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

Whether it was a minute or a hundred later, my calm silence was eventually brought to an abrupt end by the near simultaneous slamming open of the two lecture hall doors. The noise originated from a large group of students as they ‘escaped’ from their Alchemy lessons in order to attend the next. The suddenness of the noise was certainly startling, but I didn’t allow myself to overly rouse to it. Instead, I kept my eyes closed and my posture relaxed so I wouldn’t be bothered in the event one of them spotted me. As the various loud-mouthed Witchlings and Acolytes filtered out aways to my right, I focused on staying out of their notice. I planned on rising to my hooves very soon of course, however that was to be done on my own time and I was simply not feeling up to being randomly questioned by a student seeking easy test answers. One by one they filtered out, my ears able to pick out their individual gaits as they moved as one chaotically organized herd up the stairway by the Tree. As the last of their steps vibrated the stone beneath me, signaling their departure to the Upper Courtyard via the curtain wall, I found my chance to stand back up. The teachers within the lecture halls were likely to be busy cleaning up from this day’s Alchemy lessons and not all too interested in some idle conversation; assuming they even happened to be persons I enjoyed speaking to. Though I didn’t wish to be directly heckled by them, there was a high likelihood that these students were off to engage in physical combat training in the Upper Courtyard. Graciously, this was an activity I could engage in without obstructing their lessons as all the focus would be elsewhere rather than on myself. Besides…I was interested in seeing how well the younger blood was handling it all since I had last seen any of them in action.

Keeping some distance between us, I mounted the stairs behind them and plodded my way up and around the Vigil Tree onto the broad walk lining the main wall. Above and between the crenellations, the ring of mountains around the School cast soft shadows across the Valley below with the faint shapes of the temples far away atop their peaks. Here, the pervasive breeze gusted softly against my side from between the battlements, following me along while I passed by the entrance to the Barracks built off the curtain wall via a side causeway. Shortly past the lofty stone bridge to the Barracks, another staircase branched left and descended back towards the Pendulum wall to a wide landing built along its length, some five meters below the contraption. This quasi-balcony connected with the other stairway descending from the opposite side of the cloister, nearby the side entrance to the Great Hall, and acted as a catch for any practicing the Pendulums above. Though the danger was inherent, no life should ever be sacrificed during practice necessitating the installation of enormous, thickly padded boards set on hinges along its length which could be unlatched from the wall as needed for training safety. Where this landing met the stairs from the opposite side, it continued downwards until it reached the stone pavers of the Upper Courtyard near to the main entrance to the Great Hall. None however occupied the precarious oaken beam above me with its swinging obstacles, and each of the training pads rested upright, latched securely against the wall; their thick layers of padding fitting snugly into a shallow recess in the wall laying flush at the seam. Resting my forelegs against the carved railings beside me, I could look down into the whole of the Courtyard and scope out exactly which group of students I wished to observe for a time.

The Upper Courtyard of the School played host to several key buildings and training areas vital to the combat arts of our profession, all spread out across a wide, roughly rhomboid space dotted by plots of grass, shrubbery, and trees. Directly below me, set into the base of the wall, sat the door leading down to the Laboratorium directly across the way from the foot of the grand ramp leading to the doors of the Great Hall. To my immediate right, the multi-storied mass of the Armory rose a full story above my head, running north against the curtain wall with several smokestacks protruding from its peaked roof. To its right, tucked up against and built into the northern wall, was the similarly lofty Inn known as 'The Crosswinds', bordered on its westernmost side by the postern door set into the low wall sporting the balance beam. This comfortable establishment served our many visitors fine food and spirits on its first floor, while providing lodging on its second and third stories in the form of small, cozy private bedrooms. The fourth floor acted in the capacity of a second guardhouse connected directly to the Inn, allowing any of the School Guard on break direct access to the main wall via one of the defensive towers embedded in the northern section of the wall; its lower levels acting as a cellar for the homely kitchen set behind the front counter of the bar. Off in the northeast corner of the Courtyard between the Inn and the Armory were various training dummies, all set at differing ranges from a cordoned spot designated for elementary archery and throwing weapons training.

Finally, set in the rough center of the Courtyard was a broad, yet low ring of stone, capped off at the top by a loose mesh dome of flat metal bars allowing spectators to look down into the round chiseled pit known as the Gauntlet. From a series of levers, pulleys, and buttons built into the ring, a vast array of devices could be triggered within the pit with the goal of the trainee to practice their sword forms whilst dodging all manner of obstacles triggered by Instructors and Mentors above. Swinging Pendulums, dart launchers, repeating crossbows, blunted steel blades of various types, low-tier combat spells, pillars in the floor raising and lowering at random… Expertly wielded sorcery had blended seamlessly with the complex Pygmy machinery underpinning the entire apparatus; truly a marvel of engineering worthy of its own renown were it better known. The pit itself was large enough to accommodate up to three participants at once, with ample space for complex movements, allowing for the spectacle that was a ferocious duel between Witchers punctuated by the many surprises in store. As the largest crowd of students had gathered here, I set my sights on observing what sort of fighting spirit this young batch of blood could muster up this day.

“Alright, the lot of ya been doin’ me proud these last few weeks. Truly been a pleasure to see the flash o’ your swords and the fire in your eyes as you’ve started tackling the Narrows. Truly a right fuckin’ pleasure that.”

The scene below me was quaint as the group of twelve Witchlings and Acolytes of varying Crests cheered and applauded each other at these sincere words of positive reinforcement. Brynhild, a Highland Valkyrie Master from the School of the Wolf, was acting as today’s Overseer of the Gauntlet, and never ceased to tower over most of her students save some particularly sizable Griffins. School code dictated that the Fencing Instructor may only appoint two Lieutenants at any one time, yet this did not prevent her or other Masters and Mentors from acting in such a capacity when necessary. In a case such as this, she was well within her right to operate the device given Razorbeak was attending his own pupil and his two Lieutenants were attending to other classes. A warrior teacher to her core, Brynhild could always be found wherever there were strong, eager minds to be chiseled into shape and deadly techniques to refine to perfection.

