right amongst them. Regardless of her social standing amongst her bees, the smaller creatures of Terra Firma were seemingly quite astute judges of character and would congregate and gravitate towards those of a gentle, kind spirit such as hers. The influence they could exert over these creatures behavior varied from a simple oneness with nature that brought peace to otherwise territorial beings, to a subliminal ability to communicate with them and even command them in a limited capacity. Those capable of the latter were rare, yet rather obvious from the way they had field mice, ravens, snakes and other such small creatures at their beck and call willing and able to perform simple tasks for them in exchange for treats and kind words. Habaara was not so gifted as that, however her affinity and instinct for small creatures including insects certainly went above the average hobbyist. She never dawdled long at any one hive, yet it was obvious that her love for them ran deeply and I was pleased to see her smile of approval as each hive was swiftly reassembled thanks to their ingenious multi-part design. A nod of approval from any learned, passionate hobbyist was something to cherish in my eyes as it only validated the hard work of one's own hooves with experienced eyes.

"Good evening my little friends, may your cells flow with honey and royal jelly in equal abundance!" She beamed with a pleased expression as she held her talons against the side of the hive for her little friends to crawl onto. "Note to self to congratulate Miss Anne on her student's quality of care for this semester, much cleaner honeycomb than last and I see they fixed their haphazard rows finally..."

Once the last of the buzzing little bees left her talons, she quickly neatened out her black silken dress and returned us to the path ahead making embarrassed apologies for each of her quick visits as we passed them by. I was hardly one to complain seeing someone passionate and in their element actively working their magic, and it came with the benefit of hearing her speak more normally and with far less of her usual nervousness. I had more than an inkling that she had some feelings for me that went beyond just our pleasant friendship which was in large part responsible for her stuttering and frequent blushes whenever I addressed her personally. If anything, it became all the more endearing as I was flattered to cause someone like her such minor squirming distress whenever I drew near. However, as the topic had never been broached openly, and the fact that she was quite happily married already, I had never dwelt too long upon how long her eyes dwelt upon me in turn. Such a thing had been the status-quo between us for so many years that I was afraid to be the one to break it in the name of exploring her feelings more openly between us. It was a deeply personal thing to do and I was never one to make such bold assumptions, or actions, as that. Not to say that she was either...and thus we stayed endlessly circling around the very fringes of the topic without ever getting to the bottom of it. I was more than willing to explore the unknown with her in all truth, even if I myself felt no small measure of the same timidness which she outwardly expressed so readily. If anything, I envied her for her ability to so freely express such feelings of nervous anxiety around me as it felt difficult to show the same level of emotion myself in turn. Artificially hardened nerves of steel from several lifetimes of Hunting the darkest dangers of Old Night had rendered such things difficult by design. Joy, pleasure, mirth and happiness were far easier to experience as they rewarded our steely dispositions with suitable enjoyment which compensated our otherwise dour existences wandering the Path. Our profession could not broker any quarter with the likes of fear and cowardice as we were the ultimate guardians of those who could not defeat the Darkness. The feelings, the instinct of fear still remained deep within each of us...yet it was designed to stay buried. All but the hardest of Witchers knew how to laugh and did so as frequently as they could as an outlet against what otherwise never left the deepest confines of our private thoughts and doubts. There was no need for Habaara to listen to such wretched thoughts as those... There was always a need for such bright spots of life as her in my life and I had no reason to spoil the evening for either of us.

Door after door opened and closed themselves at our approach and departure through the myriad of buildings dedicated to the various disciplines taught within. Sparkling sapphires embedded above each doorway glowing in response to a beautiful charm hung about Habaara's neck. Taking the shape of a delicate lotus blossom cut from a sparkling white diamond, this was her pass throughout the whole of the University after hours. While I might have been able to make it to the most public areas of the campus (such as the library) on my own as such doors remained open at all hours, access to faculty offices and lodging were much more tightly regulated for rather obvious reasons. As the exclusive assistant to the Dean of an entire department, her private credentials cleared the way for our passage unto the very doors of the large hall held in reserve specifically for her. Carved long before her own birth, the mighty stone slabs acting as doors were carved with the reliefs of dozens of veritable primordial legends of ancient Thestral history in the midst of various heroic and otherwise stoic or pensive poses as they wove a story of the earliest of magical studies from the earliest days of the Age of the Moon. Undoubtedly our Sorceress Supreme was of the notion that she too had what it took to have her own likeness carved into immortal stone one day like unto these personal heroes... But for now, she could make do with her bust occupying a plinth amongst the others who had held her position before her in the Hall of Records. Weighing countless tones on their own, the enormous doors swung inwards effortlessly upon utterly silent hinges as smoothly as a droplet of water across a waxed surface allowing us access to the massive rectangular lecture hall which occupied the first two floors of Rosemary's space. Tiered seating much like unto that found in the Council Chambers occupied a near-full ring about the large wooden desk in the center of the room which commanded an armada of chalk boards all set upon wooden frames on wheels. A mezzanine occupied the second floor of the hall offering additional seating for what were assuredly very populous lessons on the intricacies and subtleties of magic. I was unable to count them all, yet my gut indicated there were definitely over a hundred seats present and I could only wonder how many students filled these chairs during lesson hours.

At such an hour as this however, all was silent, tucked away, and cleaned for the night with none of the grand chandeliers aglow with Arcane flames. Only a scattered collection of small lanterns remained lit near the walkways for safety purposes; blessed Moonlight pouring in through high stained glass windows along each wall embracing everything within reach. Though it had been hours since her lessons had concluded for the day and all was put away where it should be, my Medallion tingled and hummed at all the residual magical energy still lingering in the air from her students practicing their craft. The air even had a taste and smell which was unique to the study of geomancy, though perhaps it's scent was too subtle for the average person to detect; a certain musty, earthiness which freshly lingered in a way similar to prime potting soil on the nostrils. I could only hope that the day's lesson went swimmingly so as to ease her highness into an agreeable mood which could be more easily tempted into assistance.

"Will the path to her chambers be open from here?" I asked my guide who was in the midst of a rather large yawn which caused her to stumble ever-so-lightly in place as we stood and stared. "You are more than welcome to depart at this point for home, my dear...you have been most kind in bringing me this far. Good or ill, I am absolutely certain that Rosemary will see me out in one fashion or another of her own accord so your services are no longer required this evening."

"A-are you s-sure...?" She squeaked in a hushed, tired whisper as she glanced past me towards a rather exquisitely decorated doorway leading to a stairway curling up and out of sight. "I-it should be open, y-yes."

"I am sure Habaara, please. Go and get some rest. I'm sure Kahrobâ is already beginning to worry something fierce as to where you are at this hour, best not to keep his poor self waiting overlong."

With mention of her equally timid-but-friendly husband, a certain level of focus and energy seemed to return to her weary eyes and she nodded in tired agreement at my words.

"Y-yes...he will most c-certainly be a nervous w-wreck by this t-time..." She hummed softly in pity as she checked her person for all her belongings. "V-very well, I-I am glad to have b-been of help F-Frejdá! I-I hope to s-see you again s-soon!"

"Have no fears nor doubts on that, my dear." I beamed back at her with all honesty of heart. "We have that mead of yours to taste together after all upon my return! Not to mention that I still have yet to come and collect that star amethyst I had Kahrobâ set aside for me last winter... Needless to say, I have more than one reason to come and visit your cozy little burrow come the winter chill."

She squeaked again, more than likely feeling something along the lines of how I felt when Rosalia had given her own offer of enticement to look forward to come winter. Irregardless of how our next interaction turned out, as I was decidedly on board with the idea of including her husband in our little fling were it to form, I knew that our time together would be memorable and precious. Theirs was a simple, wholesome romance founded upon mutual awkward friendliness marked by a near-obsession in their own particular interests of note. While hers lay in all things bees and honey related, with passing interests in teas, baking and charming imitations of the calls of smaller bird species, his lay in all things insects, reptiles, gemstones and mushrooms. Together, they each brought in their own independent incomes by way of multiple jobs and business which they ran. Namely his gemstone and exotic fungi emporium and her employment under Rosemary coupled with a rather successful home brewery and bakery of her own honied products under her self-made label of 'Little Honeybee Delights'. What they had...I wished I had for myself in all truth. It was simple, it was quaint and it was so utterly wholesome for the Soul with no hint of malice or ire. They knew the world outside was dark and fraught with horror, and so they kept their heads down and their focuses on what things brought them joy. And along the way, they happened to have found happiness in one another while doing it. It was all a lonely Witcher like myself could hope for, but never attain without declaring an official retirement. Something that was...rather taboo and unheard of amongst our number for a whole host of reasons both practical as well as unending judgement from most other Witchers.

