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

“Well…I had hoped that we could make use of this, but I see it is suddenly out-of-order. Most unfortunate…”

In the course of our conversation down to the Upper Courtyard, I had been so caught up in retelling the Hunt which led up to my discovery that I had failed to mention the Gauntlet was in some need of repair. Graciously, in the time since I had been absent, a magic-user had been called upon to cast a sigil of warning around the circumference of the spectator zone. Now, a floating ring of blue spectral swords stood crossed in deterrence a few paces away from the ring of the Gauntlet, slowly rotating in a circle so as to better catch one's attention.

“Ah! Yes…I should have informed you that the Gauntlet received a bit of a beating of its own earlier before I got my armor back from the washers. Bjørn’s charge, Atalis, lost his cool during a duel with a Witchling from the Raven School and wrecked one of the paving stones of the pit with his sword and axe.”

“I can plainly see where he wrecked those too it seems…” He replied with soft bemusement tinged by sadness as the shattered steel remains of Atalis’ weapons were still down there. “His mother’s death must really be having a stronger effect on him than Bjørn was letting on in our last meeting.”

“Oh…? This is news to me.” I muttered in response as things started to make sense all of a sudden.

“Indeed it would be, we got word of it from Keldagrim nearly two fortnights ago. She worked the mines supplying ore to her husband’s smelt-and-forge business if you were not already aware. A terrible cave-in it seems, bloody earthquake caught the support infrastructure in the mine shaft with its trousers down and a few hundred meters of tunnel was buried under rubble. They managed to recover the body, amongst two other paid staff they employed…but it goes without saying, that that is but a small comfort to anyone else involved given the circumstances.”

“Dear Gods…what a horrible fate for anyone to endure…” I replied in a hushed tone, the circumstances surrounding Atalis’s bout of anger making more sense than ever before. “Indeed…he seems to be taking it quite hard. His performance was…distracted and full of anger to say the least.”

“And thus the shattered stone and steel, yes.” He finished for me as he gave the pit another glance. “I will speak to both he and Bjørn as soon as I am able in order to address this. In a case such as this, Bjørn is less able to empathize with his Apprentice than he should be given their differences. The Örn are no slouches when it comes to honoring family and the dead, yet their practices and beliefs differ from that of the Dwem. It is no easy nor mean thing to fully detach oneself from the heritage in which they were raised. He needs to honor her memory as per the tradition of his people…and remaining bound here during his time of grief is a cruel punishment he need not suffer through. Bjørn lost his own family well over two centuries ago. I think it goes without saying that the steely bastard is long since over his feelings for that moment and has forgotten what it is like to have one's parents still around. Atalis...what can be said there that isn't already obvious? He is so young in comparison to his Mentor, barely hatched from the egg as they would say. There is much he has yet to learn.”

“Indeed... Well, you may wish to seek out Bjørn sooner rather than later in that case. He was intent on taking Atalis out into the wilderness, likely to perform the Right of Spear and Bow again. They could be gone for quite some time as old Örn traditions are wont to do…”

“Is that so…? Curses…that certainly changes things somewhat. I still fully intend on being your sparring partner today, however…I think you understand the situation. You may accompany me in finding them if you’d like, however you likely wish to get right to practicing so I will not keep you if that is the case. I will simply join you as soon as I am able, hopefully quite soon if they have yet to leave the School grounds. Do you happen to know if they tarried or set out immediately for the wilds?”

“I know neither in all truthfulness. I am afraid to say I was caught up in my own thoughts and observing Brynhild who was in charge of the Gauntlet at that time, not to mention the fight itself. However, as to the options you offered me, I think I will proceed without you and hope you are able to join me again quickly. My body itches to fight and you have no need of me when a trained Zamak or Sorceress could locate them within moments. I will meet you at the Pendulums I suppose, seeing as the Gauntlet is currently not an option.”

“Very well then! That sounds like a fitting proposition to me!” He said brightly as he double-checked the straps of his armor and gave me an honorable bow. “I shall meet you there soon if luck is on my side, if not…I was at least able to get you to hear out my other request and ponder over it, so that is enough for me. Go in good safety, Witcher.”

“You likewise, Archmaster.” I responded with a bow of my own as he had been so gracious as to extend one my way first. “May the Light of the True Sun guide thy Path, Brother.”

