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

The next morning found my vision obscured by a wily curtain of silver illuminated softly by warm, golden light. Like a bad hangover, grogginess prevented the immediate recognition of my own hair being the cause of my seeming morning blindness. however, the act of rubbing my eyes with my hooves broke the veil. Once my eyes managed to focus, a quick glance at the clock hung on the wall read half-past eleven in the morning. And yet, my stomach was convinced it was sometime far past that from the way it felt shriveled up within me. With a moan of pain for the dull ache in my joints from the day before, I rolled myself out of bed, stumbling up to my hooves with yet more grunts of mild pain. Having graduated from my studies nearly six centuries before, there was no pressing need for me to be anywhere, anytime soon. Indeed, any that graduated from their School in full were no longer bound to the command of any Mentor or Instructor and were free to do as they pleased with their time. Within reason of course. However, the…indoctrination one could say we underwent on the path to graduation would ensure that the same feeling of anxious unrest which Sir Tiffy had described affected us all. Barely any of us could settle down idly for long before duty called us back to the Path like an itch that only grew more unbearable with time. I oft wondered how the Instructors were able to withstand the anxiety of remaining bound to their respective Schools for so long. Much as I adored a beautifully designed fortress of stone and wood, let alone actively dwelling in one, I struggled with the same restless energy every Winter that passed. This day was nevertheless my own to do with as I pleased. I had done rather well in bringing Relics home of such high quality, and admitted rarity given the School of the Cat had gone entirely extinct on official record. As a fair reward for my efforts, I was resolved to take my morning as slow and lazily as I wished. Perhaps even the entire duration of the day if it came down to it.

With a flick of my hoof and a thought, a fire erupted in the stone hearth across from my bed with the help of Igni; enchanted coals which gave off little smoke responding readily to the Sign with eagerness. Once I'd attained the plush comfort of the lounge chair set nearby, I let out a sigh of relief and glanced about my small room after setting a small kettle to boil on an iron hook. There had been a time many years past where I had dreamed of escaping the cramped, shared quarters of the Barracks in favor of the private bedrooms afforded the Adepts and Masters; exchanging the packed rooms of sleeping bunks and tiny personal chests for a double-wide bed and chests of drawers or a fine wardrobe. Enjoying the four cozy walls set aside in my name was twice now an exciting experience, as my original quarters at Kaer Nathair had been rendered essentially untenable after the events of the Cleansing. I and many others had lost our old rooms in the fortress... Of course, it was no big loss given the eternally lamentable state of the School in those days. Try as we might, few of us were talented masons and even fewer still opted to join us to work as serving staff due to the dismal wages offered. There was simply an eternal deficit in the School's coffers and little could be done to escape centuries' worth of running debt. The debt was hardly our fault...yet that did not stop King Birch from dumping off the bill for the School's construction.

In all honesty, I much preferred dwelling in the Master’s Tower than I had in the worn, weary halls of Kaer Nathair, a fortress that was well into the waning years of its glory come my time there as an Apprentice. That old keep had once been the pride of the Kingdom of Āider, having been commissioned and constructed by the region's finest pony masons of their day. The design was sturdy and defensible were it ever to be attacked, yet retained some elegance with its covered towers, tall flags and countless murals painted throughout the interior of the keep. Unfortunately, all this had also been done at an exceedingly great cost as well, a cost which had seen the Kingdom utterly bankrupted and contract-bound come the end. However…she was not so lucky as to have been built by Pygmy and Dwem like unto Kaer Solaris, yet perhaps not so unlucky as to have been built entirely by Witchers untrained in stonework like the School of the Bear at Kaer Aarthe. All the same, time had not been kind to our old fortress, nor especially had it been to the royal seat which had first sponsored us. Royalty, despite its wealth, was rather cheap in the earliest centuries past the Arrival, and multiple petty would-be Kings and Queens rose up as breakaway nations from Celestia's rule. Noble families, disgraced and exiled from Canterlot’s court or no, all saw prime opportunity to attempt to make something of themselves in slices of land claimed in their own ‘esteemed’ names. Like so many other minor Kingdoms of those days however, a pattern of Kings and Queens floundering their nations for one cause or another had become a prime opportunity for the burgeoning Empress. Indeed, much of the land Equestria now claimed as its own had been via absorbing so many of these little offshoot Kingdoms and Principalities into itself.

Kaer Nathair had supposedly been a rather stately castle fort upon its completion, complete with multiple concentric walls, dozens of towers and auxiliary buildings, and a majestically large keep built into the side of a mighty mountain once known as Mynydd Morhen. Unfortunately, by the time of my Apprenticeship, the School had already seen her better days long pass her by. The Bastion sat aways away on a false summit somewhat below the School and had tumbled down the mountain during a rockslide several years before the Cleansing. By the time of my Masterhood in the mid-fourth century, even the Archmaster’s private chambers suffered from a terribly leaky roof, peeling murals on every wall and the total loss of both his bedroom balconies due to ill maintenance from lack of capital. My own room and most others likewise all constantly stank of mildew from a slow drip of condensation from the clammy interior of the mountain hall. The bed I'd been bequeathed had been given to six others before me and the spiderwebbing cracks along most walls haunted my dreams with nightmares of cave-ins. Yet, despite all that, it was still a bedroom set aside in my name which was a luxury that never came cheaply in a Witcher School. The value of privacy was beyond the measure of mere coinage when around one's own School, a luxury which was earned by getting off one's arse and taking Contracts in the open world. Otherwise, the only place available to you were the rather...cozy lodging situation to be found in any Barracks as they tended to stay consistent in concept, even between cultures and sects. Cramped, narrow lodging found in the form of rows of bunks arranged in tidy lines with little in the way of privacy or personal space. There was usually a draft too as many windows were left open year-round to promote airflow amidst so many warm bodies occupying the same space at once. And to top it all off, the pace at which the daily lectures and rounds of physical training occurred simply kept the Barracks as the last place they would choose to spend their limited free time. In fact…as I sat there gazing into the orange and yellow flames, it finally dawned on me that perhaps the sleeping arrangements of every School further encouraged students to wander the Path. After all…there were only so many days of close contact with other Witchers anyone could handle and I, like a housecat, preferred to choose when and where I felt most sociable with others.

Amongst the various trophies and other mementos adorning my limited wall space, my most prized possessions tended to be those of highest sentimental value to myself. Whilst some had more monetary cost associated with them than others, that was hardly a usual factor behind my favorite pieces. Perhaps the most treasured of the lot were the simple yet finely maintained steel and silver swords I had been granted upon passing the Trial of the Sword. They were almost charmingly rudimentary in both design, as well as ornamentation, with simplistic steel crossguards, black leather wrapped hilts, and Viper Crests adorning the thick, flat pommels. Both blades had been lovingly forged with fine construction, yet they lacked any sort of meaningful ornamentation like fullers, engravings, filigree or anything other than the basic necessities of a proper longsword. It was all purely functional and meant for the task at hoof with no flair for fresh, unproven blood such as myself and all other Witchlings seeking advancement in rank. Though inferior in every respect to the mastercrafted blades I wielded today, from the quality of the steel to the overall visual appeal, the swords of my earliest days marked a moment of personal triumph for me. They acted as the first true trophies of my ever-growing collection, something all but the most jaded of Witchers possessed if they had the means and space to display such items. I had been far luckier than some other Master Vipers at Kaer Nathair as a fair few of my original personal treasures had survived the events of the Cleansing relatively intact. The roof of the keep had caved in further up the hall from my lodgings located deep within the mountain itself; part of a larger collection of tunnels and rooms which augmented the School's architecture. Others, such as Master Borri, had tragically lost all they had attained in their collections as the general collapse of parts of the keep had rendered much of the forward half inaccessible. The castle had survived enough to be somewhat functional afterwards...but by then we were wanted nowhere. The Kingdom-turned-Duchy which had housed us for so long had finally seen fit to cut us finally loose and we had naught else to go than Kaer Solaris, by whatever roads took us there.