“However!” She continued, her tone turning stern and commanding as she tugged a wayward strand of golden hair back over her ear with one of her long wings. “That means I can push you soft-hoofed hermits that much harder now, eh? Uh-huh, you heard me. Atalis! Winter Grove! You two are goin’ down to the pit first and we all want to see a show, now don’t we? ”

With a smirk of silent amusement, I observed as the two Witchlings were singled out and the crowd of students around them fled a short distance away as if a plague had struck the pair. Atalis was a name I had some memory of, one belonging to the black-and-gold feathered son of a low-born Dwemish blacksmith from Keldagrim. Reportedly, he had made a name for himself during his Trial of the Sword in one of those beautiful occasions where those present were allowed to witness true budding potential in a rising star. Though I knew for certain I wasn’t there to witness it, word of great strength for his diminutive stature spread to anyone with ears across the School, as well as his Choice to study under a fully-grown Örn who towered seven or so heads taller than he. Bjørn Stonepaw had not exactly been a Mentor at the time, yet had been in attendance during that year's final exams and Atalis had rather brazenly singled him out. The other unwitting volunteer, Winter Grove, was not a name nor a face I could so-readily bring to mind, forcing me to surmise what facts I could from her appearance alone. From a distance, I could see her sparkling short white/gray hair, icy blue eyes, bat-like wings, tall tufted ears, and the trappings of a Witchling of the School of the Raven; the black ‘feathers’ of her armor contrasting well with her bluish-gray fur. She, and others of the so-called ‘Night Children’, were a mysterious race with limited interactions with the rest of the outside world at large. Rather, these bat-like Equines much preferred to keep to themselves in their hidden villages deep within secret caves; supposedly the progeny of Equestrian-Thestral unions which, with no great surprise, were almost unheard of. Though ancient unions of Highland Valkyrie and Thestrals had given rise to my kind, a union between Eldar was far less uncommon than one with an Equestrian as a mate. Both Witchlings gave the other a grim look before proceeding together in my general direction, destined for the recessed door set below me in order to access the Gauntlet. As they passed by and underneath, I indulged in a hearty wave for them both and gave each of them a hearty little smile. I was hoping that, despite our unfamiliarity with one another, they would at least feel some modicum of encouragement coming from me.

Once the door down to the Laboratorium thudded shut behind the pair, I leapt over the railing and down to the pavers below in order to join the other spectators from the best vantage point. The other students had already gathered round the low wall lining the rim of the pit and taken up spaces to see between the wide, flat bars forming the domed roof; Brynhild making her way to one of the four control boards which directed the Gauntlets’ mechanisms. Indeed, I could have been entirely invisible for all the attention I and some others nearby received as we joined the spellbound crowd forming around the pit as it was all in good fun to watch others train. The Gauntlet was by far our premier tool for replicating the sheer chaos that was multi-target engagements such as in a city or, much less commonly, in open battle with another assembled force. This training was not only necessary, but paramount in a world where most Equestrians knew numbers were their best (and sometimes only) bet for victory over a Witcher. Each and every student who wished to learn the Witcher arts would eventually find themselves down in the pit, fighting like their life depended on it as they applied what they learned to such a chaotic chamber of surprises. Even Acolytes with no mutations would have to spend time themselves in the Gauntlet, the challenge only somewhat slackened in light of that fact. It was a brutal tribulation to face...and yet, true battle brought about the worst dangers and chaos. As long as our students knew the taste of such chaos and could fight on, they stood at least a chance in the world beyond our Valley.

There was a slight journey to navigate the steps to the passage leading down, so a brief pause was allowed to occur before the pair of doors at the bottom swung open and our first participants emerged. It was…unusual to witness a Dwem wearing the bulky chain-and-gambeson armor of an Örn Witchling; moderately reinforced by simple lamellar pieces worn atop. However, the diminutive Atalis bore the weight proudly upon his broad shoulders while holding his angular head high. In truth, the look upon his face was…strained one could say, almost distracted even. Whether this were due to the nerves of the moment, or something else prickling the back of his mind like a briar stuck in one’s side...I couldn’t say. All the more however, he still held his head high and faced the challenge ahead without cowering down. It was a humble and honest display of a fiery fighting spirit which had enabled him to have the stones to strike so high in his goals so as to surpass his own species. Truly, there wasn’t much nuance surrounding the Örn, both as a species and as one of our Witcher Schools. They were essentially larger, stronger Griffins whose island nations to the west and east were ones of tradition and a fondness for the strength of arm and arms. Their School in the western, more unified islands stood as a symbol for the toughest place for the toughest Örn to rise to greatness amongst their kin. Indeed, the Örn became so enthralled in playing host to our guild that the Archmaster of the School was now held with the same honor the title of King amongst their islands. In fact, it was well known by now that the terms ‘King’ and ‘Archmaster’ had become almost synonymous with one another and became interchangeable by the populace; the line of succession determined by they who could best the reigning monarch in honorable single combat in line with the old ways. Atalis was not so bold as to vie for the Örn throne of course…yet, he was to be commended for even attempting his chosen path; let alone for the simple fact that he was a successful pupil by all measures it seemed. I was curious however as to his proficiency with Signs, given his obvious reliance on physical might.

The Örn were not so intent as to the use of magic in combat as their mid-sized relations at the School of the Griffin, nor especially like unto the Örn's own Descendant School, the School of the Owl located off the eastern coasts. Whilst the Örn were indeed capable of strong connections to the Arcane, they chose instead to emphasize physical might over that of magic. However, they, like other species possessed of digitary appendages, had quick access to Signs in a way the rest of us with hooves had no physical way of performing. Typical novices in our craft with no claws to flex were forced to vocally invoke the name of whichever Sign they wished to cast, while experienced Witchers could cast any of them with but a flick of their thoughts and a hoof outstretched. The so-called ‘Claw Technique’ however, allowed any with nimble digits to form a facsimile of the written Rune which represented each Sign. These simple spells were able to be cast without a word, nor a thought, but a simple gesture of the hand; the resulting Signs being all the stronger from the presence of the Rune formed by their claws or talons. Indeed, the School of the Owl had been founded for the very purpose of expounding upon the Arcane potential held within the Örn, bringing about many new Signs which few other Schools could perform. While few Owl Witchers had found their place in Kaer Solaris (most prowling the eastern shores of the Continent), they were as close to Mages and Sorceresses as Witchers could be. Even as I pondered it, I wondered what the impending fight would look like had the little Dwem decided to demand Mentorship of one of our few Owls on site. Regrettably however, with an axe in one fist, and his talons clenched around a modified bastard sword in the other, there was simply no way for Atalis to cast any sort of magic quickly. If anything, he seemed to relish in his more physical stance as there was a strength in his posture which seemed to embrace the weight of his armor and weapons with excited, open arms.