In so many minutes I had gained and lost my sparring partner, and I joined him along the grand ramp to the Great Hall before we parted ways. He went further inside, likely bound for the Rookery and their swiftest Zamak. Meanwhile, I made way for the stairs leading from the Upper Courtyard to the broad stone landing underlying the Pendulums in order to unlatch the safety pads from their recesses in the wall. The drop from above was rather lofty, even for a Witcher’s reinforced skeletal structure and internal organs. Of course, the skilled acrobat could still indeed land safely with a calculated roll to disperse the impact and momentum, yet these pads ensured that level of skill wasn’t so necessary. Forming a multi-layered bed made of many reams of Zephyr Silk inflated by dense pockets of air drawn in naturally over time, each layer remained inflated and at the ready for any sudden kinetic impacts. Upon heavy contact with a pad, the kinetic energy of the impact was instantaneously transferred into and throughout the individual threads of the special spider’s thread; immediately reacting by releasing colossal gusts of stored wind magic at the same exact time. In a precisely-measured counterstrike to the weight of a body falling upon it, one would find their landing rather cushioned for what one would see as too-thin of padding for such a large fall. Once the last of these wondrously expensive pads glided smoothly down along oiled hinges to the floor of the landing, a quick focused spark of Igni from my hoof ignited a pair of lanterns at either end. Hid behind panes of red glass, these decorative lights of fine brass indicated the training pads, and the Pendulums by extension, were currently in use. Any still wishing to pass by under them had now been properly forewarned were they paying attention. I had done my part, and it was on everyone else to do theirs so as to avoid any unnecessary injuries.

Rising to the top of the stairs on the Barracks side of the main curtain wall, I could further ascend atop a wooden platform built off the stairs, allowing for easy access to the broad balance beam straddling the Garden wall. Above me, the wood-and-metal structure holding up the set of eight Pendulums had it’s control lever set in the locked position so none of them swung haphazardly in the breeze; a second lever set into the stone of the wall itself nearby which hid a feature the beam of the Upper/Lower Courtyard lacked. Using a similar mechanism like unto those utilized in the Gauntlet (if on a lesser scale of complexity), this lever, when pulled, lowered entire sections of the beam to provide an even greater challenge. Making use of both devices, I watched as the Pendulums all freely began to softly sway as one, whilst the seemingly unbroken balance beam fell away to a series of flat, narrow posts. With the idea being to perform one's sword techniques whilst dancing and hopping about between the posts, it was by far one of the more skill-intensive training techniques in our curriculum. At some point, every Witcher, and now Witchling, in training would have to face this beast as part of their practical examinations in their combat lessons. A few lives had been incidentally lost due to extremely unlucky falls, but many scrapes and bruises were had by all who came to grow accustomed to such a demanding device. As a tool utilized by every School that I knew of, they varied in scale and complexity, with Kaer Solaris’s occupying the higher end of the middle of the pack. Indeed, it had once been the subject of much debate as to whether the Pendulums found with the Vipers at Kaer Nathair, or those at the Cat's primary fortresses known once as the Lion's Redoubt, were the most punishing to experience. The debate continued even to the modern-day, though few now could claim to have visited even one of the Cat School's many sub-fortresses scattered about the western half of the Continent; let alone their first and greatest.

With the Pendulums themselves now freely hanging on their chains, and their control lever set into a standby mode awaiting motion, only three things remained before I was able to truly start. The first, and arguably most important, was to charge the spell-infused crystal powering the muffling charm, which ensured I and many others could practice whilst bellowing to the top of our lungs if we so wished. Being attuned to the element of air, a quick telekinetic blast of Aard into the reinforced housing retaining the crystal was enough to cause it to glow with life as the spell took hold. Secondly, I turned to my side and retrieved a thick padded blindfold from off a hook on the support beam nearby, placing it over my head and letting it rest on my forehead for later. For my first few passes up and down the length of the wall, I wished to retain my vision as I got back into rhythm with the machine, but I fully intended to do it all blind before too long. Once upon the first bit of the beam, I ensured the blindfold wouldn’t slip with movement, crouched into a ready-position, and blasted the line of Pendulums before me with a much stronger blast of Aard. The Sign sent each of them swinging wildly as the mechanism controlling their individual chains ensured their pattern of motion was randomized between them for maximum difficulty. To and fro they swung wildly about as each chain fought against its tether to drag its Pendulum whichever way the mechanism demanded. When their patterns were independently established between them, I drew steel and leapt forward onto the second section of beam; a half-meter gap existing between each section with an equal amount of beam remaining raised.