In truth, only thirty-or-so Witchers and large smattering of Acolytes and Witchlings had been present when Celestia had struck the School with a Solar Flare some fifty-five years past. The unimaginably cataclysmic event obliterated towers and leveled whole courtyards, melting the very stone bricks of the School somewhat from the sudden yet intense flash of directed Sunlight. Any caught outdoors perished instantly, with naught but charred ash and any mastercrafted gear left in their wake to mark that they had ever existed at all. Without warning, and without remorse, my School had been laid low, with those who survived either having been deep within the mountain keep, or wholly far removed from the School for one cause or another. Students as young as sixteen had perished that day...poor, orphaned children from all walks of life which had found their way to us by one way or another. Those poor, young Souls who had been so brave as to agree to try and walk the Path with us to fight the Abyss and its legions of twisted beings. Forty-seven Vipers had been wandering the Path at that time, having been called to the far corners of the world after Contracts, or pursuing other personal vendettas as prevented them from ending amongst the number killed that day. And, in my case, I was amongst the few out amongst other Witcher Schools furthering their personal education through extra study. Not a normal use of a Witcher's time, yet hardly unheard of as plenty of our number had found the time and skill to graduate from multiple Schools.

Indeed, I was enjoying a stay with the School of the Swan at the time, taking the opportunity to study their methods of fighting as hybridizing tactics was a fine method for continuing one's education in the Witcher's craft. As the School was founded upon the fundamentals of Thestral combat preferences, Swan Witchers were the masters of long, single-edged curved sabers and unique, extremely lengthy longbows fashioned out of enchanted wood and fine silver. The best amongst their bows (and indeed all their best equipment) in particular were fashioned from a semi-living crystal that Thestrals alone knew the secrets behind. A substance which they could sing into shape with special instruments and a magic only they possessed; the result was a bow which produced its own ammunition the moment one drew the nearly invisible bowstring. Even before the Cleansing, the School of the Swan, and the Thestral species at large, were not so keen as to intermingle their secrets with any considered an outsider, leaving the institution with an almost mutually exclusive relationship with the entire species and, by extension, all Swan Witchers could safely assumed to be Thestrals. By virtue of my exceedingly pure Lowland Valkyrie blood of original stock however, I had been equally exceedingly lucky. At the time, I had been considered genetically ‘pure’ enough for them to turn a blind eye to their normally rigid (if occasionally flexible) acceptance policies…at that time that is. Lowland Valkyrie shared a distant relation to Thestrals via ancient unions between the Highland Valkyrie, and Thestrals, both as part of arranged political marriages, or the buddings of true love. The Swan was quite the fitting symbol for a Witcher School born of Thestral ideals in a lively sense of irony. After all, they, like swans, were all at once graceful, elegant, and full of an ancient, unbridled anger merely seeking for an excuse to strike out.

In truth, there was much that could be said of the ‘otherism’ at work within Thestral culture, however, the politics of such a haughty race interested me little as an outsider. I had only come there to study their approach to Witcherhood and nothing more. I felt some rather deep kinship with the bow, and they were a closer journey from Kaer Nathair than the keep of the Ravens in central Equestria. I dwelt amongst them nary a month before the Solar Flares began eradicating what Schools, cities, towns and other institutions the Empress deemed worthy to perish, and were within her reach and realm of knowledge. With the Everfree as both their homeland and their buffer against Equestrian expansion, the Thestral Dominion had escaped mostly unscathed from the Cleansing, with only those dwellings on the Forest's edge facing total destruction. A few barren, scorched clearings remained scattered at random across the Everfree as the location of their greatest cities continued to be a fiercely guarded secret, and Celestia wisely decided against wasting further energy on firing blindly into the Forest. It was by the grace of even this short waste of power that other victims survived at all, with each subsequent target being hit with ever decreasing intensity. As to what order she had decided upon when selecting her targets, not a Soul had the slightest idea… The only certainty any of us had was that the School of the Wolf, relatively within sight of Canterlot itself, had been saved especially for last as part of her power-mad rampage. One last pyre of conquest to witness the smoke of from the comfort of her very own private balcony, gazing endlessly on the world with the use of her mighty Observatory. Some would even say that the gleam of the Sun catching in the enormous lenses of her telescopes could be seen from the tallest floor of the Spire on a clear day…

Kaer Solaris, and the Valley itself at large, repelled the blow entirely by virtue of Amaterasu's lingering might which blessed the area of her Departure. Like the mighty barrier spell which enveloped the sky above my very head, Her residual power had halted Celestia's assault dead in its tracks as a mighty dome of holy fire erupted all its own in the defense of the entire Valley. Not a single adult, child, nor household pet perished in the Valley that day in spite of the pure vitriol fueling the furious assault. In fact, the most Celestia accomplished with the last of the Ember's power was to flatten the peak of every mountain of the White Fangs, providing the perfect platforms upon which were built various temples and places of isolated meditation. Atop the perfect plateau left from the peak of Kael’s Fang rose the Spire. Of all our proud defiances as a united front of Eldar against Her Excellency, this majestic structure was perhaps our greatest call for her to plough herself and her rotten Empire. At two hundred and fifty-five meters height, the majestic edifice was one colossal pillar of the finest white marble the Dwem and Direwolves could delve from the mountains’ roots. Carved as if one elegant supporting pillar of a temple, atop its summit sat a sconce of immense width and depth held aloft by four branching spindles of stone branching from the top of the tower. Within the mighty bowl of carved red porphyry, a roaring inferno spewed elaborate tongues of golden flame into the sky; a Spark taken from the gazebo in the Gardens and given the fury of a Clan of Direwolves. Here it had burned continually day and night, atop the tallest mountain of the Valley facing directly southwards towards the Equestrian Capital city for any and all to see. The tower itself, acting as a repository of the Clan’s written history and treasured artifacts, acted as the end of one extremely long path of pilgrimage. Though it technically began at the Arch of the Hunters, the road continued through and off the back end of the School itself.

Leaving my kettle to whistle for my attention when ready, I shakily got to my hooves once more and gingerly made my way to the pair of south-facing windows. From my high vantage point, the Servant’s Courtyard far below was laid out plainly before me in the afternoon sun. The shape of the curtain wall was like unto an octagon bisected widthwise, with each corner studded by further broad, squared towers like unto the northern side of the School. Here, each servant was afforded private, if somewhat cramped lodgings in the form of three-storied houses with small walled-off bedrooms on each floor in a similar arrangement to the Master’s Tower. Aside from the quaint and charming grounds of the Servant’s Courtyard, the only true purpose for any not counted as a servant to pass through would be to access the Grand Viaduct. Though the bridge connecting the Barbican to the front gate of the School was mighty, both in scale and length in its own right, it held not even a dim candle to the blazing glory of this tremendous work of granite and marble stone. With space enough for eight to walk abreast with legroom to spare, the Grand Viaduct spanned the distance between the southernmost edge of the School and Kael’s Fang some three leagues distant. At its end, it entered into the mountain itself as the path continued further up the Ten-Thousand Steps to the peak of the Spire. In addition to dedicated places of rest, fed fresh water via an aqueduct constructed directly into the bridge, two large sets of gate towers marked major destinations accessed by well-defended lifthouses which descended to the Valley floor below. The nearest of these two lifthouses descended to the small University of Tir Ná Liá built around its base; a Thestral-ran institution for the broader higher education of the masses so not all knowledge seemed hoarded by the Witchers alone. Here they taught classes on astronomy, geology, herblore, mathematics, history, geography and many more advanced subjects as were befitting noble Eldar citizens, as well as those foreign students as sought us out for an education. This fine University, despite the Cleansing, churning out the learned and the wise to continue the everlasting pursuit of knowledge. The second lifthouse had far less distance to descend as the boughs of mighty Redwoods rose even above the flagpoles atop the gate tower, marking the Thestrals’ other forest home within Equestrian borders. The majority of the Thestral tongue was simply too arduous a task to commit more than a few, simply pronounced words to memory and so, I referred to the isolated greatwood forest by its common moniker of Scarlet Boughs. Here they formed elaborate tree houses, both inside and around the colossal trees with hundreds of elegant ladders, and bridges of rope and wood connecting the various platforms together. Exactly like unto their fellows dwelling in the Everfree Forest, they outright refused entry to any not found pure of blood by their ever-increasingly harsh standards. Had I attempted my excursion to the School of the Swan within the last half-century, I would have been chased from their very gates by volleys of angry, magical arrows. All for the sheer audacity of thinking I had a right to the secret techniques of their race as an outsider; my distant Thestral heritage be damned to the outlands where I belonged.

