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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Date of Hunt: July the 23rd, 650 AoS

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

Time of Day: Just after noonday

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

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

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

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

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