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.”

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Author's Note

Happy New Year Everyone! :)