I started slightly with a wild glance over my shoulder when a high pitched whistle pierced my wandering thoughts with an ear-wrenching noise. The kettle I had momentarily forgotten entirely about had roused me back to my senses, with no regard for the ache sudden movements caused in me. However…I could hardly remain mad when it signaled something warm and delicious was about to satiate my stomach for now. At least until I summoned the energy to descend to the Great Hall for something more fitting for a mare fresh from a fortnight on the open road. Pouring the steaming water into a tall silver tankard, a large infuser of dried apples, orange peels, cloves and nutmeg was added to steep into tea a moment later and given some time to sit. While it steeped, I set about lifting the sheets from off the side of my elevated bed frame and withdrawing one of about two-dozen bottles of various alcohols residing in hollowed-out cubbies for my personal enjoyment. This morning, I was to indulge in a little homebrew I liked to call a 'Kaer Solaris Sunrise'. Made from a very flavorful fruit tea, and some Mother’s Lacquer brandy which was produced with love proudly in the Valley itself. With a famously exquisite bouquet of sweet red grapes, ripe plums, hints of pear and an oaky aftertaste with hints of cinnamon, what set Mother’s Lacquer apart from other alcohols was its ability to retain the sweetness of freshly-squeezed fruit juice. The characteristic burn and eye-watering flavor of fermentation was still present, but more as a half-forgotten memory which was easily masked by a couple extra pinches of powdered apple extract and white sugar. The gorgeously fruity bouquet of the brandy was finely tempered by some proprietary technique into an extremely mulled note that burned pleasantly in the throat, and graced the belly like a warm hug. Diluted by the extra fruits and sugar, the sweet brew went down even smoother than a dream and the warmth from the brandy spread softly across my body like a gentle rinse of warm water. The alcoholic content was hardly enough for a Witcher’s metabolism to get tipsy over, making for a gentle drinking experience fitting for a slow and extremely relaxed morning. Had I some bread, a few apples and perhaps a bit of meat, the need to leave my quarters at all wouldn't arise until I needed to use the privy.

Tankard in hoof, I returned my ingredients and utensils to their rightful place before turning to admire my armor, enjoying my simple morning appetizer in small, satisfying sips. Worn atop a comfortable silken tabard, a lengthy hauberk of Dracnoid leather-backed scale-maille crafted of fine steel alloyed with Isildine formed the core of my defense. The bottom half of the hem, which hovered only a few inches above my hind hooves, formed a long protective skirt split into four equal sections for maximum mobility. Defending my torso was a simple cuirass of etched and fluted steel alloy, while fluted plate spaulders of multiple overlapping lames guarded my shoulders from the front and sides. A pair of large squares of leather-backed scales rode atop my collarbones and draped somewhat over the upper-halves of my spaulders as extra protection. These directly defended the anchoring leather straps of the cuirass and spaulders from harm and came with additional neck guards to compliment the high scaled collar of my hauberk. Bracers made of narrow splints of metal riveted to a backing of thick, scaled Dracnoid leather were strapped atop the sleeves of the scale hauberk, extending to just above each fetlock leaving the hooves free to flex as needed. Further protection of the forehooves was provided by long padded gloves of cured Dracnoid hide, riveted firmly along near the hoofs’ edge with spiked studs of silver-plated steel. Cuisse formed of wide overlapping bands of hardleather, riveted extensively on the exterior by plates of lightly fluted steel, were strapped atop padded trousers of exceptionally comfortable, yet sturdy silk and hemp. Further reinforcement was provided by large swaths of soft, flexible leather stuffed with yet another layer of padding, lining all areas which faced outwards towards danger. With these two defenses, further augmented by a pair of wide tassets over my hips, the sides of my flanks were graced with extra defenses from what the split skirt of the hauberk could not properly cover. The boots protecting my hind legs kept to the theme of being crafted from cured Dracnoid hide, with attached polyens of plate steel capping my hind knees and a reinforced plate under the soles; further splints of steel riveted on the boots exterior ending in fully steel-capped hooves. Atop all this was a sturdy leather harness of thick belts, hooks, buckles, fasteners and other anchor points. All worn around the shoulders and across the chest, clasped off at one large, singular point where the buckles converged at the front of the chest. A Viper Crest engraved on a wide steel disc had been welded atop this mass of buckles in a sort of rondel-approximate in order to protect the various anchor points from harm. In some regards, the harness was the most complex piece of the entire ensemble, as it acted as the anchor point for my Codex at the front, longswords and Fangs at the back, well over a dozen small bags and pouches of varying size, and a collection of throwing knives at various other key locations. A second similar harness system wrapped around my waist and thighs, with specialized retention straps on snap fasteners for several bombs, a short bandolier for vials of Oil, Venom or Potions, and the single, large bag containing a portable Alchemy kit gifted to each Witcher upon graduation.

Altogether, my armor was immensely sturdy, necessitating few repairs by grace of the steel used in its construction having been alloyed with a high concentration of Isildine. Dracnoid leather cured in an acid bath of Archgryphon venom was similarly resilient to time, damage and the elements, with hundreds of pieces tanned and formed even centuries ago still just as sturdy as when they were first crafted. Normally cured to a mostly rigid state on par with cast iron, further treatments involving yet more Alchemical processes would render it as soft and supple as doeskin, with some noticeable loss in protection. Strips of this soft, yet hardy leather were sewn down the length of the exterior of my hauberk in an effort to retain its shape and dampen the sound of scales shifting with movement. Broad portions were also likewise sewn directly in the undersides of my limbs, preventing scales from snagging and causing undue wear from friction as I moved. Indeed, anywhere there was to be excessive friction in a Witcher's armor from simple movements was wisely reinforced in this manner across multiple Schools in order to limit undue wear and tear on equipment. Of course, all these beautiful layers of flexible, redundant defense were all to the letter prescribed in the ancient diagrams drafted for and by our School in the earliest days. These had seemingly been blessed much like the other diagrams fashioned in those blissful, dangerous experimental days of old. After all, few design choices made during the Council of Archmasters by the original Armorers had changed all that much in the centuries since our guild's founding. Only adding or removing elements as best suited the changing times or suited the individual and their approach to the craft.

Indeed, each and every School had, at least at one point in time, a dedicated line of armors which acted as their official ‘uniform’ whilst in public. While this was all for the sake of solidarity and professionalism, it also had the benefit of immediate identification of the wearer’s School and their relative level of training and proficiency in the Witcher arts. All School armors progressed linearly as one moved through the ranks, starting as simple versions of the School’s chosen design lacking any heavy plate, chain or otherwise. Instead, the armor given to Apprentices in the Bastion, training only with wooden weapons against one another, was merely finely tailored padding. As they became an Acolyte or a Witchling (dependent on their Choice), blunted blades of metal began to be used and modest armor was issued out, allowing them to start taking on the true appearance of a professional. Acolytes were admittedly granted more protection with the armor they were issued compared to their fellow Witchlings still in training. They would be wandering the perilous Path far sooner than Witchlings would after all, it was only seen as fitting to provide them a fighting chance past graduation. Once all their Trials had been passed and their Medallion activated, what could be called the ‘true’ uniform of the School was finally awarded, alongside a pair of proper Witcher's longswords and a personal Codex. This armor provided rather supreme protection from blade, fang and claw, being made of quality leathers, fabrics and metals as fine as any piece crafted for a Knight of any Kingdom worth its salt. Each School’s armor had their own distinctly unique colors and design, with a vast array of smithing techniques utilized in their construction as best suited the general combat profile of the School. Chain and scale-maille, studded gambeson, brigandine, plated maille, hardleather, splints, lamellar, sheets of hammered and fluted steel…all these and more acted as suitable wells of inspiration for the original Armorers when drafting the first diagrams.