Immediately I felt my muscles tense as my sense of balance rushed in to take control of my body upon realizing how high I was. It was a delicate balance to strike, no pun intended, when it came to equalizing one's sense of balance with the task of moving forward and performing complex motions of any sort. A task of steady breathing akin to meditation to focus one's thoughts in the heat of the moment, with numerous factors all vying for equal attention. One had to straddle the line between an awareness of one's self, and a broader awareness of all else in the surrounding environment, knowing what to filter out and what to focus in on. Each chain squeaked ever so softly no matter the amount of oiling given, and each Pendulum whooshed independently through the air as they swung from side to side. The scents coming from the air of the Gardens nearby obscured one sensory input which was graciously unnecessary for this task. Scent, as well as one’s sense of taste, were usually secondary, or even tertiary, sources of environmental data to be processed amongst the other senses like sight and touch. The ability to see and hear your quarry tended to trump all other senses in the course of a Hunt as they provided the most raw available data in your immediate environment; one's sense of smell immediately following in what could be considered a close third place. Of course, with the removal of one sense (like sight for example), those that remained behind automatically raised in priority, and a sense of smell could be as revealing as eyes were the creature rank enough. The trained ear too could pick out the individual noises produced by each Pendulum and, in conjunction with the changes in air pressure relative to each swing, amongst other accounted factors, the mind's eye could accurately gauge where they were at all times. Without skipping a beat my body seemed to quickly recall its place upon the beam from countless times before, and I found myself almost instinctively closing my eyes so as to simulate the blindfold.

With adrenaline coursing through my system as a mighty stimulant, time slowed to a crawl around me, allowing my ears to pick up on the rhythm of each individual Pendulum as it swung. My awareness of each independently would naturally diminish the moment I began moving forward, however I knew to live in the moment as it were. It was important to remember there were eight targets of worry in the area, of course. A proper accounting of one's enemy was absolutely necessary to keep stored in the back of the mind at all times as the danger was not over until the last of them dropped. However, as long as I knew where I was in relation to them, I needed only worry about no more than three at any one time. Four at absolute most if I opted at all for any defensive techniques which focused on putting great distance between ones-self and a given target. After all, only so many enemies can engage you at any one time without entangling themselves and ruining the other's attacks. Focusing upon those enemies closest to you was to be a motion as fluid as the swing of your blades, constantly in motion and striking targets as they became vulnerable. This was to train a Witcher to always stay on the move, to notice and establish patterns within chaos, and to hybridize the techniques they'd been taught as the moment-to-moment demanded. Truly, if there was one major benefit to be had to our guild by consequence of the Cleansing, it would most certainly be the efforts made to blur the lines between the different Schools and our varying ways of solving the same, endlessly-long list of mutual problems. Just as myself and my fellow Vipers indulged those at Kaer Solaris with the secrets of Venoms (and NeuroToxics to those who could handle them), many other surviving Schools had seen fit to open their private tomes, charts and diagrams. Not all had been revealed of course, as even still we all liked to keep some secrets to ourselves; either due to the dangers involved only they are trained to endure, or for some other esoteric reason as might escape an outsider's full understanding. By this, we had all profited greatly from the benefits found in one another's varying ways of slaying monsters. New fencing techniques, Signs, Potions, weaponry and more were all the bounty of the moment when we decided to open our doors to one another more to ensure mutual survival.

It was soon shown prudent to me that I would be better off applying the blindfold immediately, as I pirouetted daintily between the second and third pedestals with my eyes still clenched tightly shut. Having decided to act whilst in the middle of a technique, I found myself balanced fully upright upon my left forehoof, as I tugged the thick bit of fabric properly over my eyes. All the while, I felt the presence of the first two Pendulums in my immediate vicinity; my mind's eye breathing into life the rough outline of both shapes as they swung about at random before and behind me. With the blindfold in place, I continued from where I had left off in my technique and sprung myself forward over the next bit of beam and onto the one beyond it; parrying aside a wayward Pendulum from behind as I leapt. The moment I felt my right hind leg land on solid ground, I instinctively ducked low beneath a haphazard horizontal sweep making sure to cut at an angle against the wooden post as it sailed past. This same Pendulum then wildly swung back around intent on clobbering my midsection, forcing a tight parry along the flat of my blade which then flowed naturally into a heavy pommel strike, sending it sailing away once more. By the time it came back round again to deliver another blow, I had already moved beyond its range and into that of two others further down the line. Immediately upon getting there, I was forced into a complicated horizontal flip whilst attempting to land two hooves on the same narrow bit of oaken beam; one of them managing to brush the back of my armor within a hair's length of contact. Landing safely, I came down just in time to glance a heavy blow up the length of my blade, slowing it down sufficiently so as to render it vulnerable to a heavy cutting blow of my own in retaliation. The music had been cued and my partners were in their full range of deadly motions as we conducted our frantic waltz with one another. I knew the steps to perform, the dips and twirls that defined the way we Witchers fought...all that was left was for my partners to conduct the course of our performance as it would. All I needed do was loose myself in the beat of the music.