Winter, on the other hoof, looked decidedly nervous as she shuffled lightly in place with her fans of feathered knives at the ready; her eyes darting about the various holes and channels in the walls of the pit from whence their 'distractions' would emerge. The School of the Raven was in truth a Descendant of the School of the Swan, having done away with the xenophobic stipulations of the Thestrals whilst applying their love of ranged combat to an entirely new degree. Making use of all things sharp which could be shot or thrown in quick succession, a Raven could end most engagements from a safe distance with options to spare, relying on a pair of twinned, feather-bladed short sabers for whenever a fight became too close for comfort. While those bow-obsessed Thestrals abstained from entertaining the merits of the crossbow, and few of them gave into the ‘parlor trick’ that was the use of throwing darts and knives, these Ravens sought a new path. They went about the foundation of their School in the full-hearted pursuit of the truest potential of a Witcher's enhanced senses being seriously applied to the art of ranged warfare. Indeed, their signature weapons were their throwing knives which were fashioned after the likeness of feathers, something their Raven-themed ensemble allowed them to keep hidden on their person in great abundance. True to its name, the School of the Raven made liberal use of black dye in the construction of their form-fitting armor, with long, finely detailed ‘feathers’ of thick, wire-backed leather lining the trim of her graceful spaulders and slender tassets. Plates of similarly blackened steel were systematically riveted about the exterior of her leather armor for further protection, accompanied by rows of yet further throwing knives sheathed in rows of five at strategic points across her body. Fitting robes of black linen mated with a mail hauberk filled in the visible gaps in her outer armor, with a stylized asymmetrical skirt providing the mild illusion of the closed wings of a raven.

As for the mare wearing all this gear…well, there was simply nothing of substance for me to say without knowing much about her on a personal level. I knew she was a Mentored student sporting dual-enrollment status which allowed her to participate in physical classes alongside other students, else she would be elsewhere, metaphorically tied at the hip to her Mentor. Aside from such shallow facts, the most I was able to surmise was the simple fact that she was lovely on the eyes and that she and I were likely very distantly related in some frightfully twisted familial tree via our own distant relations to Thestrals. All the same however, this Raven Witchling was standing ready with several fans of wooden throwing knives and twined short sabers hovering ready at her sides; her opponent hefting a large training axe across his shoulder and taking a low stance that could be applied both offensively as well as defensively. A Raven versus an (unusually short) Örn…without even knowing it, I was chanting along with the crowd of students and other onlookers hoping for a good show from the duo. There was nothing overly complicated in what the pair had to do, a simple one-on-one duel between two students using the best of what they knew against each other minus an intention to truly harm the other. The only catch found came from the confined environment in which they had to fight and the creativity of the one behind the controls of the Gauntlet’s many toys and gadgets. With Brynhild at the helm, the two of them, as well as the rest of us, were in for an interesting performance at the very least.

With both combatants ready, and not one to stand on much ceremony, Brynhild barked the command to begin before tugging on a series of levers and switches in the control center before her. Immediately the floor beneath the two began to change as individual stone blocks roughly a meter squared began to rise to varying heights; Brynhild intentionally raising Winter above Atalis while only granting him two uneven plinths to make use of. Sensing her advantage, Winter promptly launched herself forward in a flip directly over her opponent whilst utilizing her momentum to naturally allow a broad fan of wooden knives to fling down in his direction. Atalis, understandably put off by the poor starting position, crouched ever lower and hesitated more than his Mentor would have liked before deciding on a direction to evade. His movements were sure and strong though once he finally committed to action, his strength being his only saving grace given the circumstances. Though he successfully dodged the bulk of projectiles, two still very clearly thudded off the hard leather greave of his left hindleg as a result of his momentary hesitation to evade. Each moment of their bout passed by at a snails’ pace as the adrenaline of the moment took hold of my vision, every movement crisp and clear to see below me allowing for extra observations like these to be made in detail. Witchlings also naturally moved slower than fully-fledged Witchers were capable of, so even if their speed exceeded that of the average warrior, they still somewhat trudged through molasses when seen through a Witcher’s eyes.

“First point goes to Winter!” Brynhild called out proudly, a nearby student stacking a flat, carved stone onto the right side of a small altar built into the wall nearby. “Come now Atalis! Hesitation means defeat when fair Lady Death comes whispering thy name in the misty twilight. Again!”

Another combination of inputs into the grand mechanism and the arena changed anew once Winter had retrieved her knives, and both combatants gave the sign to proceed. This time, both of them were brought onto a raised but cohesive platform in the center of the pit which, while broad for one person, was rather cramped with two occupants attempting to use it. When no further traps were immediately sprung on them, they took the cue and began circling each other in the limited space whilst sizing the other up through their expressions and body language. After a pause, Atalis was the first to engage, beginning his attack with a heavy overhead strike from his axe while using his strength to change the momentum of his body unexpectedly to deliver a broad horizontal sweep with his sword. Winter effortlessly sidestepped his axe with a dainty pirouette, her sabers poised ready to deliver a counter-blow, before frantically crossing them defensively at the very last moment to block his unexpected second attack. The blow carried such power behind it that the poor mare was sent flying backwards from off the fighting platform, however she smartly recovered midair and used the wall of the pit to launch herself back into the designated area. Though his attack had struck true and knocked her out of the 'ring', she had both defended herself properly so no blade reached its mark and had gotten herself back to the arena without touching the floor. All told, there was no point given to either side but, the pause in fighting between them showed he knew she had won the point at least in spirit. The crowd was certainly beginning to grow in enthusiasm as the fight started picking up in intensity.

With their first blows exchanged without any interference, the difficulty was increased without warning by a blunted pendulum suddenly swinging between them, bringing their mutual standoff to a sudden halt. Accompanying the pendulum were several pillars of stone formed from the stone walls, which punched outwards suddenly at varying heights. This forced our combatants to duck and contort themselves in continually awkward ways in order to avoid sustaining a hit. The pattern of stones being used to strike from the walls was being done at random so no comfortable pattern could be adapted to. Instead, Atalis and Winter were forced to dance a careful, brutish performance around the ever present danger of being knocked off the platform and losing a point for negligence. In moments like these, I found myself utterly fascinated by the chance to observe two rather opposing Schools, least in terms of fighting techniques, have the chance to spread their wings as it were. Winter was light on her hooves and agile in her strikes, her earlier trepidations tempered by focus as she filled the air with graceful swings of her sabers accompanied by a knife or two scattered throughout her flowing attacks. Indeed, it seemed that once she learned the walls of the pit were free to use without a loss of points, she subsequently doubled her acrobatic efforts against her opponent. She truly seemed to favor horizontal flips off the walls whilst unleashing fans of knives at Atalis. Before long, the floor of the pit became littered with the feather-bladed wooden weapons, varnished a deep black so as to blend in with the rest of her ensemble.