There even existed the so-called Three Doctrines of Defense which formed the metaphorical spine of all techniques taught and equipment worn whilst on the Path. Namely, these were known as the Light, Moderate and Heavy Doctrines, each of which had differing prescriptions of skills and knowledge cores best suited to each weight-class of defense. And so thusly equipped after the Doctrine of their School, a graduated Witcher or Acolyte would set out into the open world to put their years of training to the truest test of retention and competency. Another cog in our well-greased campaign against the foes lining the pages of the Bestiary…even if it felt at times the greater enemy which hovered over us was being forcefully ignored. There had been talk of striking back since even before the Cleansing, to take our march directly to Canterlot which could even be faintly seen from the Spire, it was so close. And yet…the fact remained that there were simply too few of us now who had survived to logically expect victory, not without great losses or bolstering out ranks with other forces. Our numbers had graciously stabilized since that time as the training of new students was still graciously tolerated but, it would take a tremendous fool to think that they would satisfyingly fill the loss of so many true Witchers. Indeed, making peace with Celestia, as infuriating and insulting as it had been, had ensured our continued survival and that of the Valley at large by saving its citizens the horrors of a siege. It was a rather tense and altogether unsustainable peace, but it was a peace nonetheless and it had gone on unbroken for over half a century now. Somehow…

My admiration over every atom of my gear carried me well through to the bottom of my tankard and once the last drop trickled out, I felt well enough to leave for the day. While the mandate that every Witcher wear their armor during School hours loosely applied to Masters and above, I of myself loathed being parted from it. There were formal robes (more akin to stylish gambesons) reserved for us which we could choose to wear around the School if one wished to wear something lighter during the day. I of myself only wore them occasionally for that matter, usually for an occasion such as a Feast Day when it was broadly seen as uncouth to wear so much armor around visiting guests. Apart from those brief situations, I felt most at ease when defended hoof-to-neck by my blessedly lovely armor. Regretfully however, the sound construction of my equipment failed to prevent the effects of long-distance travel as mud, dirt, dried Ichor and other fouling substances were caked all over it. It was a miracle that Vivian nor any of the rest that had experienced close contact with me failed to comment as to how horridly the smell of the road must have been on me. The mutations had rendered thermoregulation an exceedingly efficient biological process, resulting in sweat being the least contributing factor to my odor. Rather, the scents I had inadvertently accumulated along the way were to blame for the veritable miasma of stink which clung to my beloved equipment.

There existed some useful tricks which were available to us to deal with the many nuisances on the road. A personal favorite was a technique taught early in the training of Signs, making use of the hydrophobic nature of the Sign of Quen to rid oneself of undue moisture. Indeed, I could have swam the length of Mother’s Mirror and been able to render myself dry in an instant with the simple shielding Sign. Regrettably…Quen could do nothing to expel my clothes of odors, and I realized my first major errand of the day was the washhouses in the Servant’s Courtyard. Once upon a time, I had not yet earned the right to ask another to perform my laundry on my behalf and instead, had been amongst the other students rinsing and washing my equipment by hoof in the lavoir. Truly, as a Master there was the right to limited use of the serving staff for personal needs. Those somewhat outside the periphery of their normal duties, but could be freely declined or graciously tipped if they so wished. Nevertheless, I felt uncomfortable in being so petty as to ring the servants’ bell for one to come and fetch my things and take them away whilst I continued to rest and relax before them. The morning was mine to be as lackadaisical as I wished, but I was not so slothful as to emulate the Lords and Ladies I and so many others here had come to despise.

Setting my tankard down finally, I donned my gambeson robes of green with silver trim denoting the School of the Viper, and gathered up my gear to begin the relatively short journey down to the washhouses. As I had dutifully cleaned and polished them several times on the road back to Kaer Solaris, my weapons were already fit for public display by any Mentor or Instructor’s high standards. And so, with the aid of a simpler reserve harness sporting the Crest of the Wolf School, I transferred my sheathed Fangs and longswords to their respective positions on my back before stepping before the mirror for a quick once-over of my reflection. The dark charcoal grey mare softly smirking back at me was quite the treat for the eyes if I did say so myself, even in spite of the visible battle damage crisscrossing my hide from years on the Path. Even one of my tall, tufted ears was lopped-off at the tip on the left side, courtesy of one Sir Elm Bulwark during the Eighth Battle of the Bitter Fens in the waning years of the Race Wars. Sparkling violet snake-like eyes gazed back at me from the mirror amidst a frazzled mane like polished silver, something I set about quickly combing as straight as I cared to attempt. Once I felt my hair felt presentable enough for the world outside my chambers to see, I bunched it up in a ponytail behind my head with an elastic band and transferred my money purse to my belt. After rinsing out the inside of my tankard with some water from a pitcher, I opened the pane of glass on one of my windows and tossed the contents out into the mountain air as a fine mist caught in the breeze. All put away and comely, I closed the door to my quarters behind me, trusting the enchantment to lock it on its own accord as I pressed the large lever to call the lift to my floor. It descended smoothly from some upper level and was devoid of any other passengers allowing me to step aboard the lift, along with my neatly folded pile of armor floating at my side. Having had time for my nose to lose its blind spot for my own armor, I held the rather rank articles far from me as I descended further to the base floor of the Master’s Tower.

The world outside felt good on my fur as I stepped out onto the south-facing balcony servicing the other set of Instructor’s bedchambers. The warmth from the Sun overhead was lightly tempered by a cool, gentle and pervasive breeze which swept the battlements and ramparts, ensuring our flags were always displayed their colors and emblems proudly. Pure white smoke as wide as the Spire itself rose up from its enormous sconce from atop Kael’s Fang far away and above the School. Seeing it as proud as ever, I quietly hoped that the Empress was glancing through her Observatory this day to see our silent defiance burn brightly. These thoughts carried me the length of the balcony and down the stairway leading into the Great Hall. Exiting via a door near the eastern side of the Judgement Seat, I was immediately met with the raucous mirth of the noonday meal with a rowdy company of Witchers and students. Each table was seated to capacity and laden down heartily with what smelled like some kind of meaty stew and freshly baked bread, accompanied of course by a pint or two of pale lager. Only by the grace of my boozy breakfast was I able to resist the immediate urge to take my place at the Masters’ tables and engorge myself on something more than the apple and bread roll of the previous day. Instead, I rushed quickly through the Hall destined for the stairwell down to the Shrine, as the quickest path to the Servant’s Courtyard was via the Kitchens. The Shrine hall was devoid of any occupants, save for Vivian who rested daintily upon one of the couches sat between each alcove, and gave me a gentle wave as I hurried past. Sadly I wished not to subject her to the rankness of my armor once more and returned her wave and smile with one of my own.

A sheer invisible wall of potent aroma hit me as I entered through to the Kitchens to see the cooks plying their trade with excellence; the contents of three enormous caldrons of stew being transferred into more manageable clay pots for serving the tables above. The blackened tiles steered me true through the commotion of their work, though this time, instead of exiting out to the scullery, I swung south and down another marked path. This one passed through yet another doorway and into the small lift tower built into the curtain wall of the larger, upper portion of the School built atop a nearly extinct volcano. Its eruption, which helped form the Valley around us, was an ancient event which had occurred countless ages ago during the Creation itself. Or so the earliest surviving records amongst the Direwolves recounted, carved on prehistoric slabs of basalt stone. In the wake of its eruption, it left behind a diminutive, flattened peak when compared to the other mountains of the White Fang range. Thousands of meters separated us from the vein of liquid magma so far below, ensuring the School was built upon a solid foundation with room to delve even deeper somewhat without consequence. Similar to the lift in the Master’s Tower (for indeed, all lifts here functioned the same), this lift tower too came to stop at a few differing locations; namely the top of the wall above, the Servant’s Courtyard itself and a stop roughly halfway down entering into a network of underground passages. These connected various places like a secondary Barracks carved out to accommodate the influx of Witchers from the Cleansing, the Laboratorium which needed a large space of its own, and the Infirmary for all the School's medical needs. Graciously I had not needed to seek out their services in many moons by mercy of my enhanced regenerative abilities which rendered most minor injuries fairly negligible.