A jump to avoid a low attack, an uncomfortable stretch away from danger, and a set of cuts to now-exposed targets. A skip forwards, and a hasty retreat to evade a swing that was simply too unwise to try and guard against. A pirouette forward to bring the momentum of my swung to bear along the edge of my blade, a dash backwards escaping a blow mere hairs away from hitting their mark. Try as I might, there came times wherein the Pendulums seemed to work as one to force you to always stay on a fleeting, overly-defensive hoof. Brief moments wherein the only course of attack was to ward off theirs and wait for an opportune moment in which to truly strike back. The next moment presented itself not a second later as my opponent sailed away harmlessly before me; the Pendulum behind me still roughly a meter off to my right but closing in fast. Ferociously I struck back at my ‘opponent’, bringing my blade across my front in a wide, heavy swing easily capable of decapitating most beings had this been a real engagement. The chop indeed hit true and with great effort as several chips of wood were flung away violently from the point of impact and the Pendulum sailed away with one more gash in its side.

Each attack buzzed gentle vibrations through the length of my weapon, eliciting a crystal-clear tone much cleaner in pitch than an ordinary steel could attain when struck against a solid object. Indeed, mastercrafted Witcher blades such as mine were heavily alloyed with the illustrious ‘super-metal’ known by its Dwemari moniker of Isildine. Standing for what roughly translated as ‘bones of gods', it had the same rough density per-ounce as aluminum making any weapon alloyed with it exceedingly light for its size. And yet, this miraculous metal, which shone like highly-polished silver even in its native form as a meteoric ore, was unyielding to almost all known forms of damage. With blades that nary required sharpening, nor risked catastrophic stress failures, like unto the ones Atalis had experienced earlier in the Gauntlet, they were amongst the most highly sought-after weapons on the global market. Naturally, few possessed the coin nor the market-savviness to naturally obtain one of these beautiful works of art, making it a rare sight outside the sheath of a Master or Grandmaster Witcher. Of course, a global black market also existed away from public record wherein such rare, exotic beauties could be illegally obtained if one had the exorbitant weight of coin needed for such a transaction. With such costs associated with such premium quality weapons, it was a truly rare sight to spot one even in some of the finest private collections. That said however…it was becoming more and more common to see Celestia's most prized Witch Hunters proudly sporting them. Either as traitorous heirlooms of the School of the Cat which they had brought over to their new uniform, or as pilfered trophies of murder, entrapment, and the torture of my good fellows on the Path. Unfortunately, I needed to remain focused if I were to maintain my performance… My thoughts needed to drift back towards shallower, safer waters.

Like a grand, deadly dance of skill, I then lost myself in the flow of the moment just as I’d been taught to do. Diligent in my balance of focus between the placement of my body, and the placement of the many dangers and distractions about me that all senses but my eyes were aware of. The elaborate fight I executed through careful, measured movements played out in my mind’s eye with perfect clarity as I struck, dove, dodged and retaliated as the situation evolved and demanded. Though voluntarily stripped of my sight, my other senses were far from dulled, and I was in full control of the situation as my bubble of awareness kept my hooves one step ahead of danger. It would be criminal if I attempted to hide my disappointment that such chaotic battles as the Pendulums tried to replicate had become mostly a thing of the past themselves. Aside from the occasional nest of monsters crawling with multiple targets, the majority of the fights and scuffles we found ourselves in these days were one-on-one or perhaps three-on-one engagements. I longed for the truest test of skill…that element which only full-scale battles could bring which was only found when war gripped the land and Witchers inevitably joined a side in the conflict. Yet, graciously for the rest of the Eldar, the Race Wars had finally died out seemingly for good only a few years after the Cleansing. By then, Celestia’s lust for violence had graciously faded to smouldering ash, alongside that of the divine Ember she had used to bring her violence about. Her personal ambitions have since recessed to the background of the world stage, with those of her loyal (and rather ignorant) subjects rising to the fore. The work offered to Witchers has long since soured to become quite dour, often thankless Contracts of laughable quality or integrity. Nowadays, peasants and other poor common folk could post a Contract all on their own if they so wished with no need of the legions of middle-mares which facilitated official Witcher business back in the day. Unlike those heady days of yore flushed with royal coin, there was naught but these poor sops own personal integrity which ensured our fair payment in-full properly exchanged hooves between both parties.