"G-goodnight Frejdá." She smiled bashfully as she turned to glance back one last time before shutting the large doors hind her. "I-I hope s-she listens to y-you!"

"As do I..." I hummed to myself as I waved her goodbye before turning to enter the stairway leading up as soon as the doors softly boomed shut with an echo which bounced from off every possible wall imaginable.

There was little chance that the sound failed to catch Rosemary's attention and I prepared myself with every step up the decorative passage to explain everything swiftly and to the point so as to not waste her precious time. That being said, I allowed myself to take my time ascending whilst my eyes were naturally drawn to the abundance of silver-trimmed frames hung along both walls. As to be expected, there was an abundance of still-life portraits on exhibition presenting scenes of dark, beautiful forests, a palace fortress made of crystal in the heart of Prifddinas, and the likeliness of many Thestral nobles with presumable familial ties to Rosemary personally. Undoubtedly...they only occupied the walls over that of select Thestral masters of the Arcane (or the images of past Deans) so as to make it abundantly clear that the mare at the top of these stairs was a daughter of the eternal woodland. Many of the other images presented however were...complex to say the least; obscure and fanciful shapes the likes of which I wholly lacked the words to describe as they seemed to shift and shimmer anew even as I blinked and moved. Never was the same image reaching my eyes twice and none dwelt long enough for any memory of their form to be retained save for a blurry after-image which lingered behind the eyes. Before long, nothing seemed to feel quite...real, and my Medallion began buzzing softly against my breastplate in protest. Such artwork as this perturbed me as much as it entranced me, as there was nothing else in my experience quite like it. Although, admittedly, my skill set was left wanting in the ridiculous field of fine art, let alone objects like this which were made from some form of advanced magic. And it was not just a single one of these bizarre portraits which dazzled my fancy, holding me almost prisoner in place upon the stairs, but all of them. If anything, those solitary paintings of a regular sort became like unto isles of reality amidst a swirling sea of hapless visual illusions. Was this...high art of Thestral nobility beyond my ability to comprehend? Or...was this some form of elaborate trap designed for after-hours trespassers...?

"My, my...I never took you for one to appreciate the rather...niche wood carvings of the most talented, and now sadly deceased, Luchtaine of the Tuath Dé Danann. Aren't you full of interesting surprises as of late, Frejdá?"

At her crooning words of sarcasm their uncanny spell over me was broken and I found myself feeling at last in what passed for reality. My relief was palpable and I thanked the Gods for my return to normalcy, even if it was disappointingly full of...her presence. She stood atop the head of the stairs still dressed in her beautiful dress of plum and burgundy from the Vigil earlier with an expression of mild irritation veiled by sarcastic humor, and a rather healthy helping of mild interest. I knew that she had every reason to think anything I had to say would be a waste of her precious time better spent staring at the stars... Yet,bthere was something to her eyes that spoke of a genuine interest which went beyond even the usual annoyance my presence sparked in her mood. She knew fully that something was up and that all she needed to do was wait for me to spill it all out in her very presence of all places. My appearance was certainly a surprise, that much was obvious, and yet...there was something else there that made me shiver a little on the inside. Nothing nefarious or dangerous to life and limb, but certainly in the same vein as being caught with my trousers down on the side of the High Road.

"This...this is woodwork??" Was all I was able to get past my lips, a question which was best left for later but had inadvertently found itself ushered to the front of the que. The illusion had broken and my Medallion was still, but there remained a certain indescribable nature to...whatever objects were floating of their own accord within the confines of their silver frames.

"Indeed, as achieved by an assortment of special carpenter's tools comprised entirely of sung crystal if it was not already obvious." She smirked before nodding towards the stretch of hallway behind her. "Come along, darling...we are wasting Moonlight here."

"Y-you're...not...mad that I'm here...?" I asked after what felt like an eternity of remaining frozen where I stood as I attempted to keep my eyes from off the disorienting decorations.

"Oh fear not, dear Frejdá...I am absolutely furious to see you at this hour on the eve of a potential sign in the infinite Cosmos...but seeing as you went to such an effort as to heavily personalize your bribes to my assistant, and out of your own purse as well, well...I felt I can indulge you in whatever it is you want of me. But only for a short time, you understand of course. I am feeling...unusually generous this night, but do not overstay your welcome if you are at all able..."

"N-naturally..." I muttered back in mulled anxiety as I mounted the stairs behind her while keeping a healthy distance between us if not for the sake of not treading upon the dragging trains of her dress.

Entering into her office occupying the whole of the third floor, and encased by the lofty heights of the stone dome overhead, I was rather pleasantly surprised at what was presented before me. The first thing which truly caught my attention was the mess on display all around the roomy space as stacks of books, scrolls and tablets of stone loomed over me at every turn. Indeed, the clutter filled most available space to be found as a narrow passage had to be formed between them leading further into the center of the room. It was only after a few moments that my attention was pulled away sufficiently enough for me to notice a round platform of sorts directly under the dome itself supported by a ring of chiseled columns and sporting a colossal telescope of silver. Set by immaculately-shaped Glainne Dearcán faceted to focus in on the farthest reaches of the known Cosmos, such a monstrously large device was truly a breathtaking bit of nostalgia for me. After all, I was already vaguely familiar with the mechanisms as my mother had likewise had one commissioned for her own work, leaving me with an impression as to what a professional arrangement looked like. The great scope was held aloft atop a sturdy pillar of metal and controlled via a complicated series of slender levers and cranks which controlled everything from the focal point of the internal lenses to the exact angle of sight of the entire apparatus. In between the shorter towers of tomes, scrolls and tablets I could also spy luscious wooden bookshelves forming the outer face of each inner wall of the room, each its own intimidating monolith of stored knowledge beyond my ability to reckon. The want to forgo the rest of my night for even a few hours' worth of mindless browsing of her seemingly endless collection...it hurt the reader within me to sacrifice such an opportunity as one could only wonder what information present was not already known to Kaer Solaris' own collection. My curiosity regarding the status of the two letters of còmhrag were swiftly confirmed as the long sheets of velum dyed a gorgeously dark indigo and written in gold ink had been enshrined in platinum frames upon the pair of support pillars closest to her desk. Each even sported a built-in silver lantern dangling from off the top of the frame which cast its proud blue Arcane light upon the letters so as to draw even more attention to themselves. Something else which struck me as the most unexpected however, was the aroma present amidst the overwhelming scent of parchments, inks, leather bindings and other assorted materials forming the dominant occupants of the room. While I had been expecting the moonwine, and even the scent of Hurricane Gin as I knew of her soft affection for it, the scent of honey mulled by the likes of buttery dough and powdered sugar was certainly not what I had in mind. A scent of honey and buttery dough which I knew and salivated over myself on a regular basis...

"Honeycake?" She asked as we emerged from her forest of knowledge into a clearing in the center of the hall beneath the telescope housing her broad desk of white marble; a silver platter of Habaara's finest being levitated my way rather unexpectedly as a tempting offering.

"O-oh, absolutely!" I blurted out in reply, hungrily taking two without further hesitation and promptly stuffing my mouth with one of them, much to her continued bemusement.

"I see her witchcraft over honey has ensnared your tongue as well." She smirked, taking one for herself and indulging in a hearty nibble. "Understandable, the little Dwemess seems to be entirely unaware of the Power she wields in her baking."

"E-escusss meh?" I mumbled around a tongue held bound by a sea of sticky, warm honey which sparked all manner of pleasant endorphins in my brain.