The lift itself descended for roughly forty-or-so meters, past its other destination at the tunnels, before coming to a rest in a lofty subterranean stone hall. Lit brightly by torch and lantern light, this acted as one of many storerooms across the School for all the Kitchen's immediate needs. Here, mammoth wooden kegs of ale lined one wall while the other was laden down with shelves all sturdily built of solid mahogany. Each bore all manner of commonly used spices in fine canvas bags while wide barrels of raw vegetables were neatly lined up beneath them for ease-of-access. As the space was dutifully occupied by further serving staff working the noonday meal, I awaited my moment to scurry across the hall without tripping one of them up. The next three halls were of a similar nature to the first, differing only in that their various barrels and casks were sealed tightly against contamination while awaiting transit into the primary storeroom for use in the Kitchens above. Past the final hall, a large double-door gate used during the transfer of fresh supplies from the carts to the storerooms was barred shut; a smaller wicket gate set into the rightmost door standing wide open for the free passage of lone individuals. The lift tower descended shallowly into the southern side of the Holy Mount and emerged into the Servant’s Courtyard via the gate built into the mountainside. Much like unto the Lower Courtyard of the School proper, the Servant’s primary living space was a quaint, but still very lovely garden lawn dotted by many trees. Indeed, much love and effort had gone into seeing to the comfort and enjoyment of the working staff and, out of respect to their quietude, the direct path to the Grand Viaduct from the School proper was seldom used by common pedestrians. The great exception of course, were the regular caravans of carts hauling fresh goods brought in from local farms in the Valley, both above and below ground. These entered in via the lifthouse located in Tir Ná Liá along a dedicated causeway known as the Merchant's Way before finding their way into the roots of the fortress. A standing portal had also been erected in the Gardens that deposited seekers of the Spire within the first gatehouse which marked the entrance to the Viaduct, all without disturbing the servants one iota.

Many fountains had been fashioned across their bailey, each spaced evenly between the modest housing units which fed their runoff down covered stone troughs embedded in the pavers like the Garden above. However, the destination was not some complex series of grow beds bearing Alchemical ingredients and other plants meant for pure visual enjoyment. Rather, it all coalesced into one large trough fed directly into the washhouses lining the western edge of the curtain wall. Here, large basins for soaping up then rinsing out articles of clothing were attended for several hours a day for the daily round of laundry. All basins were bountifully fed by a constant running supply of fresh water channeled in from outside. The wastewater from this process was then flushed out the other end, forming a small stream off the side of the Mount which descended back underground via a carved tunnel packed with sand, fine gravel and charcoal held together by a wire mesh. Changed every few months, the added materials helped filter out what water was being returned to the earth and ensured our impact on the land was minimized. Indeed, many aspects of Eldar living were explicitly the more expensive, time-consuming methods of reducing our negative impact on the natural world around us. The Valley had welcomed us all as a second home amidst the lands of the enemy and readily assimilated our ways and cultures as could be adapted to the greater populace. We loved our land and always sought to keep ourselves as blameless from the destruction of the natural world as we could be. Wastewater from the School’s indoor plumbing however…that we sent directly into the heart of the volcano as few here, particularly the magically gifted, wished to deal with the complexity and disgust of purifying excrement.

As the morning laundry had already occurred prior to the noon meal, there were only a few washing staff attending the lavoir seemingly finishing up what articles had come in late. The washrooms were somewhat open air with large sections of the supporting walls sporting gaping windows, allowing the breeze to pass through unimpeded while still providing some protection from the elements. Come the chillier months leading into winter, these were covered by waxed canvas sheets and packed with bales of dry hay for insulation; the water fed through the basins switched to runoff from the hot springs via the expansive system of stone pipes throughout the School. Padded stools and mats were provided for those who wished for comfort whilst scrubbing away at the various sheets, cloaks, capes and other such articles that passed through daily. Indeed, armors such as mine were also commonplace here so that any in attendance would be capable of handling its return to a glorious, wearable state. Fine soaps were provided locally from experts in the field of cleansing and fragrance, gracing all washed here with beautiful aromas which lasted days. Soon after my entry, a comely yellow stallion dressed in simpler white-and-red robes like unto Vivian’s stood from his work and addressed me with a warm smile of welcome.

“Welcome, welcome!” The Pegasus hummed brightly, raising a wing and gesturing to the washroom. “Dear Master Viper, what can I assist ye with this fine afternoon?”

“Not the prettiest of tasks, but one you all are better at than I am to this day.” I replied with a smile of greeting before levitating my pile of laundry in front of his gaze. “I have only recently returned from the Path and-”

“Say no more!” He beamed with a grin across his dusky chestnut face while taking my gear in his dexterous wings. “We will have you looking your absolute best in no time at all! Are you in need of any additional services, Master Witcher?”

“Nay, good fellow. Just the washing please. Materials as good as these aren’t wanting for much by way of maintenance, but I thank ye all the same. You may send a runner or a Zamak to fetch me once you are finished. There is no need to waste your efforts on hauling my gear all the way up to my chambers…none of us fancy or fashion ourselves as Lords or Ladies.”

With a dutiful nod and a smile of gratitude, he took the Half Crown coin I offered him for his services and rushed off to begin his work, calling another to assist him from the far end of the washroom. Though the structure was well designed, and handsomely decorated by colorful paints upon the plastered walls, there was little reason for me to remain nearby while they worked. After all, it was a day of rest for me and by paying for my laundry to be done, I could alleviate any guilt for using my station to exact petty favors from the serving staff. With nothing left to accomplish in the Servant’s Courtyard, I bid them farewell and exited back out into the bailey. Once in the open air, I set myself about retracing my steps back through the storerooms and up the lift back to the Kitchens. Though I had worried somewhat that I had yet again missed the noon meal, the sight of yet more clay pots of stew and wooden platters of bread destined for the Great Hall above calmed me greatly. As it took a few moments for the servant’s lift to the Hall to return unoccupied, I offered to make myself useful by bearing several platters of bread and pitchers of ale up with them. Accompanying another silent yet beaming servant onto the lift, the air around me full of levitating platters, we ascended swiftly up the blank stone shaft to a recessed entrance in the Great Hall. By this time, around half of those present had finished eating and departed back to their various tasks leaving many seats open at the Master's table for me to choose from. Chairs sporting proper back support were uncommon in Kaer Solaris as the overwhelming majority of its occupants carrying at least one of their swords upon their back, making benches and stools the preferred furniture around the School. Bearing food as I was, it brought some smirks of amusement from the Witchers I approached.

"Well I'll be…hey Violet! Since when was it legal for the serving staff to wear two blades astride one another on the back? Or has a Master Witcher ditched the Path to take up the simple life of a maid? Gods what a horrid choice that would be..."

"Ohhh my! Frejdá! What in fuck's name are you doing slinging bread? A change of occupation at your age? And what's with being home so soon, eh? Getting too old even for that now are you?"

"Hilarious…" I sighed with a happy smile as I distributed the bread platters and pitchers of ale evenly across the table. "Would it kill any of you to make yourselves useful to them on occasion? They toil daily to keep this School running like the clockwork it is. What do you do, dear Violet, to help the School and the world at large?"

The Unicorn mare as purple as her name pouted indignantly at my jest, her dark brownish-orange leather armor clashing oddly with her colors. Though time had dulled it, one could still faintly catch the Yonderland accent lightly tinging her otherwise more Equestrianized voice.

"I kick monster arse, get paid in solid coin, hoard wealth, and resent my whole cursed family. Baking bread is for somepony less interesting to do, I've got Contracts coming out of my ears and couldn't be happier!" She responded with a huff, exchanging sly winks with Topaz Skies who acted as her devious partner in crime. "What about you, eh? Doesn't look like winter outside to me so tell me, what gives Frejdá? Don't tell me you aren't even able to handle a full year on the Path anymore..."

At that, both mares broke down into fits of unbridled mirth at my personal expense as I took a seat and awaited a break in their laughter to reply, "I returned early, yes. Though it would do ye Foxes well to know that I happened upon one of the Fallen, a Cat of the Second Born by the name of Braxia. A Shroud should never be left to rest longer than it must."