The Witchlings and Acolytes of today could have hardly been alive, let alone even born yet in most cases, to have witnessed our true Golden Age… I doubted they would even believe a time had once existed wherein all Contracts were professionally put together by teams of dedicated Scribes working in tandem with armies of Scouts and informants from far and wide. They had once worked tirelessly, keeping all appraised as to the goings-on with Abyssal sightings across the world, and offering royal gold for a Witcher's honest work. Assuming all protocols had been followed and the Hunt properly documented and registered with one's local Chamberlain Office of course. To Hunt unauthorized was a legal fire dance in any century, something which only rather recently began to be amended in light of the Abyss continuing to spread unabated . As to when the current state of Witcher Contracts started to come about? It was hard to say in all truthfulness. The decay of the ‘good old days’ began to set in even as I was becoming an Adept myself in our ranks...and that was all the way back in the mid-third century. Yet still...so many of my best memories in life lay in those heady years of yore. The spoils of my labors were never particularly vast or expensive, and all the same I loved them for it. To wander the High Road being treated in a league akin to that of noble Knights, as an elite force of nature in our own right...it was a true dream to have lived and been a part of. Peasants dipped their heads in respect, Kings and Queens sought us for counsel and employment, gold and silver flowed across the Continent in the name of our guild. We still remained a force to be reckoned with, but our fangs had been dulled by such a large loss of life over such a short period of time. How I wished to return hence and do it all over again. Whilst some decisions I would never make twice, such as misreading labels in Bombcrafting and detonating a mortar dish during the final exam, others I would make again in a heartbeat. I never once regretted my Choice.

It was all too easy to slip into the hazy comfort of nostalgic memories for any Witcher who had seen those days… Whilst the body went on with its predestined motions in the act of training, the mind was free to start to wander somewhat, somewhere deep in the back of one’s head. Although these lapses in attention could be interpreted as senility when an aged Witcher drifted off deeply into the well of memories, it was not however so simple as that. Creaking joints, achy muscles and a noticeable difference in physical ability over that of a youth were experiences we shared universally with the elderly members of other communities. However, when it came to mental acuity, there had yet to be a Witcher which suffered from some form of cognitive degradation as was typically found in the average elderly Equestrian for example. Slipping into bouts of deep thought was merely a sign of maturity in a Witcher, and seen as a positive habit to embrace. Youthful blood would always boil when kept idle and will seek out for itself a fight that was becoming of such vigor and energy. To grow old as a Witcher was to come to an awareness of one’s true place on the Path, to gather and collect knowledge and experience in abundance whilst also recognizing one’s weaknesses. Browsing the subconscious for old memories was an opportunity to reflect on it all from a wiser perspective than when those events occurred. A chance to witness the broader scope of each moment and to perhaps make an accounting of those factors which had once been ignored in the fiery, youthful heat of the moment. In fact, one could say we were strongly encouraged to engage in this practice, even from the start of our training. It inevitably comes out to be a terrible burden for young blood to bear, let alone adapt to and embrace in its fullest; a boon only seen as thus when viewed through the lens of past events.

In what felt like no time at all, the presence of another nearby intruded into my bubble of awareness and I set myself towards the middle of the beam so as to make room for my companion. Ludovic had returned faster than I was expecting given I had expected Bjørn and Atalis to head immediately out of the Valley. Yet, I was grateful all the same for his speedy return as combat exercises never felt quite right without a physical opponent to train against. There was a loud thud and a shudder through the support system above me as the lever was temporarily moved back into the locked position. At the same time, the chains stiffened from an internal wire running through each link and abruptly arrested the swing of each Pendulum. For now of course, before too long they would be back to doing what they were designed to do whilst we practiced those arts which we were designed to do as Witchers.

“Beautiful form, as always!” He boomed encouragingly as the mental image of him moved up and onto the first section of the beam to join me. “Always a pleasure to watch a Viper dance!”

“Oh come now, with but a longsword I am far from excelling in displaying the prowess of my School.” I replied with a smile as I took a moment to remove the blindfold and look him in the face properly. “I would draw my Fangs, but I’m afraid it still fails to feel the same as it did at Kaer Nathair. No offense meant to Solaris at all, of course.”

“None taken! It was designed with our broader longsword-centric curriculum in mind, so it is only fitting you feel ours are inadequate for the full use of your Fangs. I would have you know however, we finally found the time in which to consider your proposal to add a facsimile of the Pendulums of Kaer Nathair somewhere to the School.”

“Oh? Well do better than to keep a mare waiting for answers and action! Have at thee!”