Atalis by comparison was slower and deliberate in his movements, moving far more cautiously than his opponent with far fewer attacks being dealt in his name. However, there was a firm precision to his movements as he moved from form to form attempting to retaliate in those few moments Winter was not pressing her advantage in speed. She was able to strike extremely quickly…and yet, Atalis was managing, if barely, to hold off her assault using his short stature and the weight of his weapons to assist in moving himself about speedily. When he did manage to obtain an opening in which to strike back, Winter most certainly felt it even through her magic as she struggled to defend against them. The clang of steel-on-steel filled the air with the lovely sounds of battle, and they remained more-or-less in a stalemate for a time, trading blows and excelling in their respective defenses with one another. That was of course until a somewhat haphazard swing from Atalis’ greatsword bounced his blade from off one of the jutting pillars from the wall, sending it clattering noisily from out of his talons and onto the stone floor. Undeterred however, and perhaps overly heated due to her acrobatics, our little Örn-in-spirit bellowed something angrily before dropping his armored shoulder and charging at his opponent just as she came to a landing from yet another evasionary flip. The resulting body-slam knocked the poor girl clean off the platform this time, her body expectedly taking a bruising from the force that sent her tumbling to the floor and a couple meters across it until she slid into the wall. Given his circumstances, it was a valid move to make as the Örn taught such unarmed techniques in their ranks and such a blow would knock many an opponent to their arse; Sentient and Daemon alike.

“Finally!” Atalis bellowed down at his opponent as she stiffly got back to her hooves and retrieved her weapons. “How do the pavers taste, you dainty cunt?”

“Oi! No need for shite talk, Witchling!” Brynhild snapped irritably while a stone marker was placed on the altar in his name. “Any more talk like that and I’ll take a point just for being an arse-head. Now, let us change things up once again shall we? To your positions!”

The platform withdrew back to ground level and once they had prepared for the next bout, a series of wide, scythe-like blades swung out from thin channels in the walls followed by blunted bolts shot from repeating crossbows set in hidden alcoves. In this round, Brynhild seemed intent on preventing either party from having a moment to spare towards their opponent. Instead, both Witchlings engaged in evasive maneuvers and perilously tight parries against the multiple obstacles sent their way. Yet more stones of the pit walls shot out at random, protruding and retracting at unpredictable speeds within the restrictions provided by the movement of other traps. Neither combatant was given more than a passing moment to strike out, the arena focusing on Winter in such a manner so that she let off nary a bolt nor knife in Atalis’ direction. In fact, Brynhild kept her constantly on frantic hooves by forcing her to employ many advanced evasionary tactics as taught amongst the Ravens, those which kept them nigh-on untouchable while at range. To see her move was like watching a seasoned dancer engage in her craft atop a bed of hot coals. Every movement was fluid, sharp and sure as bolts, blades and bludgeons weaved a deadly partner into being around her. Atalis lacked her finesse and rather instead planted himself firmly within a small area, making ample use of the armored outer sides of his wings to bat incoming projectiles away while keeping his movements tight and close to the body. His short stature likewise played to his advantage as the stones which would clobber the side of Winter’s head sailed uselessly over his, giving him one less environmental danger to worry over. While Winter’s approach was visually impressive and required extremely high levels of endurance and agility to perform, her opponent comparatively limited his exertion while obtaining maximum results. Stamina management was paramount to our profession, sometimes requiring a will of steel to adhere to when the urge to outperform your opponent strikes during combat. This made it all the more necessary that these Witchlings, who lacked all the physical enhancements of a fully mutated Witcher, were taught to measure their actions and anticipate future exhaustion.

Their initial starting position was repeated but with their roles reversed, Atalis granted the high ground to start while Winter’s place remained level with the floor around her. Noticing he was shooting upwards over his opponent however, the diminutive Örn shot himself into the air, using his wings for some extra height, before bringing the weight of his weapons and armor down with a mighty crash of steel upon stone. The tremendous force behind his combined weapon attack cracked the pavers where Winter had just stood and utterly pulverized portions into dust; the steel of his blades shattering like a crystal bell against the stone. The sound of his weapons suffering catastrophic failures rang sharply in everyone’s ears and an eerie quiet overcame us all as we watched with bated breath at the spectacle below. Winter had again managed to evade his attack, and had even drawn an elegant repeating crossbow from off her back to retaliate, but even she was struck silent and still from the ferocious attack. Atalis… It was near impossible to see his expression as his eyes were fixed down at the sight of his destroyed weapons… Something had snapped in him...a nerve had been struck that was at once deep beneath the surface and an open, festering sore. I didn't go for my weapon in fear of some latent mutation suddenly triggering some form of psychotic episode as this seemed an emotional break rather than a true fracturing of the psyche. Only a fool would dare think he was anywhere near the words, ‘pleased’ or ‘happy’ with his choices, no current predicament.

“ATALIS!” Bellowed out a gruff, thickly accented voice from the opposite side of the Gauntlet ring. “You absolutely daft lil' bastard, get yer fuckin’ wee ass up here now! Some time alone in the wild oughta sort you out right…”

As one we all glanced up at the towering Örn clad in heavy chain, steel lamellar and a finely studded gambeson marking its wearer as a Master Witcher; its colors dyed a dark emerald green and trimmed in a dusky orange tone representative of their School. Like their smaller and lesser kin the Griffins, all Örn possessed the common biological features associated with their kind. Namely, the stocky paws and bodies of large Felid species, accompanied by extremely muscular forelegs ending in mighty talons, and typically an eagle or hawk-like head shape though others were known to occur. In the case of Atalis’ master Bjørn, his feathers were like unto tarnished brass trimmed with dark brown at the tips, his fur a pelt of dark chestnut, talons and beak like carved obsidian and sharp, and golden Witcher eyes half-hidden under a furrowed brow which gazed down into the Gauntlet with a quiet, restrained anger dripping with disappointment. Upon his back lay a pair of twinned greatswords after the robust design of the Örn, each blade longer than most Witchers standing fully upright. The watchful amber eyes of the Eagle's head pommels likewise glared out like glowing embers from over his shoulder, as well as the Medallion around his neck. The fun of the moment had been unceremoniously cut short and, rather unfortunately for Atalis, the consequences for allowing his anger to get the better of him had come on swift wings indeed. Or…rather they would have, were most Örn capable of more than merely using their wings to glide about from high elevations.