"Ah…well…that changes it a wee bit, don't it?" Violet replied after they were both struck with a sudden silence. "Gods…how long has it been since a ploughin' Cat got added to the Vigil Tree? Fifty years?"

"No clue, way too long a time all the same." Topaz commented, pawing softly at the silver Fox that hung around her neck. "Well…good to see ya again, Frejdá. You look in good form, all go well on the Path?"

"Aye! I'd be out there still were it not for that blasted Shroud. Do not get the wrong impression of course, I am the least to complain over the discovery of one of the Fallen. Especially one so old as this. However…I can hardly say it has been a profitable endeavor thus far out there beyond the Valley. If the rest of the year remains as it has been thus far, I will need to parse another loan from the Treasury."

"Oh? How bad then, ya old hag?" Violet sneered teasingly.

"Hmph…southern Equestria isn't even worth the journey anymore… Six Contracts since I set out, the most one paid was some fifty Crowns and I was cheated out of two others…ugly shites called their garrisons out to fish for that lovely loophole the Empress left for everyone."

"Damn, you too? Sorry sacks of shite…how in the Hel are we not supposed to draw our weapon when suddenly sprung on by angry soldiers in plate? It takes some heaping guts of solid stone to not fuckin' whip steel out of the sheath when that shite happens…"

"Especially when we're all on a razor-thin tripwire for our response to armed Equestrians in this day and age!" Topaz added in with a solid thud of her hoof against the table. "I always expect one of those bastards to try and slip a razor between my ribs anytime I walk near…"

"I cannot say I disagree with that…however, I spent most of my time out on the High Road or in the wilderness so my contact with Equestrians was thankfully limited. Which brings something to mind, have you any word on the Trottingham delegation? I spoke with Sir Tiffy prior to retiring for bed rather early yesterday so I have had no updates on the situation since."

"What's there to say? We weren't invited to the damn search party so why should we care?" Topaz retorted with an angry snort.

"Oh common, Tope… What the bitch meant to say was that we don't know either. Tiffy just stormed into the Den barking orders at all the Masters and Grandmasters to assemble in the Barbican immediately to begin a search for Ambassador Basil. Said, 'This is not a matter for an Adept, dear Keidis.', before storming off towards Richtus with his chosen lackeys."

"I see…they have had more than a full day to search the High Road so the lack of any word from them is telling. Something has befallen them…I know better than to not trust my instincts."

"What do you think it means?" Violet asked pointedly, glancing towards the towering entrance doors to the Hall. "If an Equestrian assaults an ambassador…that could mean a possible war with Trottingham. Another war I should say, heh. Perhaps this peace between they and we is growing cumbersome for Her Royal Ass"

"I couldn't tell you, but I do not like any of it in the slightest." I grunted in reply while pulling a full pot of stew towards me rather than dishing it into a bowl. "Enough talk, let a mare eat some ploughin' food finally, damnit. I have been awaiting this for some time now."

If either of them began speaking once I had finished, my awareness of it was entirely dulled as I was overcome by the taste and aroma of the hearty beef stew. Another resulting mutation nearly universal amongst all Witchers was an adaptation into a fully omnivorous diet, regardless of whatever species they had once hailed from. The biological reasoning was purely for the expansive list of 'fuel' sources to satisfy our intense metabolisms, but I was not one to complain for the expansive cuisines I was now privy to. After weeks of salted meats, trail grains, and whatever roots, berries and fungi I could scrounge up from the wilderness, I was in true bliss to be enjoying a proper hot meal again. While I had found some success with deadfall trapping and snares, fresh wild game had been an extremely infrequent part of my diet, and so to have a taste of freshly butchered meat once more was pure bliss. Without even realizing I was washing my tongue with flavor after flavor as I hungrily devoured whatever was in reach; apples, roasted vegetables, thick stew, dense bread and cool, refreshing pale ale right from the cellars. While manners were expected by all who ate within the Great Hall (proper merrymaking reserved for the taverns), I was a Witcher famished and by the many Gods and Goddesses…I would have my fill. Before long I was beginning to feel satisfied and allowed my pace of eating to slacken to a much more reasonable pace, all the while the other two mares made snide glances at each other at my expense.

"Greedy slob, isn't she?" Violet giggled now that I had come up for air and was more aware of their voices. “Whatever would your Mentor say if he saw such a spectacle from his prized pupil?”

“Spare me thy jests, Violet…” I sighed once I had found a moment to wipe my mouth with a nearby table rag. “You were naught but a tickle in thy father’s loins while I toiled under Nozgath’s tutelage. Whatever would you know about the habits of my Mentor? A stallion with more Hunts under his belt than either of you combined, even in the grave?”

“Yeah…I’m afraid to say it, Vi but you’re shooting for murky waters with that one.” Topaz commented with a subdued laugh.

“Alright, I can take that…constructive criticism, if you wish to call it that. However, that does not detract from the obvious statement of fact: you eat like a gods-damned Feral!”

“And you can take another meaningless victory of banter, dear Princess. Congratulations on your success and etcetera and so on…now, if you would excuse me? I have only a few minutes until they truly begin clearing up the Hall, and they will be wanting this pot back I am most sure.”

“...Fine. Let’s go, Topaz.” She replied with a stiff expression of annoyance, getting to her hooves before leaning close to my ear and hissing, “Don’t you fucking call me that, alright? You know that’ll only piss me off more.”

“My dear, if you wish to take this verbal banter to the Ring then by all means make the challenge official. It will not prevent me from finishing my meal, whatever road you decide to take, so please…do me the courtesy.”

“Hmph…up yours, Princess.”

And with that, the quippy pair stalked off out the Great Hall by way of the main doors. I knew I had struck a very sore nerve and, had I not been so famished, would never have considered it as suitable fodder. The disowned and partially-disinherited daughter of the Duke of Yonderland was not one to take mention of that illustrious heritage lightly. Indeed, Violet was the sort of mare who wished to bury one past life under the accomplishments of another; one made in her own image and guided by her ambitions so that all deeds performed were under her own name and for her own glory. Her upbringing in the upper echelons of wealthy society had left their permanent mark on her however, and she was prone to mild indulgences in the finer things in life. Disinheritance or no, she had been upfront upon seeking out the Witchers that she had come bearing some measure of wealth she had absconded with whilst fleeing the Ducal Palace. As a result…she was already amongst the wealthier Witchers amongst all the Schools even before her mutations amongst the Cats in the waning days of their loyalty to the Path. There were rumors that she too had participated, at least somewhat, in their dabblings with the world of assassination Contracts prior to fleeing the Grand Caravan. However…given that she had renounced the School of the Cat and enthusiastically took up the new Crest of the Fox alongside her fellows, Kaer Solaris had granted them all a blanket amnesty for past actions. Those same rumors also mentioned repeatedly that any who fell to her blade in that time were murders of a personal nature. A…trimming of the family tree at the very fringes as she had once described it, pruning any ‘diseased’ leaves she could get away with without striking too deeply and facing their true wrath. It was a dangerous game she was willing to play with Yonderland, yet she still breathed while others of her kin have ceased to by her own hoof. Of course, my part to play in these rumors was...intentionally left vague in those rumors at utter worst, and omitted entirely from the narrative at absolute best.

