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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, were there to be any?”

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

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

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

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

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

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