The pair of Witchlings emerged from the steep stairway under the Gardens and back onto the pavestones of the Upper Courtyard in utter silence. Winter had rather quickly snatched up all her scattered knives and relocated them back to their various sheaths prior to returning back to the group up above. Regrettably, her veritable victory had been somewhat rendered meaningless given her opponent had forfeited the entire match by his own actions. Atalis, on the other hoof, was understandably crestfallen as he tailed some ways behind Winter, his head hanging so low under himself that his beak could have dragged along the ground were he not careful. I truly did feel for him given his ability to combat someone nearly twice as agile as him, yet his inability to control his temper when faced with that challenge…it was only fitting that his Mentor reprimanded him before it happened again. Yet, the School of the Örn was not so given to extreme punishment for misbehavior as their exceedingly strong contemporaries in the School of the Bear once were, for whom life itself was a punishment to be endured. Had Atalis shattered his weapons as he had while a Bear, it is likely his Mentor would have cut him down where he stood in a fit of unrestrained rage, for which they were all notoriously known for. Those Bears yet walking the Path, if any others still yet survived at all, had long ago abandoned their solidarity to one another and intentionally stalked lands as far away from one another as they possibly could.

No…Atalis was truly blessed to have chosen the more sensible of the two Schools which preferred heavy armor, large weapons and brute strength in combat. As of now, only one Bear called Kaer Solaris his home and nary a Soul knew him by name, for he oft left the Valley at random to stalk the Path and brokered no conversation with any daring enough to try. At one time, perhaps even the School of the Dragon may have considered him for training, were the School itself not the site of a botched attempt to seal away an Arch-Daemon during the height of our Golden Age. Instead, these fellows in the Heavy Doctrine lived on in fractured spirit with no single fortified keep to keep their ferocious ways united; living in isolated groups of a dozen or so apiece in remote caves or occupying derelict Eldar outposts, keeping to their own aside from the occasional visitor to Kaer Solaris. Outside of perhaps a half-dozen Apprentices recruited personally by one of those visiting Dragons over the last century, the School of the Bear and Dragon alike shared a minimal impact on the daily life at Kaer Solaris. Were it otherwise, I had a burning curiosity to know if Atalis’ Choice would have changed with those two other Schools available as options in their original state. Oh the questions that come to mind with a student with such raw potential and so many Schools that would bring out his full inner-strength.

“Alright, since one of us doesn’t know how to not play rough with the fun toys, the rest of us can’t play with ‘em either. Least not till we can get one o’ the Masons Guild out here to repair that stone.” Brynhild called out to those students still standing by at nervous attention. “Well! In that case lads, off wit’ ye down to the Bastion and join the rest o’ them practicing the sword. First one down’ll earn themselves an extra fifteen-minutes in the Baths tonight! I'd even make it twenty if the Bastion Commander gives a stellar reporting of your efforts!”

The mere mention of extra time to spend soaking in the cleansing warmth of the geothermal hot springs in the Hall of Pools, the group of students began to excitedly make their way towards the gatehouse in the Lower Courtyard. Most of them pushed and shoved one another in rambunctious, friendly competition in order to reach the bottom of the main stairway, Meanwhile, three much more daring Apprentices dove over the balance beam and into the wide water trough below with near-professional grace and cunning. If anything, I tipped my horn towards them for their initiative in seeking a faster method to their goals whilst using a safety measure already in place, even if it were a risky behavior to foster in a student. A fourth body would have joined them over the edge, a young and ambitious Direwolfess by the name of Valencia, had she not been stopped by Brynhild with a stern expression and a hoof raised in warning against any further movements. The towering, golden haired mare was not one you wished to spark the ire of, let alone when she was in a definitive position of authority over oneself. In lieu of children, Mentors had ward over their Apprentices, who oft were in need of a strong parental approach to their training. And like Razorbeak with Ashandra, some Mentors truly had their work cut out for them with their personal pupils and indeed, their training could be compared to parenting a wayward, unruly child. Stupid questions, choices, test answers, excuses and all.

“Oi! And where in the fresh Hel do ya think yer goin’ Oktland? Eh!?” Her Mentor challenged pointedly, stopping her mid-step onto the oaken beam to join the others. “With the amount o’ pages you’ve left to read in On Ghouls & Alghouls?! Uh-uh, get back here now little missus, we’re going to the Library together. You’re going to pass that damned writ assessment if it’s the last goddamned thing you ever do in this School!”

“Oh come on!” Valencia grunted back with an annoyed curl to her lip exposing some pointed ivory teeth. “What's that old book supposed to teach me that raw experience with a sword can’t? Besides, I read chapter nine this morning before breakfast so what does it matter? I wish to fight a damn Ghoul, not bloody read about them!”

“Well at this point you can forget about getting to the Bastion first, little lady.” Brynhild responded with a dangerously amused chuckle towards her pupil who failed to cower. “Either ya skimmed those pages, or you’re just tryin’ to outright trying to bullshit me. I ain’t buyin’ it unless you can answer me a question from chapter nine. What are the distinct physical characteristics which set the two apart from one another? I'm not looking for broad strokes here, I want some specifics, damnit.”

“One’s paler and has spikes with barbs along half their length, the other ones just have claws and teeth with darker colorations denoting their lesser status. Happy?” She replied simply before bravely raising a paw to make for the beam once more.