"Manners, dear Frejdá..." She sighed flatly at my attempt to speak with a mouth full of food like an ill-mannered foal. "As for Habaara, yes. Your ears are not playing you for the fool, she indeed unconsciously wields some minor instinctual spellcraft in each lump of dough and each ounce of honey put under her care. Her...quaint and simple adoration for the fine work of her talons imbues her works with a phantom of her affections which bestows a positive emotional stimulus into the consumer as a...sliver of insight if you will, into the rather happy little existence she lives. Such a thing is far too subtle for any to take notice of, yet the effect is always the same: repeat business and exceedingly content clientele. Her fortunes could be far greater than they are under my employ were she to apply this skill to a larger degree than her simple bakery...but alas, I'm afraid she seems most content with where she is now. At least her friends and neighbors indulge her efforts with an abundance of support and repeat patronage."

I...was...frankly bewildered. The information being bestowed to me regarding someone I liked to consider a rather close friend was already cause for surprise on its own, but it was the...frankness of its delivery that left me dumbstruck and unable to respond. She had always held herself in public as almost fundamentally better than Habaara purely off the basis of their personal wealth and stores of knowledge and experience. The up-front offering of the honeycake was equally as unexpected as it was a show of hospitality I had honestly believed her to be utterly incapable of outside the realm of entertaining persons of repute in her eyes. It hardly took anyone to tell me, as I knew all-too-well for myself, that I most certainly failed to meet such standards as hers. Or...so I had thought? I was so perplexed...

"Oh dear, what is with that expression?" She pouted mockingly with the edges of her sharp lips still curled into a smirk and just barely exposing the tips of her longest fangs. "I am a most capable hostess to guests of all societal standings, even those as brusque and unrefined as yourself. This is your first visitation to my office in the two decades I have spent at this post and, while perhaps I had hoped such a streak would remain unbroken into perpetuity...we find ourselves here together all the same. Very curious indeed..."

"Then...why see me at all? If us not crossing paths is so comfortable for the both of us, then why even let me in? You could have teleported me into Mother's Mirror at any point before this, but you haven't."

"Oh Gods above and below, must the obvious ever be revealed to you by others?" She huffed before settling comfortably into a high-backed wooden chair crowned by a pair of wise silver owls with eyes of amber. "I am being both polite as per the confines of social etiquette, as well as being magnanimous because you actually made yourself of some actual use to me the other evening. Seeing all that, and your choice of items with which to entice Habaara to let you wander in her after hours...whatever it is you wish to ask of me must be of some serious worth unto you. I think it may pass without mention...but such an intriguing set of circumstances rather has my interest in the matter. And besides...I have a selection of hypotheses as to what it may be, and I simply must find the appropriate solution from the source itself."

"So I equate no more to an elaborate experiment to you then?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not...is not all experience but one massive experiment in existence? Anything can be made to fit such a procedural process, even the most repetitive of tasks if need be. The outcome from those is almost always the same...yet the process can be of assistance with toleration of the monotony of the actions undertaken no matter how repetitive."

"I see...and would it be safe then to assume that such an approach has been employed on my behalf?"

"Darling, such an approach is my preferred method of experiencing every moment of my waking hours and as many of my unconscious ones as I am able to control and influence. Unfortunately the subconscious remains a rather stubborn subject, but I will best the theories and tactics of Ibormeith and his blasted studies on sleep one day. I can tell already that such a thing will bore you so I shall refrain from continuing any further... Please, do speak up already as to why you intrude upon my midnight hours utterly unannounced?"

"I...well..." I stammered, unable to bring the right selection of words to mind which would both throw her off the scent while still getting my need across. "Um..."

"Very well, I shall go out on a rather sturdy limb here and make the assumption that you have need of my talents for precise teleportation to...oh, I don't know...perhaps someplace towards the west? Perhaps to a very certain walled city named Misty Meadows on the banks of the Maydock River? And most certainly not for the purpose of delivering a certain...substance to inflict bodily harm any particular foreign nobility of which your little she-devil of a friend has absolutely no ties to on a national and distantly familial standing, yes?"

....I had to either start expecting even more from her, or far less from myself as her thinly-veiled accusations were laid out bare before me with no recourse for recovery or repositioning in order to place my hooves upon more solid metaphorical ground. She had said more than enough... Everything had come together to present to her a rather clear picture as to our private little scheme of paid assassination and I held no hope of escaping from the charges presented.

"Fine... I give up in full, Rosemary. You win." I grumbled in utter defeat, sagging shoulders, spirit and all.

"Oooooh how long have I waited to hear those very words escape your lips..." She crooned with visible pleasure at my uncomfortable squirming beneath her piercing gaze. "Oh come now, do not look at me like I shat upon your porridge. There are pieces enough of your feckless planning left in your wake for my mind to piece them all together rather swiftly, Frejdá. And it is to little surprise as, for all your flaws, you have never marked 'assassin' as part of your resumé... You are a Witcher's Witcher by all accounts, far too orthodox to guild Code to consider such an infraction of the rules for yourself. You are uncouth and ill-mannered for a Lowland of such birth as yours, but you lack any of the makings of a proper troublemaker. Unlike that insufferable pair of Yonderlandians you so insist on making your acquaintances with, you are the spitting image of a proper guild-compliant Witcher and a beacon standard for such frivolous fillies to follow in the hoofsteps of. And yet, you are not quite such an example to them, are you? Allowing yourself to be talking into the casual killing of a Yonderlandian noble? I would not have expected such a thing to even be possible! And yet, once more, we find ourselves here together all the same, facing such a situation as that. Does that not strike you as interesting as well?"

"What do you want of me, Rosemary...?" I groaned in uncomfortable awkwardness as she toyed with the prey so tangled up in her web of intrigue. "You make it obvious that there is a...point to all this pedantic banter."

"Want? Of you? What a curious choice of words, my dear. You see, there is no 'want' here. Not when I have you by the tail and trapped by the confines of my own study." She purred with utter relish for the moment clearly evident in her tone, posture and gaze as she casually levitated another bite of cake to her lips. "Mmm...no, no, that will simply not do. No, consider this a...measured favor-for-a-favor if you will. What is the phrase you heathens use? Scratch my back and I shall scratch yours in kind?"

"Close enough..."

"Wonderful, you understand the prelude to my point then. And my point is this: you require my elite talents to save your precious hooves a lengthy trot towards a set deadline...and I require the death of one other individual who just so happens to be in the retinue of the same person of noble blood to which Miss Keidis has set your sights and brutish instincts upon. Oh yes, and his private collection of Glainne Dearcán which his ancestors looted from the tombs of my people's most precious ancestors and made into familial heirlooms of their own. It is an utter show of contempt and disrespect towards the Dominion and their recovery could prove...useful towards shoring up my own standing. A standing that, I am sure you already are aware, is eternally precariously perched above the cusp of ignominy as, unlike my peers...I must continually prove unto them my loyalty to the Holy Moon of Yore and provide supplication to the House of Lords. This is a burden I would not wish upon even you, if your mind is at all capable of believing such words."

"You were right to doubt me, I do not believe hardly any of this at face value." I admitted with more candor than expected. "When has there ever been a time or situation like this between us prior to now? When have we ever needed to rely upon one another for mutual assistance, let alone for an assassination?"

"Well, never of course. And we have both seen to such a fact existing as our status quo for over twenty years now, so there was no indication that this conversation would have occurred at all without such...bizarre circumstances inspiring all of this nonsense. But again... Here. We. Are."

"That we are...and what are we to do about that?"

"We? Darling I have all but done my part for you in this scheme! You came here for a guarantee of transport to your destination, and I have already given unto you my terms for my cooperation with your rather flagrant disregard for the Code. Not that I have any personal qualms with breaking some of its tenants mind you, even as the illustrious Sorceress Supreme of your organization I recognize the shortcomings of some of your more...self-righteous tenants. There are lowly creatures of all sorts in this wretched world we live in, and many remain under the protections of the Code by right of being the Sentient, small-minded bastards that they are. Now...while I would find much peace of mind in the utter decimation of such living rubbish, I lack such powers as that, else I would have enacted such a sweeping cleansing of my own."

"Your words circle about dangerous paths of thought, Rosemary..." I warned, wishing to avoid a trail of dialogue which would devolve her mood into one of bitter bigotry towards Equestrians.

