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

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

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

“CLEAR! Lookout below!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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