“So ya skimmed it, congratulations. If you wish to skim by the skin of your teeth while on the Path, that’s your fuckin’ business once you graduate. You chose to accept my Mentorship, and as long as you remain studying under my tutelage, we are going to be doing shit the right way like everyone else here has to do. Now get your arse back over here and let’s get to reading already before I reconsider your dual-enrollment status again…”

With such a threat hanging over her head, Valencia wisely dropped her paw from off of the balance beam and turned towards her Mentor with a head almost as weighed down as Atalis’ from earlier. The white of her fur was brighter and possessed a youthful sheen to it which Ludovic, Vivian or, more especially, Richtus lacked to varying degrees with regards to their respective ages; however, the red markings around her eyes were of a duller red than theirs. This of course was all the more indicative of her young age as, though she had already long since experienced her first Sparks, she had yet to grow into her inner flame. A flame which proudly had its relative maturity displayed in the vibrancy of color in their markings. Indeed, she was much like unto Razorbeak’s own pupil Ashandra, in that they both could scarcely contain their fiery physical ambitions whilst shirking their responsibility to academia. Young blood always had and always will have a singular craving for action, and the gratification that comes with the thrill of a good, successful Hunt. However…a sharp blade meant nothing if the mind controlling its movement were duller than iron scrap, and in the heat of battle, knowledge will always prove equally as useful as a steel or silver sword. Brynhild, Razorbeak and Bjørn alike all faced an uphill battle in their pursuit of their Mentorships, yet all were equally up to the task in my eyes. Indeed so as to prove my point, Brynhild still yet held sway over her pupil and could just barely reign-in those youthful impulses by the force of her presence and reputation alone. Even if in some cases, like now, it took a bit more fire in her coals to burn away at that stubborn, youthful pride almost all Witchlings and Acolytes started with.

“Blades. Now. Earn them back from me the right way and remember, owning these is a privilege around here. A privilege you earn by following the fuckin’ rules, Valencia. Breaking the rules here costs you nothing but time, but don’t cheapen yourself with an avoidable fate down the road when mistakes can cost you everything and more. If I, your friends, and every other damned Witcher in this School have to or have had to study for our own exams, what on Terra Firma made you think you’re an exception around here? You think the Archmaster got to his position by swinging his swords about at each and every problem that came his way? I don’t want your arse dead in some fuckin’ cave on your first year on the Path because you weren’t quite sure what you were up against. I am not going through that pain again, damnit!”

Brynhild held out her hoof expectantly and dutifully, her pupil followed the command she had been given, even if it were obvious it pained her to do so. The faint red sparkle of her telekinesis wrapped around the hilt of her two swords, and drew them from the now empty sheaths on her back and at her side before presenting the hilts to her Mentor, her head hung low in shame. I myself frowned somewhat in silent empathy for both of their respective plights, though at the end of the day, I knew which of the two of them were more in the right. None of us wished to see yet another bright, shining star taking off into the Valley’s sky during their training, only for that light to be unceremoniously snuffed out early by some folly or another while on their first year truly traversing the Path alone. There was simply no way to sugarcoat the fact that our Witchlings were no true Witchers and even full Witchers regularly fell during dangerous Hunts. Ours was a risky and perilous profession, and one which we had all agreed to endure. Too many precious stars had fallen from our sky as it was…

“Good. Now, let’s go give that ‘old book’ of yours a visit shall we? Answer the pre-test I have prepared for today correctly and I’ll give them back to you after dinner, with a possible bonus to be determined based off your behavior. Any complaints and you don’t see these shiny beauties till the end of the damned week and that book becomes your new best friend.”

Though it strained even my astute hearing, I could still hear her reply an extremely subdued, “Yes…Mentor…” while following along behind Brynhild who was already on the move towards the grand ramp to the Great Hall. They stopped for a moment by one of the School Guard standing at attention by the doors, speaking for a moment before the Guard hurried off inside, likely intent on sending a message to the Masons Guild on her behalf regarding what occurred in the Gauntlet. Before long, both of their black-and-red uniforms disappeared behind the threshold of the Hall’s colossal double doors, beautifully carved with its Direwolf motifs and figures. Though I had hoped Brynhild would have a moment to spare in which to speak with me so we could catch up, her duty to her Mentorship laid the highest right to claim her time and attention. It was one of several reasons I of myself had deigned to apply for Mentorship with the School, despite numerous arguments from Instructors, the Archmaster himself, and other Witchers who wished otherwise. I simply did not wish to be tied to the School and its grounds for several years while dutifully training a personally selected pupil in the finer points of our profession. The School of the Viper, or what was left of it, now lived on in only twenty-two Witchers (including myself) and a dozen or so Apprentices, each of whom was already actively being Mentored by other members of my School. And while I understood the rather precarious nature of the School of the Viper’s very survival with so few standing members, I just simply wished to stalk the Path and fight back the Abyss as was our calling. I’d considered Mentorship before…yet, the time for that had yet to come I felt. Besides, it wasn’t as if I knew exactly which kind of Apprentice I wanted to personally train myself… Nor did I wish to experience the anguish of losing a shining star of my own as too many Mentors past and present felt all too personally. No, I felt most at home while alone on the Hunt, practically applying those twenty-seven years spent mostly cooped up in Kaer Nathair with my muzzle buried in tomes. Whilst most could find themselves 'rid' of their Mentors come the day of their graduation, my own had seen fit to prolong our time together by several times that. Truly I could relate with Ashandra, Valencia or any other amongst us for whom the best days of our lives were spent with our blades out of the sheath and danger (or entertaining combat at the very least) present somewhere in our surroundings.

Coming back to myself after letting my thoughts wander quite far and wide away from my immediate surroundings, the sounds of other students training nearby was enough to rouse my senses back to reality. Indeed, hearing the quiet peals of steel-on-steel and the soft thwack of arrows hitting their targets was enough to remind me that I had yet to participate in some daily exercise of my own. While neglecting a few days or weeks even was viable without any real loss in muscle mass or stamina, it was never a good idea to ignore the urge once the prompting hits. Almost as if on cue, the large, wide black-and-red wings of a Zamak Raven swooped down from the Rookery atop the Library, bearing a wooden box held up by a handle of thick rope in its talons. The truly massive raptor, near unto Dwem in height, glanced quickly back and forth between the box beneath it and myself with an expectant look and a soft caw which morphed more into that of a falcon’s cry towards the end. These magnificent birds were extremely friendly creatures and eager to assist others when raised from an egg by talented hooves and had been employed by Schools everywhere for centuries. Sporting two long, crimson red feathers which curled from off the back of their heads, they were known to spontaneously catch fire when the creature was irate or worse. Related to Phoenixes, these birds were dangerous apex predators in the wild with a reputation for fierceness which earned them the nickname of ‘Feathered Wyverns’. With sections of their flight pinion feathers able to spark themselves aflame at will, they could ignite the very air around themselves with their wings and blast waves of violently hot gusts of air laced with tongues of flame at their enemies. In captivity, and with careful rearing however, they became eager to serve and make themselves feel useful as part of their adoptive family.