"Oh I am oh so very aware of that, my dear..." She crooned in mock shame. "I know, now is not the time for a lengthy discussion of the relative morality of aggressively pruning a dying orchard. And so we must shift focus away from the macro and back upon the micro. Specifically, that which concerns the two of us in particular. I seek the death of this so-called magician as a matter of personal pride and solidarity if you must know. My most recent treatise published some three moons past concerning my research into the nature of anomalous events of Wild Magic was used as the basis for his 'research' into the 'unholy abomination which so pollutes our precious world', as he so crudely puts it. Not only that, but said 'research' found its way into the bloodied hooves of the Church of the Eternal Pyre and has become further corrupted until it became the latest subject of their violent public sermons. Do you not hear the sheer insanity on display in those words?? To think that these savages can be so-easily convinced that the natural state of a planet that is not their own is in fact unnatural by the mere words of unlearned cowards cowering in the shadow of their own ignorance. These sermons have since spread to their smaller communities where the light of knowledge is somehow even dimmer than in the cities, and these idiots have begun to take up actual arms against naturally occurring magical anomalies. The deaths are still only in the dozens, but they have occurred across most of Western Equestria and what is left of my once good name on the original study is now spreading as the culprit for their ridiculous deaths rather than on the bastard responsible for bastardizing my work to begin with! Justice by traditional means is impossible and he is too clever to allow himself to be taken easily from afar by Arcane means meaning I either devote a significant portion of my power into overpowering all his wards and defenses at once...or I contract out the work to someone else not so readily seen in the public eye. And then tonight, in the midst of looking to the stars for possible answers to this barbed arrow in my side amongst the myriad of other things plaguing my mind, you appear as if on cue from the Divine themselves. How bizarre..."

"Oh come now, Rosemary..." I grunted sheepishly while waving both hooves dismissively. "A simple ignorant bitch like myself is no fulfillment of personal prophecy and discovery, let alone yours. You would be better served consulting Grandmaster Tulka for something so full of subtlety like that I would think."

"Humph, Tulka is a middling Adept at the craft on the best and clearest of nights..." She grumbled under her breath before continuing, "There is no need for a second opinion when I am already certain of my interpretation of our combined present circumstances. You need to reach Misty Meadows sooner rather than later, I can deliver you right to its doorstep, and I need but one other Soul to fall by your hooves since you will already be in the exact area and performing the same deed upon his own liege anyway. You are already cutting off the head of this wretched Yonderlandian serpent...what is lopping off a bit of the neck along with it going to hurt? Violet is having you kill as part of some daft scheme to clear the name of De La Croix, all I am requiring is the exact same service but for my own name I would never have considered you to hold the keys to this most recent debacle...but even I can admit that I could be in far less experienced hooves."

To think that in the span of less than a week I was being presented with offers for two contract killings, both specifically against Yonderlandians and both I found myself agreeing to. Out of fear, intimidation...or simply my want to maintain the peace, I knew already that she was going to have her way by my hoof and I was to be made the potential scapegoat for two murders. It was wrong on every level to accept either of them, but I was in too deep to pull myself out of the mire I found myself trapped by. The least I could take as consolation for it all was the fact that my motivation for accepting was not founded in a want for material wealth but out of solidarity towards a friend. At least...as far as Violet was concerned. As for Rosemary...it was as she had said, she had me cornered and by the tail with her knowledge of my plans, knowledge which was already rank with the stink of blackmail simmering in the background. That said, however...there was something absolutely tantalizing about finally hearing some compliments regarding myself coming from her. Much like she relished in seeing me squirm before her...I could not help but take some pride that she seemingly thought of me as an experienced Witcher. A Witcher's Witcher she had even said...

"I can already see in your eyes a certain resignation towards the situation, good. Now, you may as well inform me as to whatever amateur-level planning you lot have already put into motion for this little escapade of yours. What assets does the little disinherited Duchess-never-to-be have in play that may be of use to us?"

"I am set to meet with one or both of her contacts within the Scouts Elite acting as her eyes and ears in the area before anything else as they were to have the latest reconnaissance of Misty Meadows and its state of readiness. One is a Nightkin by the name of Androma who is said to be overseeing the city outskirts and the immediate countryside, while the other is a Unicorn by the name of Autumn who has been in the city working in the port district undercover gathering intelligence on the ground."

"Oh? She was only able to bribe two of the Scouts Elite into this endeavor? With all the wealth she likes to lip on about at her disposal, I would have assumed she would have garnered more agents for her tangled little web of fratricide." She sighed with a look of genuine disappointment which surprised me as she indulged herself in another bite of cake. "No matter...I suppose the majority of her lackeys dwell more towards the east in and around Yonderland itself. At the very least, she has left for us something tangible to make use of which is more credit than she otherwise is due."

With that seemingly off her chest, she paused to wipe her lips with a silken kerchief before rising back to her hooves and moving towards a tidy little table of shaped crystal bearing fanciful decanters of spirits. "Care for something quality to whet your throat with? This is hardly the finest swill in my cellars, but it will most certainly be of a higher quality than I am sure typically washes over your tongue. Oh, and I am not going to ask twice my dear. I try not to make such things a habit..."

"Oh...um, yes. I will take something then if you are offering. What do you have...?"

"Hm...I think I would rather make a guess based upon gut instinct if it is all the same to you. That is...if you feel like you can trust in my judgement and not in some pointless plot to poison you. I know such a thing is possible, just...highly difficult and questionably cost-efficient for the compounds necessary to utterly ensure success, let alone in a Viper with your enhanced tolerances to such things."

The idea of her attempting to poison me by means of poisoned vodka, or otherwise, had not crossed my mind until she herself had brought it up. As much as I loathed the mare for her pride, her ego, and her boundless selfishness...I held not even the shadow of a desire as to bringing her to any actual harm. Outside of some cutting words when the right comeback struck me in the heat of the moment, she was wholly free of the true face of my inner wrath. As for trusting in her judgement...? I was at least willing to see what sort of drink she felt best fit me in her eyes... I trusted her enough to not serve me a glass full of piss and wormwood at the very least, she was too high class to have such ingredients readily available in her own personal bar.

"Wonderful! While my first instinct would be to simply roll you out a barrel of some indescribably horrid beer and allow you to break it open and consume it like a savage...I will refrain. Instead...let us say that you in fact did live up to your proper birthright and could stand in a league of the Arcane like unto myself...well that certainly would change things, would it not?"

"That's twice now you've brought up my heritage tonight, Rosemary. What about that is so damned important to you?" I asked rather pointedly as it was hardly like she was making an effort to veil her words. "Unlike someone else present in this room, my lineage lacks much in the way of interspecies diversity."

"...I will let that go. This time..." Came her cool response behind half-lidded eyes burning with disdain. "Come now, Frejdá...do not take me for an unlearned fool, I know precisely whom you descend from. And I must say...seeing as we find ourselves in a private conversation for once...you are living well below your potential if I am to be graciously frank."

"E-excuse me...?"

"You are the one and only child of the Seer Astrid Vilulf, are you not? I may hail from your elder kin, but any Sorceress worth any amount of respect will keep herself appraised of most Arcane masters that are also worthy of note, Thestral or no. Your mother's treatise on the symbology of geological formations in the dreamscape is rather inspired might I say. I disagree with her analysis regarding the nature of sedimentary deposits and how they correlate to feelings of self-loathing forgiveness...but the majority of her work has been very insightful and enjoyable to read."

"I...well...yes. Yes, I am her daughter...but I didn't inherit any of her talent. I am going to assume you know nothing of my father Cú as he had little to contribute to her research? I obviously had one to even be sitting here before you now, so did it ever occur to you that perhaps I only inherited his dominant traits instead of hers?"

"I...will admit that the thought has never crossed my mind before now..."

"Well you best let that idea burrow in deep and excavate your previous notions to the foundations because I was also born the daughter of a warrior father and inherited his legacy over my mother's. It pained her spirit while I matured to see my magic remain small and underdeveloped, and I am certain the sting still remains even in spite of what I have accomplished with the legacy I was born with. I am glad that she is at least proud of what I have done with myself, but undoubtedly the sting remains behind.

"Oh please tell me that you merely jest at this juncture..." She gasped with shock and...utter disappointment?

"Go ahead then, reach out and touch my Aura for yourself and see with your own senses how little of my mother's abilities passed on to me." I challenged firmly, opening my arms wide to show that I was entirely serious about her finding the truth for herself.