With another grin on his part, we crossed our blades flat against the other whilst crouched low in preparation for combat. The lever for the mechanism thudded loudly as he spared a moment to move it, this time into the second position, adding another several links of chain to the Pendulums so their bottoms dropped below the level of the beam to swing horizontally between the gaps. As expected, the wizened old Wolf feigned immediately for an impressive display of the Whirlwind of Razors, opting for a truly master-level technique as his opening salvo. An exceedingly advanced maneuver, it was modified and performed by each School according to their own unique doctrine of combat, taking into account their many strengths. This saw practitioners fill the air before and around them with a flurry of calculated, angled strikes and stabs designed to overwhelm one or more opponents in a wide circle around oneself. Utilizing a complicated combination of strikes and slashes in a highly prescribed manner, the attacks flowed unbroken in a chain of up to dozens upon dozens of attacks depending on the stamina and concentration of the one performing it. The Whirlwind, or more informally the Whirl, was the mark of a true budding sword saint in their respective School. Indeed, one need equally be sainted by the Gods of the sword in order to even stand an inkling of a hope in mounting a suitable defense against such an overwhelming attack. I had yet to be fully-sainted myself as of the present, but I was far from a lowly peasant levied into some Lord’s army in order to fight some war I’d no personal part in. Kaer Nathair was no town watch barracks where the basics of combat are taught to untrained adults taken from field and hearth. I had spent my first decades of life learning how to defend myself and my homeland amongst the others of my kind, another three (more or less) studying the ways of a monster slayer in a proper Witcher School, and slain countless monsters in Hunts, and Sentients in open battle. Just like I had been taught the Whirlwind, I had likewise been taught its Counter-form used purely to defend against such a practitioner.

Making the most of my speed and precision to their utmost, I chose to confidently stand in the face of his assault and defend myself from as many blows as I was able to counter in one standing. Immediately my bubble of awareness was significantly reduced by the introduction of the clash of alloyed steel-on-steel, yet the restoration of my sight greatly softened the loss felt from the removal of my broader sense of hearing. The pattern of blows taught over the course of performing the Whirl varied between Schools, with the Wolves’ techniques forming the foundation upon which the rest of them formulated theirs. Thus, I was already somewhat intimately familiar with the deadly choreography being performed against me and the pattern emerged rather quickly; my sword whipping about rapidly back and forth in an attempt to deflect his blows from all directions. His swings were strong and full-bodied, with several of my deflections coming out less than perfect and over half-a-dozen blows having found their mark during the course of his opening attack. All the while, the Pendulums swung to and fro on their chains, this time only horizontally between the gaps in the beam. They were only minor nuisances to be timed and stepped around in this mode, doing little to stem the tide of furious slashes on his part. He and I rather effortlessly danced between them, atop the precarious set of beams as the sound of combat lashed harshly at our ears in a complete bedlam. In truth, I found myself becoming somewhat dizzy with the number of twirls and pirouettes I performed as part of the maneuver. No matter how many times I bat away his sword, he found a way to bring it right back to devilishly greet me with its gleaming edge. All I was capable of was keeping his assault from completely overwhelming me and falling off the damn balance beam. As far as actually getting in even a single counterattack which wasn't a follow-up attack in the pattern...I was shite out of luck on that front. Ludovic simply didn't require defense when his offense was of such intensity. There was scarcely room to maneuver, both physically as well in the list of options available to me during the course of his exceedingly long-winded assault.

Upon the completion of his opening attack, and dropping back into a guarded ready stance, I would have been collapsing from catastrophic blood loss were I a normal, unarmored mare. My mastercrafted armor however accounted for those sensitive regions we were trained to focus on such as the arteries of the neck, or in the groin, as well as immobilizing blows to the joints and major tendons and muscle groups. By these means we sought to shorten the time of engagement by as 'clean' of means as possible; methods and techniques which could be considered 'fair' by any learned master of the sword. In aiming for these vulnerable locations, even the mightiest warrior and malicious of corporeal Daemon could be brought to their knees and swiftly decapitated, or otherwise dismembered and killed. My armor, and that of any Witcher really, made a full accounting for these regions and many more besides; all designed around our individual styles of attack and defense. In truth, the best bet in landing a truly killing blow to any Master Witcher clad in Isildine-alloyed armor was to aim for the oft unprotected head. It was not universal amongst Witchers to leave one’s head unfettered by the weight and bulk of armor; the Bears, Örn, Dragons, and some Owls alike all preferred to wear helmets or chain coifs in the heat of battle. The rest of us had no formal rule against it, but rather, we felt the loss in quality in several of our vital senses outweighed the protective benefits provided by any significant headgear. As such, we were trained to always be mindful to keep our weapons near our heads, both so we could precisely control the blade, as well as always being ready to intercept an attack. Relying on this training was paramount in all situations and I had been hard-pressed to counter his assault, with most of my effort spent keeping his blade away from my face and neck.