Indeed, they were born with a level of intelligence which bordered somewhere near full Sentience just shy of verbal speech. Their use had once been part of a highly sophisticated system of communication and distribution for the many Witcher Schools about the Continent. Hundreds of stone Rookeries were erected far and wide throughout many Kingdoms, old and current, in order to handle the mountains of paperwork which accompanied our profession. We treated our Zamaks well and in exchange, these birds were more than eager to deliver messages, packages and otherwise with an uncanny ability to quickly find their destinations and recipients. I, like every other surviving Witcher around me, had rather extensive personal experience utilizing this exact system of communication as it was the lifeline for our wages and paperwork. Of course, come the Cleansing, their use has become far less widespread as it once had been in times past. Far less was now in need of constant transit between those numerous locations that had once been associated with us. Rookeries and the clerical offices attached to them had been left abandoned en-masse in the years immediately following the Cleansing. Several dozen yet clung to life located in remote regions of Equestria, operating solely off the charity of locals who felt they benefitted from the service and funds from the Kaer Solaris Treasury. The rest that were still just as functional as in our Golden Age were localized within Eldar communities and a few odd Kingdoms doing so independently out of their own purses. Contracts were much less formal now and the paperwork needed in order to obtain payment from the Chamberlain had long since been replaced with the touch-and-go chaos of today. Individuals, villages, occasionally nobles and even Kings amongst others, all posting Contracts as they would and paying what they could (if they chose to at all). Yet, most Contracts were of the lower-to-lowest quality as roaming bands of Witch Hunters seemingly gobbled up all the better ones for themselves. Unfortunately, with their rise to power, there were far fewer tamed and friendly Zamaks left in the world; those which hadn't returned to their Feral roots finding suitable new masters for themselves in which to feel useful again.

“Ah! It seems he deigned to send everything at once rather than message me to return and pick these up myself. Thank you graciously for bringing this to me, friend.” I said to my feathered courier with a bright grin, to which it wiggled its tail feathers excitedly like a Canine and cawed happily once more.

With a small hop, it moved to the side from off its delivery allowing me to open the box and retrieve my armor from a neatly folded pile within. Immediately the air around it was wafted with gentle waves of the scent of lavender and cloves, a welcoming scent which sadly would likely be lost within a day or two out on the Path. Once I had retrieved all my items from the box, the Zamak gave another excited caw of approval and hopped back up onto the stiff rope handle to depart once more. Though I had intended on snacking on it once the pangs of hunger inevitably returned, I decided to be generous and offer up the apples I had left the Great Hall with during the noon meal. With yet another, even more excited caw the Zamak wiggled its tail feathers eagerly and held its long, slightly curved black beak wide open to receive my gift; something it was able to swallow down in one go. It likely would have preferred a spot of meat over a bit of fruit, but it was happy to partake in both apples all the same before taking the rope in both talons, and taking off up and over the roof of the School going south. After its wings vanished over the peak, I gathered up my gear and hurriedly made my way up the stairs from the Upper Courtyard to the pathway atop the covered walk of the Gardens’ grand cloister. Before long I had ascended the lift in the Master’s Tower and returned to my bedroom, intent on changing back into the comforting embrace of my armor and to store away my current gambeson garb. The assorted pieces of my kit fell into place on my body with a perfect, tailored fit like a full-bodied, comfortable glove and in so many minutes, I had the last of my belts strapped down and my weapons properly attached to my back. Once back along the walk servicing the Instructors bedrooms, I had the chance to glance about over the Gardens while I took a moment to ponder over what form of exercise I wished to participate in. A moment that was soon brought to a not-unwelcome close by the arrival of the Archmaster himself to my side from the door leading into the Great Hall further ahead.

“Ah, there you are Frejdá!” He grinned brightly as he caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. “Glad to see your gear is back up to code again, heh, heh.”

I smirked back at him for his simple jest and replied, “Indeed! My dear Mentor would rise as a Revenant out of the Grand Catacombs were he to learn I left my equipment caked with grime from the Path. Though I must be honest, the lot of you were most gracious by not mentioning its stink yesterday… When my nose finally lost its acclimatization to it, I genuinely wondered how any of you were able to withstand its pungent odors, the day’s old Ichor especially. Vivian in particular deserves some recognition for her discretion given she fully embraced me upon my return with the Shroud…”

“Aye…the Shroud is why I wished to speak with you again before you had time to return to the Path. I heard all the details from Vivian last night regarding your findings, both the remains themselves as well as those found at the Table of Testament. I was also fortunate to have some further details elucidated by Sir Tiffy before he left the School with his Foxes. Master Braxia Melitus of the School of the Cat, vanished from official record in the spring of 297 AoS in line with a personal mission registered with their Chamberlain's Office as ‘exotic specimen retrieval’. He was then declared one of the Lost in the year 300 by the Council of Elders when he failed to return to the Grand Caravan by the spring thaw.”

“And here he is back amongst his distant kin after three-and-a-half centuries. What an odd, sad twist of fate for one of the First Born.” I replied softly, my thoughts recalling the same conversation I had with Sir Tiffy myself on this same spot the day before.

“Aye…an ignominious end for what Tiffy described as an otherwise shining example of living fully by the Witcher’s Code. Someone who likely deserves a mural of his own someday if we happen to find a wall with any amount of free space available. Regardless, all of this to say…thank you for bringing him home, Frejdá. Kaer Solaris might not be one of the fortresses the Cats once cycled between, yet he deserves to be laid to rest amongst his own in the end. Not lying as some bleached pile of bones wasting away in the Nest of a damned NightShade…”

“Please…it’s the least I can do to bring one of the Fallen back. Though I will admit I was at a loss for words upon seeing that Medallion around his neck…a Cat who had actually been honorably on the Path. Even if he were there just to collect her Shade Petals, she was still dangerous to the folk who decided to set down roots nearby a couple centuries later and needed to be exterminated. It was my honor and pleasure to finish what he started, even if it were by complete accident on my part.”

“Accident or not, all of us here thank you sincerely for your effort in bringing him here to us speedily and for swallowing any vitriol towards the School of the Cat in this endeavor. Others may have temporarily interred the Shroud in a cairn until the chill of winter called them home and they bothered to haul it back with them at that time. If…they even bothered at all. I will not lie and say there are not those here who would let their hatred trump their duty to one of the Fallen. Despite their betrayal, there were still honorable Witchers in their ranks right till the end, else the School of the Fox would not exist at all today. Bitterness has a way of tainting hearts for many years…and Mother only knows how many years we Witchers can live.”