Seemingly taking the cue immediately, a deep sparkling blue glow came to life behind her eyes as an invisible coolness encircled my body from her direction. Much like unto taking a dip in a lukewarm pool, the sensation enveloped me ear-to-tail before swiftly rushing through me from all directions at once as imperceptible waves of investigative energy. And like waves, they sent ripples back upon themselves after bumping into the other side of my spirit with little impeding their paths. There was so much tangible empty space within me that my Aura filled me like a fragile morning fog which evaporated in the bright light of her overwhelming power. Even as a simple spell lacking in any meaningful connective qualities, her perusal of my inner Aura gave but a tiny glimpse of the Aura within her as well. A roiling cyclone of energy and boundless opportunities all moving about as if some great, unknowable clockwork mechanism finely tuned towards all things Arcane. All was hammered from the purest of fiery wills producing a sharply tempered blade quenched in the oil of discipline and ground into a honed edge of unyielding self-motivation. Hers was an edifice of pure, unmediated thought which, compared to whatever pitiful magical talent I possessed, towered like the Spire over me. I lived knowing full-well that even a fraction of its mighty weight would crush me beneath it like a squirming little worm wholly helpless before true Power. I could only guess as to what the scope of strength and personality she glimpsed within me, but her expression upon her magic leaving my body was one of complete and utter devastation and disappointment. An expression that I expected...yet it still hurt to witness for myself.

"A-all these years...I was convinced that you were merely being lazy with the birthright you were born with and favoring physical exertion over the practical application of your magic powers. But...I see now that I had wholly expected your maternal side to present itself in you without...any real regard to the possibility of paternal dominance..."

"Clearly..." I grumbled with a bit of ire given he too was a stallion just as worthy of note as my mother. "I severely doubt you care at all regarding the specifics, but a Lieutenant Commander of the Night Marshals is no simple warrior of middling renown. His fire lives on in me and I have borne that honor for my entire life. You are not the only one disappointed by this fact, Rosemary... I am sure Astrid still receives inquiries about me and my progress with growing into her talents, only to have to disappointingly inform them that her one and only child doesn't even stop by to visit anymore let alone possess even an inkling of the Cosmic insights she eternally is plagued by. Gods...how long has it been since I have even seen her last...?"

"Wait, you mean to tell me you fail to even be a good child and make regular visitations to your own kin??" She exclaimed with shock and horror, something she had truly every right to take my hide over the coals for as I had indeed become a neglectful child.

"No, and you can chalk that up alongside all my other flaws which you seem to be keeping tally of. I used to visit for up to a month during the winter months back at Kaer Nathair. And then...before I know it the Cleansing happens and I end up here in the Valley as a refugee like so many other Witchers and...all since then has been a blur of activity. So much is still the same as it ever was...and so much has changed around my very being and all of a sudden, I no longer recognize the world I inhabit."

"Mm...no need to remind me... We all have experienced the Cleansing and its many consequences in our personal lives to be sure. But that is no excuse for neglecting your very own parents! Please tell me that you have at least made the effort to ensure everyone knows that you and they both survived?"

"I am not that horrid of a daughter... I have visited twice since the Cleansing I will have you know, but only my mother yet lives. My father...went on to wander the stars before my fifteenth year had fully elapsed. But I have paid more than a proper homage at his grave on both occasions as well if you must know..."

She opened her mouth to reply but surprised me when instead she paused rather graciously in her prodding, and instead busied herself with preparing a set of drinks for us to enjoy. With her back turned to me, likely to hide her selection on my behalf prior to the reveal, I indulged myself in a quiet sigh of relief. My parents were...a complicated situation which she had no need nor right to pry into. I had humored her enough and, rather tactfully, she had chosen to leave her line of questions where it lie. As the sound of crystal and thin, ringing metal tinkled and chimed away before her, I paused to wonder what else of the unexpected the night held in store for me. While she was still the same mare I had known for the past two decades, there were many things it seemed that I remained ignorant of. It was my own fault of course that such ignorance was allowed to endure for so long, yet I felt I was entitled to a clear pass if at least in part for thinking as much. She made no apologies for who she was, nor for the fiery spirit which had ensured her rise to the place of power she had, and such things just naturally abraded against me. Like most other Witchers, those of noble birth with coin to flaunt were a continual pain to endure the company of and though their Contracts paid handsomely...their stipulations could be equally as costly to the psyche to bear. To think that she had so wrongly assumed that I had any measure of my mother's talents and had based her behavior towards me upon the same shaky foundations...

"So...that was not a jest, right?" I asked after a few moments of rather awkward silence. "You truly thought I was the inheritor of such a legacy as hers, but hid that all beneath a bushel in favor of physical prowess with a sword?"

She paused for a moment in her preparations and looked straight ahead with a deep, frustrated sigh before turning to face me with a set of glasses floating beside her of their own accord in her invisible magic.

"If you are seeking some sort of sick perversion in hearing me admit that my assumptions of you are wrong, I question if I wish to indulge you more than I already have." She replied with a small frown before beckoning one of the two drinks my direction. "Here, give this a taste and let me know as to your thoughts. And please, do me the favor of being honest in your response..."

She obviously was not the most comfortable with having to admit that she was wrong, and so I allowed her this short diversion. Her usual defenses which rung about her personality like an iron fortress were mostly nowhere to be seen as, while she retained some of her haughty, greater-than-thou attitude, the sharpness had dulled rather noticeably from their usual razors edge. Indulging her, I took the fancifully carved brandy glass from where it floated in the air before me and gave the fiery red contents a swirl whilst bringing it to my nose for a sniff. Immediately the sharp pinpricks of gin tempered by cranberry juice, Mother's Lacquer, and a spring of mint tingled my senses rather pleasantly. Hurricane Gin, brewed atop the holy mountains of the last Valkyrie Kingdom on the Continent, was impossible to confuse with another label for the taste and quality of their juniper berries alone. I admittedly knew little of their distillery and their brewing habits but I had enjoyed several of their dishes which had featured them as part of the garnish. Their taste was bold, even for juniper, and accentuated the normal pine tree and citrus notes with something akin to nutmeg or long pepper in its aftertaste; a sort of sweet, pepperiness cut with floral notes and hints of earthiness. Cut as it was with the other ingredients however, it transformed into a full-bodied aroma that was fruity, tangy, minty and capped off beautifully by a spicy undertone which flooded the nostrils with a supple grace befitting a Thestral dancer. For a mare for whom I saw as simply but a guilty indulger of Highlander gin, such a blended drink was surprisingly sophisticated and professionally mixed to boot. To be rather honest with myself...somehow I had always imagined that she took her gin straight. On ice at the very most with no other mixers or additives to cut the sharpness. It somehow fit her hard-as-stone personality in my eyes, just as fittingly as the moonwine suited her wealthy and sophisticated side. The taste, once I had drawn myself away from huffing the vapors from over the rim, was precisely as my nose had predicted. Fresh, sharp, fruity, minty and ever so soft upon the palette in a manner reminiscent of my own Kaer Solaris Sunrise tea. It was rather refreshing and altogether unexpected which made it all the more savory for her it seemed as she appraised my expression with a smile of satisfaction.

"No need for words, I can see that my gut instinct steered me true to the heart of your tastes." She giggled softly, seemingly more to herself than towards me. "I never took you as one for the delectable tastes of fruit, however I find myself at least pleasantly surprised in this matter."

"Well...I suppose I am glad to hear that then. The taste of fruit to me is one of the great consistent pleasures of this world, at least so far as it ripe and juicy of course. I can tolerate a few bruises and blemishes, but I would like to consider my taste in fruit to be on the more exacting side."

"Indeed? Interesting... Well, I myself am pleasantly surprised as I allowed my reading of you to dictate the beverage based upon instinct alone. Now, do enjoy that glass and give me a few moments peruse something relevant to our needs please. You said the names of those Scouts were Androma and Autumn?"

"Yes? Why?"

"You will see before long, one moment please."

