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

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."

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