“It is my deepest pleasure, Archmaster. Unlike these younger Witchers and Apprentices, I still value our traditions quite fiercely and fulfilling my part was no chore, but an enjoyable distraction from the Path. I appreciate the recognition…however, I do not wish to impede you from any matters far more important than thanking me for this matter. I am sure there are other duties you need to see to which triumph over a simple thank-you. Please, do not let me keep you.”

With a soft chuckle the large Direwolf rolled his armored shoulders and motioned with his muzzle towards the blades on his back. While he had been dressed in formal gambeson robes when last I saw him, he had since donned the armor befitting his station; a grandmaster crafted piece heavily alloyed with Isildine to defend against physical threats and tempered Dimeritium to face matters of the Arcane.

“And waste the time I spent putting this ensemble on? Please, you have the eyes of a mare itching to stretch her legs and swing her blades about dangerously. I would be gracious if you let me participate alongside you as I too am in need of some exercise this day.”

“Something about this indicates there is more you wish to discuss with me…”

“Heh, very well. I am guilty as charged on that account, however I ask that you hear me out at the very least. Is that too much to ask? You’ll have a suitable sparring partner nonetheless if it is of any comfort to you, heh.”

“Hmm…I suppose so, though if I don’t like what I hear I will let you know so we may focus solely on our swordplay in amicable silence.”

“Are you that averse as to what I might have to say...?”

“If you’re to ask me to reconsider applying for Mentorship certification, I will tell you again what I have told you before right here and now: no. I will apply for them one day, I swear it…but I do not yet feel ready to shoulder that kind of burden, Ludovic. I simply do not want to at this time, I cannot put it any more simply to you without becoming pedantic.”

By the way his mouth closed and the look in his eyes I knew I had caught his question in the bag before he had even time to let it out of the bush. This was not the only time this year he had approached me with the same question after all, he had raised it with me prior to my setting out on the Path earlier in the spring after the first thaw.

“Your School is endangered, Frejdá.” He said simply after a quiet moment of thought as he pleaded with me with fiery orange eyes. “If we lose even a few more Vipers…your traditions are at risk of being lost or corrupted to misinterpretation over time. We need every original Viper still living teaching a suitable Apprentice in your ways in order to keep your School alive.”

“Believe you me…I am all too aware as to how at risk my School is for full extinction. Luckily for us though, we’re not so at risk for tearing ourselves apart from the inside like other Schools. Besides, we have a dozen Apprentices already actively being trained here. That should be enough to keep us going for the next few decades if they’re lucky and applied themselves well to their studies and training.”

“You mention internal division as if it were a real threat to you, but what happened to the Bears was a fundamental problem with how they approached our profession…” He sighed tiredly with a groan at their expense. “Much like the Cats, they only hold a damned memory here in our tomes and relics. I do not ever want the same thing to happen to the School of the Viper as well, or any other School for that matter. We are all we have in this hellish world of ours…despite our petty disputes, we are all family at the end of the day. The title of Grandmaster may no longer officially exist for your School, but as eldest amongst your peers…you control its destiny by being the most experienced hoof on the rudder. I’ve kept my concerns as quiet and unobtrusive as I can, but I cannot hold back my opinions any longer. As your friend and as Archmaster of what’s left of our Order, I am imploring you to consider Mentorship and establish a worthy heir by way of your knowledge and experience. Few of the Second Born, or even Third Born yet remain; let alone any Vipers like yourself amongst their number…to lose you would be a debilitating blow in more ways than I care to try and imagine."

"It would only be a two-decade commitment, Frejdá; perhaps a few years more if necessary as you know these things can sometimes unfold. You’ve endured that and many more years besides up until now, always honoring your duty to the Witcher’s Path and thinning the Abyssal threat to our world. All I am asking is that you take a well-deserved break for a relatively short time in order to ensure your School continues to endure. You will be welcome to enjoy all the comforts Kaer Solaris can provide and you may have your choice from the finalists of this latest group undergoing the Trial of the Sword. I would even be willing to allow you to wait for the next batch of recruits to form if none of the current trainees is to your liking. The School will attend to your needs, provide a suitable monthly stipend for extra expenses, and you may thus train a worthy successor with all peace of mind. It is far from the worst offer you could be extended in this day and age.”

“I…I understand. I truly do.” I replied quietly after a pause for me to look away and gather my scattered thoughts again. “Let me finish out what remains of this year. I’ve made piss-all coin thus far and I’ve had a terribly loose purse when it comes to the gratuity I’ve let slip since returning to the Valley. I would much rather not petition the Chamberlain’s Office for another loan out of the Treasury so soon after my last. Five years is fuck-all time as far as bookkeeping is concerned and even a decade would still be too soon by their arduous standards.”

“I will see to any of your debt obligations my friend, you need not worry about coin whilst lodging here as a Mentor as I mentioned previously. Even so, the guild tax here on Masters is still only 5.7% is it not? Has your purse fallen upon such extremely hard times?”

“As a matter of fact, it has in a way. In no small part thanks to southern Equestria being barren of meaningful Contracts and those who did offer them were not always amicable customers come payment due. I am not worried about paying my dues…the School will have my share of its upkeep. I was merely looking for an extra comfortable winter this year for myself personally as there are some items I have been meaning to purchase. That Dwem gem trader in Redclaw Ridge as one example has an exquisite star amethyst from the mines of Asgarnia I requested he hold especially in reserve for me. I put that hold and posted an initial payment right before I set out this spring, I would like to pay for it in full when next I greet him if at all possible. I try not to make it a habit to purchase anything on credit, even in the Valley. That, as well as other personal indulgences besides that I wish to pass the winter months with in my possession.”

“And…if I were again to see to your monetary and extra personal needs taking into account your seniority and rank? Would that perchance catch a spark in your interest in my request? Or perhaps I should call it a proposal?”

“Then…I might be persuaded. Might. It’s something I would have to mull over. I wouldn’t wish to feel indebted in those sort of matters.”

His tensed shoulders relaxed at my words and with a grateful sigh he replied, “I will take what I am able then, my friend. If it is of any comfort, you are not being offered all that much more than the average package extended to all Mentors here, so any worry of standing out in that way should be minimal. Of course, we may speak more on this later once you’ve had more time to ponder it. For now…let us draw our swords as one and stretch our legs together!”

With a grateful sigh of my own as his poignant lecture ended, I too responded with, “And here I was beginning to think you would never ask. Yes, let us get right on to it!”

**********