With a clap of her hooves, a swirling orange vortex opened immediately in front of her and she strode through the event horizon boldly, vanishing from sight alongside her portal which collapsed in on itself the second after she disappeared. Once a few moments had passed and she did not yet immediately return, I took my leave of my chair and, accompanied by my rather delicious drink, decided to indulge myself a little in some light exploration. I knew better than to set my investigative hooves upon her desk or other similarly personal (and likely confidential) belongings, and so rather navigated my way through the narrow passages through the room towards one of the two curling staircases leading up to the grand telescope mounted above. It was an immaculate masterpiece of silversmithing, there was no hiding that fact, with beautifully smooth edges showing not a single sign of having ever been shaped by living beings. Thestral silversmiths were only matched (and occasionally beaten) by Pygmy and Dwemish masters, and for grand works such as this...it was debatable without a maker's mark as to which of these species produced such fine work. In my heart I knew the answer lay in the hooves of her people, yet I enjoyed toying about somewhat with the shadow of doubt within my mind. My memory for the fundamentals of astronomy taught in my fillyhood was fuzzy and far from clear, much like other distant memories from so very long ago. All that truly remained from those early lessons were but the memories of her face and voice rather than anything that had actually been said. Having spoken of her openly for the first time in what could have been years...it all came rushing back as a tsunami of memories and complicated feelings. The most predominant amongst them was an overwhelming sense of crippling guilt for my inconsiderate actions...

Rosemary had every right to call to attention my lax behavior in my duties as a child. To cut oneself off from individuals, even family, which caused genuine harm and distress was healthy and a sign of growth and recovery...but I had no such grounds to stand on. My relationship with my mother was as strong and loving as it should be, or so far as I was aware... I had just...grown lazy and overly distracted. The first time it had happened, I had been genuinely delayed in returning to Kaer Solaris on the third year of my tenure at my new home. I had spent my year on the Path meandering about the likes of the east-southeastern side of Equestrian territory, which constituted of those splinter Kingdoms which Celestia had coerced into vassalhood in service of her Empire including Yonderland. The region had yet to lose its reputation for a warm, comfortable climate with regular rainfall (save the large desert immediately to the east of the White Fang's rain shadow), yet it also had yet to lose its reputation for countless petty squabbles between the various Kingdoms. As Xanthus had mentioned back in the Crosswinds Inn, yet another minor war had only just recently reignited in the area from the embers left in the wake of the most recent one to occur. Whatever peace brokered from any of these many disputes over the years was typically rather short-lived as Dukes, Counts, Princes and other members of minor male royalty and nobility continually sent their personal armies of mercenaries against one another to settle their differences by-proxy. Indeed, the mercenary business in the east at large was an enormous, and exceedingly profitable business scheme as there was always a need for strong legs and stout equipment ready to answer the call to arms every few years. As per-the-usual, one of these same petty spats just so happened to spark anew in the region and I had found myself caught in the middle during an inexcusable lull in my general awareness of my surroundings. Surroundings which quickly became host to boisterously violent denizens of masculinity who blocked all easy routes in and out of the area.

War was typically rather good for Witcher's work as fresh corpses drew in all manner of creatures in search of an easy feast, yet my time to return home had already come and indeed, the window for a smooth, snow-free journey swiftly closed itself on me. The trees cast aside their autumn garb in favor of winter's nakedness, and yet I had remained trapped to an expansive isolated cave well hidden from the likes of the three sizable armies gathered near to do battle with one another. My prey, a decidedly thick infestation of venomous Cave Slimes which had lured-in and decimated the local wildlife with its sickly-sweet excretions, had been the cave's previous tenant making for a monstrously sickening miasma which lingered behind. For well over a month was I trapped there while they camped all about and made their casual war upon each other, making do with the last dregs of my autumn supplies, small creatures which sought shelter in my cave and whatever condensation built up upon the cave walls. And all the while, I feared my discovery from any number of factors out of my control meaning I knew only the heat of the most miniscule of flames so as to limit the amount of smoke my fires produced. For the first two or three weeks, their battles with one another were a near-daily experience to endure as the cacophony of metal, bellowed curses and the screams of the wounded and dying echoed against the walls of my subterranean camp. Further making my escape untenable was the presence of simply too many eyes on watch for any and all sign of movement in case of a surprise enemy attack. Indeed, as stealthy as I thought myself to be, my dark colors and scale-ridden armor were still rather noticeable against the colorful deciduous terrain of the region, something which only grew worse once the snow began to fall. It was only when a blizzard blown in from off the Eastern Sea caused attrition losses to mount faster than deaths in combat that the war was put on hold for the season, and each assembled army moved back to their various places of retreat to wait out the winter. Little had been left in their wake upon their departure, but I was able to scrounge up whatever was usable and replaced some of my missing supplies before I began my arduously long journey back towards the School of the Wolf.

By the time I had reached Kaer Solaris in the middling days of February, trudging through neck-high snow for most of the journey, I was only keeping myself alive and walking through the power of raw fury and powerful (and dangerous) Witcher's Potions. Such a combination of fuel was potent, fiery and able to enact a will of Isildine in the right individual capable of channeling it all towards a singular goal...yet it also had a tendency of slowly destroying the mind, body and Soul in the process. Come my frozen, enraged entrance back into the comparable warmth of the Solar Valley...my body finally came to its final rest and my last memory of that moment was of my knees buckling beneath me and the feeling of everything giving out all at once. The next thing I knew, I was interred in the Infirmary while being attended to by a small team of Healers with Vivian at their head. Their efforts to stabilize and rehabilitate my forsaken, broken body took the better part of a fortnight to come to fruition and I came out the other side some twenty kilos below my optimal weight and suffering a near 10% loss in overall muscle mass. By the time the spring thaw came in March, I had only partially recovered from my scrape with starvation and was not cleared for duty by Vivian until April had nearly halfway elapsed. By such time, my spirit felt unduly restrained by the confines of Kaer Solaris and I wished to get back to Hunting and making an income for myself. All thought of my then-yearly visits to my mother had entirely fled my mind and I threw myself onto the Path for my fill of proper Witcher's work after months of confinement of one sort or another.

My blind passion to make up for lost time resulted in finding myself wandering through the Kingdom of the Crescent Coast in the far northwest of Equestria come winter's icy overtures. That winter was spent renting out a dingy cellar room to a shifty innkeep I was able to bribe into letting me stay out of sight and (somewhat) out of the cold. And then, seemingly the very next thing I know, I am decades removed from that winter and yet remained still just as blind and oblivious to the very important thing I had neglected for too long. I would likely need a suitable place to lay low for some time after killing one, let alone both of the individuals I was slatted to eliminate...so perhaps it was time I returned home to say hello for a short while. A visit in the middle of the year rather than during its final weeks would certainly be an unusual change of behavior for me, but then again...so had my unconscious decision to stop making such visitations. I knew that her powers would keep her appraised as to my general status at any given time, and that she would surely know that I was alive and well even in the midst of my gross negligence as her daughter. If anything, such a notion had always been in the back of my mind as a sort of reassurance for my continued laziness even if I was not wholly conscious of it. She was kind enough to respect me as a matured adult and while she would be gently honest in her opinions of my choices, she had always allowed me to be my own mare and to stand by the choices I made, good or ill. So...while she had seemingly let my lapse in good behavior go unscolded due to undoubtedly keeping tabs on me through the signs she read in the sky, she had still let me live my life unimpeded by her hovering presence and a long set of personal expectations. She had unfairly earned and deserved every ounce of annoyance, or even outright anger, my continued absence inspired in her. I had been a horrifically poor daughter for the past half a century after all... I was only spared from further intrusive thoughts by the reappearance of Rosemary's portal and her emergence with a rather aged brick of a tome as thick as my thigh accompanying her. Likewise in her possession was a large rolled up map of the Continent, and what appeared to be the Signacula of one of the Scouts Elite in her possession, although this one seemed particularly big, important-looking, and above all, absolutely ancient in its construction.

"Taking in the majesty of my crowning centerpiece finally?" She crooned again with amusement as we locked eyes. "I would have been entirely devastated if you had failed to stop and appreciate it. After all, you would have grown up living near unto one of these in your own home I would assume?"

"Aye...but never with any modicum of talent for its form and function." I admitted with remorse for my poor mother having to see all her talents and knowledge reside with her and her alone in our household. "I recognize the apparatus and many details about it ring distant bells of memory, but the subtleties are entirely lost to me. It is a magnificent masterpiece, however...commissioned out of Prifddinas I take it?"