“Most impressive!” He beamed as we took a brief pause after his attack, a Pendulum swinging freely in the gap between us.

“Gracious!” I replied back with a soft smile of pride. “Ever you prove why you are our Archmaster. Such skill!”

“Oh, please do not fetter your own accomplishments, Frejdá. That was a beautiful performance of the Counter-Whirl! Have you had a recent encounter with any Witch Hunters, perchance?”

“No…?” I replied with some confusion as we began to spar once more, this time with far slower movements so we could still easily converse.

“Ah, I apologize then! I am most grateful you were unmolested out there by Her Majesty's finest enforcers. I only asked as most here do not actively practice the Counter-Whirl in recent years, given the limited number of cases in which it is needed.”

“Well, aside from the Witch Hunters, few else know of the technique and fewer yet still can perform it. Let alone with the skill you possess with it! I would be a lifeless corpse devoid of blood by now had my armor not caught your blows.”

“Indeed…perhaps we should actually follow School protocol and not set a poor example for the rest of them…” He replied with some hesitation, levitating the grand Isildine blade of his rank near his face and glancing along its razor's edge.

Taking another pause in our fighting, we each disembarked from the beam on the side of the lever controls, and down to the decorative stone post housing the gem powering the muffling charm. Directly below the hollow frame keeping the gem aloft, there lay a second hollowed-out ring in the steel post with a gentle blue aura of magic suspended within. Anytime more than a single combatant wished to spar on the Pendulums, the participants were required to run the length of their blades through the aura within which borrowed power off the gem for a secondary spell. This coated any weapon ran through it with a temporary shielding spell, one which blunted the edge and was finely restricted to the blade itself like a second skin. Naturally, a full-contact blow would sting something fierce (even with padding), but it was like unto being smitten by a rod rather than being cut and mortally wounded by a sharp edge. A secondary effect of the protective ward was a dampener placed upon any enchanted runes that may be engraved into the weapon; something our offensive equipment came standard with for any that attained the rank of Adept and above. As I had been sparring alone previously, I hadn’t felt this step necessary, as well as the simple fact the wooden posts which formed each Pendulum were freely replaced as often as needed based on the damage done over time. Now that we were paired up however, it was only prudent neither of us risk life and limb simply because we wished to waltz closer with Death itself. Our swords now sufficiently blunted by the spell, we climbed back up onto the beam and returned to roughly where we had been standing previously. Once we had found stable purchase on our respective sections of raised beam, we crossed our blades and smirked at each other once more.

“You spoke of adding an additional Pendulum challenge to the School grounds somewhere?” I asked after a few moments of exchanging blows with one another and hopping across posts between the swing of the Pendulums.

Catching the edge of my sword on his crossguard before twirling his blade in a wide arc to throw off my weapon, he replied, “Oh yes! I spoke with the rest of the Council, and they agreed it would be fitting to add the additional difficulty your system allows, as it would provide even our learned Witchers a brand new challenge.”

“I am relieved to hear that! Pray-tell, where exactly would it be installed? There does not seem to be any fitting space here that immediately comes to mind that isn’t already occupied by something else of equal importance.”

“Razorbeak and his assistants had the idea of building it atop and between the corner towers of the Barracks actually. Only the outer crenellations are absolutely necessary for defense so the inward-facing embrasure may be removed and replaced by a…shall we say, ‘reimagining’ of Kaer Nathair’s infamous pit. Unlike Grandmaster Tahir however, I will see that we’ve netting installed against falls seeing as we are likely to have many failures until people learn to combat the challenge. Fantastic parry, by the by! Are you using form-one of Ironshod’s Wall against me? I thought we were attempting to converse here!”

Instead of an immediate response, I answered by smirking and continuing through with the second, and much more dangerous form of the Ironshod Wall technique; his own attacks turning to Kael’s Fury in an attempt to counter my defense. This second-form was so dangerous as it required the utmost in attention and reaction as one projected the advanced form of the protective Sign of Quen from the hooves, aiming for an extremely narrow window as the enemy’s blow neared its mark. Even with the adrenaline of the moment slowing down my perception of time to a crawl, the Archmaster’s attacks still came at me at a blinding speed as he unleashed multiple thrusts towards my midsection. To parry a blade with one’s bare hooves was no mean feat and nary one I would be willing to perform if I lacked the ability to cast Signs on instinct alone. Each projection of the bubble-shield formed by the advanced form of Quen bounced the tip of his sword away in a manner that would throw any lesser student of the sword off their balance. Yet, not the Archmaster. As to be expected of his position, his skill, and his knowledge in our many techniques put him a head taller than all the other Grandmasters who may have otherwise claimed the station. His control over his weapon was near-flawless, as each repulsion by my shield was expertly controlled and redirected into yet another thrust or tight slash unleashed from a mid-guard stance. My own weapon remained in close reserve as a secondary defense to ward off his assault from reaching my face, coming to my rescue on several occasions where his ability to recover and strike out again outpaced my hooves’ ability to immediately respond. Indeed, I found myself quickly regretting my decision to even try and outperform him in style and technique, as my defense only grew worse as his attacks continued; his stamina for these Direwolf-made sword techniques seemingly limitless as he channeled his inner flame into his motions. No matter how fast my movements, nor my responses to his attacks, he was only growing faster and more aggressive in his flurry of steel.