Topaz was comparatively far more mundane in her origins, having been a childhood friend of Violet’s amongst the Ducal staff, the daughter of a lowly scullery maid. In her own words, she had grown to chafe under the weight of the wealth of those she and her family served as well as the mediocre existence she found herself in. Upon Violet’s (somewhat) voluntary exile, she had already come of age and so took up her meager belongings, bid her parents an eternal farewell, and chased after her lifelong friend. In her tenure as a Witcher, she had gained the recognition and renown she too had been craving. Having always lived in the shadow of her adoptive sister’s former wealth, golden Crowns, silver Halters and copper Bits earned by the sweat of her own brow now constantly jingled in her purse. Hers was a name and reputation that matched that of Violet, with many a successful Contract under both of their belts that were worthy of any member of our guild. Of course, to stand out amongst all the Schools was a challenge few truly overcame over the centuries. True legends amongst Witchers were few and far between by virtue of each of us being capable of tremendous deeds over that of the common mortal. But…that was no excuse for any to seek that level of greatness, not the least of those who, like Topaz, had come from such meager beginnings. Since those beginnings, one could have confused the pair for sisters by the powerful bond between them as they were never out of sight nor sound of the other. It was seen as unusual amongst their fellow Foxes as several married couples were, or at least had been amongst their ranks, yet none were seemingly so devoted to the other as Violet and Topaz. Truly the rumors about what sort of complicated romance was occurring between them were rampant, amongst the thousands of assorted hushed whispers in every corner of Kaer Solaris… And yet, despite it all they maintained that they were nothing more than, in their words, ‘Soulmates in battle and Sisters of the Hunt’. Whether there was any truth to it or they were simply attempting to hide a relationship that not a soul in the Valley would oppose…well, it was now a multi-decade mystery. One with seemingly no satisfying conclusion located anywhere on the horizon.

Encouraging Witchers to travel and Hunt in pairs was not universal amongst the Schools, save perhaps for those Witchers that took to each other and were wed in a manner personal to each couple. In the wake of our broad sterility, weddings and romantic pairings were not so much a matter of replenishing our ranks as it were fulfilling that basic need for lasting romantic or even platonic companionship. Indeed it varied wildly between all Schools as to the commonality of more than one Witcher treading together along the Path, with even wedded couples infrequent but not all that uncommon either. However, outside of those bound by matrimony to one another, only the Schools of the Wolf, Griffin, Dragon, Viper and Swan possessed any real familiarity with group tactics; the Wolves, Griffins and Swans having regular training drills in pairs, or even small groups in the case of the Wolves. Indeed, the School of the Wolf excelled in this field as informal ‘packs’ of close friends grew amongst their ranks during the course of their training and instruction. While most Witchers wandered the world alone, ‘twas a rare sight to see a Wolf unaccompanied by a fellow packmate or two; each a Brother or Sister in arms, and solidifying that bond via years of Hunting with one another on the Path. This wasn’t to say that such a bond did not exist, nor was impossible to achieve outside the School of the Wolf as many likewise encouraged fellowship amongst their ranks, though none quite did it like the Wolves could. Many friendships crisscrossed our number, both within members of our own Schools, as well as fellows hailing under another Crest. This being accounted for however, no Witchers could fight in such close quarters alongside one another with the skill, ferocity and coordination of a pack of Wolves. Indeed, they excelled in such matters and could handle exceedingly difficult Contracts together whilst splitting the profits gained afterwards.

Foxes, much like the School of the Cat from which they originated, were very much more inclined to wandering the lonesome road in isolation, particularly those called to dwell in the Kingdom of Trottingham. With so few allowed to dwell within their borders at one time, it was seen as a wanton waste of the Kingdom’s coffers for more than one Fox to be assigned to the same Contract at any one time. The noble House of Sheffield had acted as the technical hosts of the School of the Fox since its inception, having performed the role of primary benefactors to the entire formative organization. They had even offered to repurpose and fortify an old family manor within the capital city of Brookshire to act as the physical School itself, however…there was a catch. Due to multiple shared borders, Trottingham had to worry over their angsty Equestrian cousins becoming uncomfortable with a burgeoning Witcher army so nearby. As a result, no more than thirty-and-five Foxes were allowed to live and operate within their borders at any one given time; all other Schools being barred entirely out of a sense of extremely understandable caution. Those not selected for placement within Trottingham, such as Violet, Topaz and Tiffy, occupied Kaer Solaris amongst the rest of us while they awaited the call from King Sheffield to replenish the ranks. Indeed, it seemed that such a call was supposed to have been the intent of the expected delegation that was now three-days late. There was certainly some tension to be had over their absence…however, what was I to do about it? What were any not called upon already to do regarding their absence? I was not a Fox and had yet to be asked to join in their attempts to scour the High Road for the expected diplomats and their armed escort.

My stomach now much more satiated by delicious food, I paused in my gluttonous devouring to mull over a flagon of light cider to allow it all to settle. As earlier in my quarters, I allowed myself some time to relish in my freedom from the mandatory hours of lectures and rigorous physical exercise regimen students were bound by. In fact, I found myself curious as to what would be my next self-appointed task. Wandering the Path made for relatively easy daily planning as the road ahead was usually as simple as moving onto the next town or village nearby the High Road. Spend a day or two prodding about for any whiff of a Contract in the immediate area before moving onto the next area worth investigating. The Contract was the itinerary to beat all itineraries save for the structured schedule of an actual School, all actions dictated by the nature of the monster or Daemon under scrutiny. Returning from the Path as early as I was, it was almost unnatural to feel the warmth of a midsummer Sun while within the School as the chill cold of winter remained our call to come home. Winter changed the School little as the volcano’s heat could be channeled through expert pipework woven into every stone facet of the fortress, pumping warmth as one giant circulatory system via a series of vents. The glorious Sun above also graced us with an extra bounty of its warming rays come winter, embracing all out of doors like it were the first months of autumn allowing training like the Pendulums or the Gauntlet to proceed as normal. Outdoor classes at large were held with as much regularity as could be achieved, pending any heavy rainfall or high mountain winds. There was much to be gained from spending time amongst the beauties of nature after all and much of our lives would be spent traversing the High Road far from the nearest village. Admittedly though, the Valley was in a league unto its own with our unusual assortment of native and foreign flora which made our home so much more unique.

As part of my own normal winter routine, I would convene with old friends and spend the better part of the first month home, spending my time in-between hangovers as tales of the past year were exchanged between us. Regrettably however, most were likely countless leagues away, exploring the lesser traveled paths of the High Road far from the Valley; far from being near enough to be of any use in filling up my hours. Naturally, I could return to the Path within a matter of days once I had rested, restocked my supplies and perhaps dabbled somewhat with the Spectre Petals I had obtained. Indeed, it was not as if the High Road leading up to the Valley was laden down with so much snow that one could not possibly hope for easy passage…however, I still found myself feeling days away from being ready to return to the Path. The allure of my personal bed with its down feather stuffing, and the symphony of filling flavors provided by the Kitchens was simply too much to resist now that I had time to enjoy them again. And as if to only sweeten the deal, the glassware and equipment of the Laboratorium was not to be beat by any Alchemist within a thousand leagues. My precious Petals could truly not ask for a better place for their potential to be documented and experimented on in a controlled setting. This of course was assuming the Laboratorium was not already fully occupied by our rotating cast of Alchemists and those more Arcanely-inclined pursuing their own personal projects. Some even still yet attempted to reproduce the Grasses we had lost during the Cleansing, working in great secrecy so as to prevent another unwelcome appearance at the Arch of the Hunters. Granted, Witch Hunters had not been allowed access to the School nor the Valley since the Cleansing, when they first absconded with our mutagens and the recipes hiding their secrets. Pursuing these old secrets was the life goal of more than one who occupied Kaer Solaris…so far however to no avail as there was no shortcut to the answers our predecessors learned through decades and centuries of refinement. The First Council of Scholars had far more universal support and financing for their formative years than we had now. Not to mention the number of willing volunteers needed to carve a path of death and suffering necessary to trod if we were to obtain those mutagenic secrets once more in their fullness.

Fluffy wheat bread handily mopped up what remained of the stew in the pot, and before long, I was setting all my used cutlery and tankard in the empty pot ready to be carried off to be washed. So engorged had I become that the mere thought of physical exertion became near-nauseating, at least for the immediate future while digestion had some time to work. With slow, careful movements I pulled away from the bench and stood upright, leaving my tidy pile of used dishes where they lie so the remaining staff could remove them. My next destination was somewhat of a mystery, for though I felt compelled to engage in some kind of exercise, my stomach was unwilling to negotiate for at least an hour leaving me fewer options than normal. There was the Library of course with its countless shelves and comfortable reading nooks, the Laboratorium with a possible encounter with a snobbish Mage or Sorceress but abundant equipment, and the bathing pools beneath the School…but I did not quite yet need a bath, not until after I had exercised at least. Meanwhile, the Gardens offered fresh air, cool shade and less stringent noise policies than the Library. As soon as the thought entered my mind, the decision was already made for me and with little prompting my hooves carried me back across the Great Hall. Though slow, it saw me through the double doored passage to the sunlit outdoors with an apple or two slipping its way from the table and into one of the bags on my belt for later snacking.