"But of course, the one and only!" She beamed proudly, putting a gentle hoof to the hulking silver giant. "This was my own mother's for many a century, Gods give rest to her weary old Soul... I first received the litanies of the Cosmos at the very learned hooves of my mother, just like you it seems. It is most unfortunate that I cannot connect with you over such a subject...but that is neither here nor there at this time. Perhaps one day we may teach you yet how to tease out the secrets of the stars, but on this night we have other more important matters to concern ourselves with. Come, let us get a proper plan of action formulated for you while we still have the time. The morning hours begin to draw ever nearer as we stand here and chat..."

"What do you mean? Everything's already enough in place I would think, except for maybe my disguise but I was planning on solving that once I arrived."

She paused in place upon the slender curling stairs leading back to the closed-in confines of the area surrounding her desk and seemed wholly perturbed by my statement. Given my inexperience in the craft of assassination, I had likely struck her as pathetically amateur with my wholly simplistic plan. A plan which ultimately revolved almost entirely around on-the-spot decisions to be made as useful information presented itself while I was out there. Admittedly...such an attitude and plan alike were as lazy as they were overly reliant upon blind luck and favorable conditions beyond my ability to control. Things like fair weather, a blind and docile civilian population, and a fat, lazy garrison with sleepy eyes giving only cursory glances about the city were all potential boons, yet I had zero advance knowledge as to the reliability of any of these factors for my specific needs. And of course, all of those same factors were but amongst countless other small-but-weighty events which could hold my very life upon their own individual razor edges. If she were offering more than just a mere teleport...I would be a fool to turn it down. After all, she now had a vested interest in my success...and I could only hope there was some interest left in reserve for my subsequent survival of the whole debacle. If not to keep me around as some sort of ace up her selfish sleeve at the very least...

"I will again deign to forgive you for such blatant stupidity as, again, you are no assassin of Sentients." She said flatly, a statement of brutally honest fact that I knew she had every right to. "I know this is all a rather new concept to you, which is something to be commented at the very least, however you will need to open yourself to some rather unorthodox ways of thought in order to perform your best at this. Seeing as you are now in my employment, in a roundabout sense, it is only fitting that I look out for your well-being as I seek the best outcome from all of this. That includes your survival as well as, after this, you will become ever closer to being a fitting tool in my arsenal of resources and such aid is due its own reward, the least of which being continued existence."

"Is that all I am to be to you? A tool for enacting your own ends held in perpetuity by means of blackmail?"

"Darling, everything and everyone, including myself, are but tools at play in the hooves of another being whether we are aware of it or not. And besides, is not the most professional of masters one to take the utmost care of the tools under their command? After all, they are the means by which the master's vision is brought to life and are due their own praise for their resilience and usefulness as, without them, there is no stone, no wood and no metal to be chipped and carved finely away into a beautiful realization of inspired vision. And yes, I will keep your little secret safe in my possession if it ever becomes...necessary, however I have a feeling that you will find yourself feeling as agreeable as I am this night. Such an under-hoofed tactic like that would scarcely even be necessary to consider at that point after all."

"Agreeable? Is that what you're referring to this whole situation as for me? ...Fine, that will have to suffice then..." I grumbled in resigned reply, taking a seat once more beside her broad marble office desk upon which she unfurled the continental map in her possession. "What are we looking for on here anyway? You already know my final destination so I am not sure what good this will do for us at this point."

"Hush, Frejdá..." She mumbled as her hefty tome was plopped down atop the map with a very weighty thud. "In case you have forgotten, a great method of learning new information is to keep one's mouth shut and to leave their ears open. Save all questions for an appropriate lull in the conversation where you will not unduly interrupt your teacher while she opens the pages of some forgotten history for our combined purposes. Now, give me a moment to peruse this registry if you would... Androma and Autumn, yes?"

"U-uh...yeah, that is correct. What are you d-"

"Listen and you shall learn, did I not just spell this shite out for you word-for-word not just a moment ago? Gods above, mare... Alright, it is time that I introduce you to a rather old concept which was conceived in this very room three centuries ago. Have you perchance ever heard of an old initiative known as R&R?"

"R&R...? Truly cannot say that that is in any way familiar..."

"Understandable, it failed to garner enough traction before the grander scope of the plan was entirely shelved for good not too long after its inception. Unfortunately, the guild at large was already beginning to start truly feeling the effects of the end of your Golden Age and, with a lack of recruits and resources, the project never truly left the early stages of development. It stands for 'Rescue & Recovery', a plan to ensure that Witchers, Witchlings and Acolytes alike could be guaranteed some form of rescue from all but the most precarious of situations when out wandering the Path. I assume that you have seen one of these little artifacts before now, yes?"

Accompanying her question was a gentle lifting of the Signacula I had spied earlier for me to more clearly see. I was indeed familiar with the curious little wooden tags reinforced by a band of metal around the edge bearing the image of a Zamak Raven with a message scroll clenched in one talon, and a spyglass in the other. The concept existed well outside the bounds of merely the Scouts Elite as it acted as a useful method for identifying soldiers and which company of fellows they belonged to, as well as the name and rank of their commanding officer should the need for commendation or punishment arise. Amongst the Scouts, their purpose was precisely the same while also acting as their badge of office which, while not nearly as recognized as it once was, still held some political immunity as their duty was exclusively for the purpose of supporting the Hunts against the Abyss. While it wouldn't deter the stupid and the vindictive, theirs was a job occupied by even common Equestrian citizens in some regions, so it was not seen in the same negative light like that the Witcher Schools they almost exclusively assisted. Free Merchants occupied a similarly protective niche with their charters bearing the Royal Seals of all nations which recognized the bearer of the document as authorized to conduct business across all borders regardless of the presence of war or peace in the region. The likes of the Free Merchants Guild had decreased significantly since the Cleansing however, leaving what resilient roots of the Scouts Elite which survived to be the only major group with such ancient freedoms still in active service.

The Signacula currently in her possession was noticeably larger than the typical examples I had seen on members of the Scouts in the past, and sported a beautifully faceted garnet that was similarly larger in size to what was otherwise typically issued. Likewise, the decorative band of metal encircling the edges of the placard were made of what appeared to be finely-hammered gold; most certainly a visible token of rank. As I marveled over the little object in her possession, Rosemary busied herself by pouring through the worn pages of whatever tome that she had brought from the depths of...wherever it was that she had vanished off to. Though she brushed me away when I attempted to peer over her shoulder to glance over what it was that she was so intent on, I managed to see what looked like a ledger of sorts. A leftward column seemed to possess a list of numerals which likely correlated to those I knew to be carved into each Signacula, while the right contained lists of what appeared to be names written beside each identification number. The ink of the current owner's name, if there was one, was softly glowing at their respective places upon the page. Some numbers only possessed a short list of owners, while others, undoubtedly predominantly owned by multiple generations of family, laid claim to dozens of names apiece. Several were also clearly crossed out by a thin red line and a noticeable lack of glow to any of the letters accompanying them indicating that the badge was lost, destroyed, or otherwise beyond recovery. The creation of new Signaculum was reportedly a tedious process fraught with many standards of quality and overall creation which made the continual reuse of existing examples far more tenable for such a wide spread organization. As to how this master list of hers operated, or what it was all capable of...I simply had to wait and listen as she had already needed to remind me to do twice now. She seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to scold me and school me in the same breath which was...good for her I suppose...

"Here we are!" She declared proudly once she had seemingly found her target amongst the endless dusty pages she had passed through. "This would have been far simpler had we their personal identification numbers...but alas, I yet prevail over such terrible circumstances."

"For once, I agree. Violet failed to mention such a thing and I realize now that I was foolish to continue on without it. Knowing their names is hardly enough information to find them, let alone convince them that I mean them no harm and am there on her behalf... Everything was set up to suit Violet's needs and all this last-moment planning has done little to cater to the fact that I'm the one now slated to go through with it all. Gods, it was never going to work in the timeframe I have set for me, was it?"

"Ah look! She is only now realizing just how pitifully thin the planning laid out before her was. Better late than never I suppose..." Came yet another sigh of disdain from her lips before she rolled her silvery eyes and turned to levitate her larger-than-usual Signacula over the first of the names she had managed to find on her own. "Now, watch this handy little trick that is left over from the only success of those few dhort weeks of fruitful experimentation and development."

Giving the garnet set into the token a visible zap of magic, the jewel began to glow brightly with a beautiful inner amber light of the darkest honey hues before casting forth two beams of light. One shot directly down onto the glowing name of Androma Ishdára upon the page, whilst the other projected a solitary glowing point upon the map on the table. Located roughly where Violet had indicated that she would be, the little dot was some half-league removed from the city's outskirts keeping to the confines of a shaded woodland located some ways from the High Road nearby. Even in my ignorance of the nuances of the general situation I found myself in, I knew that she had felt what must have been overwhelming relief at the sight of a suitably lush forest to take shelter in. Though their nocturnal nature was heavily influenced by the more bat-like qualities of their Thestral ancestors, plenty enough of their affinity for trees and forests shone through the lives of Nightkin in a similar manner to how it presented itself in my own kind. If she had managed to find a cozy little cave in which to pitch her camp...a the height of summer, she was likely living her best life as a Scout in the field. The local Equestrians would undoubtedly cause her untold grief for her mixed Equestrian-Thestral heritage and accuse her of betraying her ancestors, even though the origin of her kind lay in the same mix of romantic and arranged marriages which had led Highland Valkyrie and Thestrals to first produce Lowland Valkyries like myself. Finding her was going to be on an almost instinctual level as I too felt the call of the forests, as well as some modicum of a sense for nearby caves which was a seeming residual evolutionary trait of truly ancient Thestrals. Of course, my job would scarcely have been made so simplistic without the aid of Rosemary and her unexpected book of new tricks, the likes of which I found myself to be rather impressed by.

"Wow...alright, I must admit, that is one Hel of a neat trick you have there. Is this Arcane signal recent and up-to-date?"

"Give-or-take a few minutes, the garnets imbedded into each of their Signaculum take some time to recharge the muted homing spell which was imbued into them at the time of their creation. Given the failure of the R&R project, knowledge of this spell being connected with each one in circulation is extremely limited, let alone the knowledge as to how to activate the Commander's Sigil, as I am right now, in order to locate an active Scout in the field. But, as you can clearly see, this will prove most useful to you I would think as it will save you much gallivanting about looking like a lost fool. It is graciously simple as it was designed for use by any number of species. Even those without an ounce of the Power within them can make use of these with some charged gemstones in their possession."

I rolled my eyes lightly in reply before changing the topic back for a moment, if but to satisfy my burning curiosity as to something said earlier.

"You mentioned that this project was supposed to ensure a safe recovery of sorts to Witchers and the like who are in mortal danger or distress out on the open road? How was that proposed to have worked in the original drafts of this initiative?"

"Oh, well the Witcher or other in question would each have been issued a similar artifice to the Signacula which came with an Arcane beacon that would be monitored in a similar manner as to the Scouts'. It could be activated either at will, or at the discretion of their Guardian were they in the possession of one, and would trigger an alarm of sorts in the headquarters of the project. Those on duty would assess the location and identity of the call for aid and dispatch one or two of the Scouts on duty directly to their side to further asses the situation on the ground. If the circumstances were decidedly deadly and beyond the skill of the Scout and Witcher to immediately handle alone, the Scout could activate a secondary beacon of their own which would summon both a team of Healers as well as a crack response team of hardy bastards. The idea was for a near-immediate heavy response their preciseblocation for on-the-spot close support. Once the dust settled and the act of emergency triage performed so that the subject is no longer in any immediate danger of death, all participants would then signal for extraction back to the waiting arms of Kaer Solaris and the broader range of services provided by the Infirmary. Impressively ambitious if I might say so myself...it is a true pity it was too grand a plan to put into action so late in our history. I wonder what good could have been performed by such a bold concept during the height of this Valley's heyday with myself spearheading the initiative..."

"Holy Istiél, that would have been incredible to have as insurance against a shitty death...!" I gasped as the full scope of the concept was unveiled to me, as well as the devastating loss its lack of existence now caused in me now that I was in the know as to what could have been.

"Mind your tongue with your Deities, Frejdá" She warned coolly. "You may never know when the next time their name touches your lips that a will beyond your own enacts some unknowable Fate upon you... Regardless, yes it is an utter shame that such a thing lies in obscurity amongst the other secrets of the past. However...we are still able to benefit from what remains of the project at the very least. Something which I feel I should mention is fat more luck than we are worthy to receive."

"Ah, yes. Blessings of most favorable winds for our maiden voyage of assassination..." I muttered to myself with a dark laugh.

"Yes, yes...snarky comebacks abound in thee and all of that nonsense... Now! To locate this Autumn... Does he happen to have a last name? These Equestrians have such a bizarre sense of logical naming conventions which results in repetitive themes despite their wide variety of names. I can think of nearly forty Autumns from off the top of my head, half of them dead, a quarter with some modicum of Arcane talent and the rest some form of their pointless, bloated nobility... Narrowing such a list down would significantly aid me here. Androma is unabashedly Nightkin and made for swift recognition, but an Equestrian...is going to take longer using the same basic methods."

"Harvest. Autumn Harvest."

"Hm...not the most unpleasant of their pedantic names I suppose... Thank you, one more moment please."

As the beams of light dimmed and the pages of the tome began turning once more, I made a mental note of the little forest which my first informant had made her home for later reference. With my extra spot of help, her search for the second name was rather swift and before I knew it, she was already setting the Signacula atop the page in question. This beam lay directly within the city itself, an area which Rosemary was forced to zoom-in on using some extra spellwork similar to those which controlled the sophisticated folding maps contained within our Codices. Here I was able to get a second proper gander at the inner layout of the city arranged around its lengthy stretch of port access on the River Maydock. And again, as Violet's intelligence had reported, Autumn was located smack in the heart of the port district in the midst of a sprawling maze of docks, ships, and wooden piers. The city seemed so much more...dense than what I had spied for myself by way of my own map, the accuracy of the depiction being of questionable recency. The amount of civilian crowds that I could use to disappear in and out of for cover was going to be rife with potential opportunities...yet the thought of so many unwashed, filthy townsfolk so tightly crowded together within a set of city walls was hardly palatable. I had felt rather uncomfortable with the crowd in attendance at the Vigil earlier in the night, and all those gathered for it were people whom I knew and/or trusted outright to do me no harm. To be in the heart of an Equestrian city under even more unfavorable conditions with decidedly more unfriendly denizens was likely enough to drive me mad on multiple fronts.

"Hm...well, at least both their signals are detectable and still registering strong as active. That is good enough for me then, I will go ahead and gift you this Commander's token so that you can do this yourself with your Codex map. Don't you fret, I will likewise produce a small slip of parchment with their names listed in the same manner as produced in this tome for the same reason. It is as simple as placing it atop the specified name, giving the jewel a jolt of energy to power its spell and letting its guiding light lead you true. So easy, even you would be hard pressed to find a simple method to muck it all up."

"Thank you for the candid vote of personal confidence in me..."

"Oh hush, I have seen you through this far without sending your arse unceremoniously to meet with the surface of Mother's Mirror have I not?"

"Well...technically yes..."

"See? You have nothing to worry about! The Sorceress Supreme herself has you in the best of care and is interested in your best interests at this particular juncture."

"Funny...then why am I hardly feeling any sense of comfort or relief for what lies in store for me?"

"I would hope that you learn how to do both then. And now! With that out of the way, I think it is high time that we make some...adjustments to your appearance for the sake of the secrecy of our mission."

"Just what sort of 'adjustments' are we talking about here...?"

Her eyes glowed a bright blue hue as her inner Aura noticeably flared up within her like the sudden ignition of a celestial star before my very eyes. I knew that she was always holding back her vast reserves of Arcane power...but even glimpsing this minor drop in her façade of calm and control...it terrified me. She embodied everything that my mother could have ever hoped for in an inheritor of the Cosmic insights that she was most privy to herself. I felt, if anything, utterly inferior and unworthy. Astrid was a veritable saint in her own right for bearing with my...boundless inadequacies as a daughter. Not the least of which being my continued lapse in my journeys out to visit her.

"We can fix you to look however you wish in order to fully blend in amongst these degenerate savages." She said ominously, her voice echoing with the Power lacing her very being even though the expression upon her face was one of utter enjoyment for the moment. "So tell me, Frejdá...how would you like to be reshaped and remade anew this night?"

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