Immediately the uncomfortable pressure in my abdomen felt easier to bear once I passed through the second door and into the open air. The moment the sensation took hold of my body, I was granted an easier time in striding across the stone paths connecting through the center of the cloister. Little had changed from my short sojourn the day previous, with the holy space brimming with quiet, but extremely lively activity as citizens of Redclaw and pilgrims from beyond the Valley mingled together in harmony. Much of the available seating both under the covered walkway as well as those under the open sky were thoroughly filled to capacity, while much of the standing space was likewise occupied making my search a lengthy one. In fact, space to rest was naught to be found save for those seats in the far northeastern corner near unto the Barracks and the Vigil Tree, an area naturally set apart as one for somber thoughts and quiet voices. So many were already enjoying in the bounties of our Gardens as well as in each others company. Witchers and Instructors mingled amidst serving staff, pilgrims and Fire Priests alike as though ranks still mattered, they tended to lose most meaning when pleasant conversation and people were available to enjoy with gusto. When my approach through the pleasant crowd revealed several open benches, my arse immediately sought out the closest and easiest of the lot to obtain.

In this corner of the cloister, the second of two wide recesses in the covered walkway played host to several notable features of the School; not in the least of which being a large, beautiful tree of pure white bark with leaves of gold set in its center and rising through a gap in the roofing. Forming the walls on either side were two compact lecture halls wherein the mysteries of the natural world and its manipulation via Alchemy were thoroughly parsed for knowledge by avid students. A narrow stairway leading to the curtain wall above hugged the inner face of the recess, providing a second point of access to the balcony servicing the Instructors’ bedrooms and the main walk of the fortress wall. Each lecture halls’ roof could be directly accessed from the balcony above, both cordoned off by sturdy fencing providing convenient sparring rings close to the Barracks nearby. The Barracks, a looming squared building capped at the four corners by small watchtowers, was built directly off the northeastern corner of the curtain wall as a distinct landmark that could even be spotted from farther up the Valley. From its prime position straddling near the corner of the Upper Courtyard and the Gardens, burgeoning students would have easy access to both areas to attend their meals, lectures and combat training directly from their bunkrooms. In many ways, the grand cloister which formed the Gardens housed the crossroads of many a path around the School as if an unofficial central hub of hoof traffic. The impact this level of interconnectivity had upon the area was made abundantly apparent when attempting to get from one end of the School to the other. Spending even more than thirty seconds making one's way across the Gardens under ideal conditions would be seen as inefficient, however, here…navigating one’s way around others’ conversations could consume minutes.

Sacrificing nearly five before the pair blocking my path noticed my presence, I was gracious to take a quiet seat on a carved bench in the far corner. Resting back against a stone support for the walkway's roof, I took in a deep breath of air and let it out slowly in a halfhearted attempt at alleviating the irritation within me. I was not the most comfortable when in the midst of multiple persons at once like this, and despite the tranquility, there was still plenty of noise. If it wasn't an excitable group of Witchlings, it was a boisterous Instructor conversing with their fellows, or the assorted bird songs which filled the Gardens with the music of nature. It was so very heartening to hear the commotion of so many other like-minded folks around me all enjoying the peace of the School and the Valley at large. I was at last amongst the truest kin I had who were not surviving relatives amongst the Lowland Valkyrie. Here, we were all Brothers and Sisters of the Hunt (those humble pilgrims excepted of course), and regardless of the School of our graduation, most seemed capable of swallowing such petty distinguishing differences between us and coming together in solidarity. It was deathly important to us to encourage and foster such an atmosphere as we were all we had in the world, by-and-large. Many precious lives had been ended far too soon outside the Valley...and though many of the Fallen had been recovered over time, countless more yet remained. Either the sufferer of some ignominious end in a forgotten nook of the world, or a victim of some Equestrian-backed attack. The light of the Sun overhead poured through the gap around the Tree nearby…and it was only a matter of time before the gleam of hundreds of dangling silver chains drew anyone's’ gaze its way.

The Vigil Tree was of a rare variety of alpine maple, given to the School as a memorial gift from the Örn; a wee sapling that was so lovingly tended to with the magic of the Valley. By the fifth year since its planting, it had almost fully grown to maturity with careful guidance around its narrow accommodations, providing a dazzling golden shade for that section of wall and Gardens its branches loomed over. Sensing an opportunity, Vivian had proposed using the beautiful edifice of nature as a living memorial to the Fallen by dangling their Medallions from its branches for all to see and remember. I doubted even Vivian could name each and every Witcher we honored on our tree… Each School had more than its share of Medallions dangling freely under the Sun, with the once honorable memory of the School of the Cat allowed to mingle freely amidst the rest of us in harmony. Indeed, it would be a mighty miracle to happen upon a Witcher who survived the Cleansing that had not been forced to hang the Medallion of at least one close friend. Or more if they were truly forsaken by luck and Fate. I myself had to shoulder that burden a total of seven times since relocating to Kaer Solaris. Some had been honest deaths, honorable and noble by every metric of the Witcher’s Code at the claws of some monstrosity with their trusty silver blade by their side. And others…lacked a Medallion or really any Relic that could be used as a physical object of mourning and memorial, their equipment absconded by Witch Hunters as trophies of their twisted Hunts. In lieu of their own personal Medallion, a new one was fashioned of the silvery wood from pruned branches of the Vigil Tree with it's eyes set with pure white crystal to represent their passing. And so, they too were offered the chance to mingle amidst the other Medallions of pure Lunar Silver, gleaming softer than their fellows as pale ghosts of friends who left no trace but their memory on those still living. A cruel, cruel Fate for all parties involved...

Every participant at the School had those special, favorite areas to which they would retreat in times of personal need. While the Library, Archives, Armory and The Gauntlet were all part of the network of personal retreats at various times for various emotions, this quiet corner near the Vigil Tree was far and away my most somber option. I had not come to the Tree out of the usual melancholy and remorse that brought me near, but it was rather the only quiet place I could obtain given the sacred space. And yet…it did not prevent me from gazing upon the remnants of hundreds, even thousands, of Witchers all clustered together as one cohesive whole amidst the boughs. It was an intentional choice not to provide some semblance of order to their placement upon the Tree, with no groupings based upon which School they hailed from being allowed to form. Despite our many differences, with infighting and rivalries founded upon ego, spite or simple bad intentions, we were all of the same special group; a species all our own that was intentionally manufactured to solve a problem which had only gotten worse from outside pressures beyond our control. We had formed our own collective identity and culture unique to our caste, which stood independently of other species and nationalities whilst parsing a little from each in turn. One colossal family formed around the Hunt for those monsters which lurked in the darkness beyond the Night. There was honor in remembering those who had Fallen along the way by stripping away the petty differences which grouped us into bickering tribes, and so it was that no two Schools were hung beside each other upon the Tree. In death…all who had entered its doors acting according to the Witcher's Code were equally deserving of remembrance and contemplation. Indeed…the longer I gazed, the more my mildly merry mood was tempered by that old sadness I wished to avoid meeting upon the road.

With another even heavier sigh, I settled back in my seat and closed my eyes without realizing. The heavy feasting I had just done was beginning to show its drowsy after-effects and began to consume my mind. I had no pressing concerns, and I was the safest I possibly could ever be...it was simply too easy to give into the temptation once it began taking over my eyes. My head and heart were heavy with tiredness and a woeful regret for the past, causing my eyelids to droop as if weighted down by leaden chains. Whether or not true sleep overcame me, I was beyond knowing, however I was conscious enough to be vaguely aware of the winding paths of thought carried me through the foggy twilight of half-sleep. Drifting me softly along to some unknown destination amidst the quiet of this somewhat secluded corner of the Gardens. The stone bench beneath me was far from comfortable to sit upon...but it was still yet enough to coddle me along fully into the realm of unconsciousness, and into states of dreaming. I had earned the extra rest.

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