“Ha! At last a blow lands true!” He grinned as at last my defenses waned to the point he was able to jab my shoulder, sending the blunted tip of his blade skating off the scale-maille of my armor; a loud noise akin to roughly dragging along the rim of a crystal chime ringing out.

“Bah! Lucky shot…” I grumbled back irritably as I hopped away from him to put a still-swinging Pendulum between us. “Were you anyone else I might have gotten away with that maneuver…”

“Indeed you might have! For someone of a School entirely beholden to Medium Doctrine values, you surely have a grasp over at least one of the Heavy Doctrine’s best techniques.”

“I find that a strong defense can wear out most opponents to the point they leave themselves vulnerable to counter-attacks of all sorts. The longer that defense holds, the more tired they’ll become and the less elaborate your counter blow need be in order to break through their defense in turn.”

With a series of quick jabs from the steely pommel of his weapon, followed by a wide slash laced lightly by a streak of flame, he replied, “Spoken like a true Bear! Are you sure you have not missed your calling and misapplied to the wrong School? They would have considered your application for that performance of Ironshod’s Wall alone!”

“And face the decades of mental and emotional abuse their so-called ‘Cubs’ all had to endure prior to graduating the Trial of the Mountains? No, I dare say they earned their fate as it stands now.” I sighed with heavy distaste as I tried for a moment to picture myself donning their heavy armor of forest green and dark brown leather. “Had the Dragons not seen fit to wreck their own School, they are the Heavy Doctrine users I see best suiting me had I not chosen Kaer Nathair back in the day. Even without the ability to breathe fire on my part by birth, their mutations ensured a facsimile could be achieved through magic…and that would have been sufficient enough for me in all truth.”

As if to add a playful pinch of salt into the wound, he grinned wider and promptly opened his maw to unleash a short but mighty stream of deep red flames, laced along the edges by an aura of holy gold. Lightly touched by the divine as it was, the flame which he produced was unlike that seen by any other living Direwolf making physical use of their inner flame. As such, it was at once both Arcane (to a point) as well as physically damaging, reserving its true scorch for Abyssal creatures. An instinctual cast of the lesser form of Quen projected a shield immediately around my person to block the physically damaging aspect of his flame, as my armor was not inherently impregnable to scorching fire. The divine grace tinging his fiery breath with gold on the other hoof knew not to harm me as it cleanly phased through my shield, gently brushing my Soul like a soft kiss as it passed through my armor and body. Indeed, even the steel scales alloyed with Dimeritium scattered about my armors’ construction in clustered groups did nothing to destabilize the Arcane aura which passed through it. It was of course all due to the simple fact that his flame was like unto any other Arcane force in the world, outside the realm of other mortal vessels in the world granted ownership of the touch of some Cosmic force. Rather, while Dimeritium-laced armor was dead useful for blunting, or outright absorbing spells cast at you by a worthy opponent, these golden flames went beyond the Arcane realm and into that of the spiritual. Had I been a Daemon, or worse yet for myself some lesser monster, I would have entirely burnt to ash where I stood, even had I cast Quen upon myself. Once his smirking face was satisfied, having ‘woken me back up’, as a wise-cracking Mentor might jest were they to do something similar to their pupil, he returned again to a furious assault. Blow after blow started coming my way with ever-increasing intensity while his red-tinged telekinesis gripping the hilt of his weapon became one with the silvery streak of destruction that was his wickedly agile blade. It was beginning to become hard to tell if we were even able to continue any conversation at all at this pace, as the strain on my reflexes was making it difficult to speak and spar at the same time. It was true that I had goaded him on by escalating the situation myself earlier, yet I hoped he would be willing to bring it back down a notch once more. After all…there were still words yet to be exchanged between us. Our swords had already exchanged a rather lively debate of their own, it was only fitting we were allowed a bit of a breather in order to converse more freely.

“You’re a bastard sometimes, you know that?” I chided jokingly at him as the form-fitting shield expended its energy and shattered like an ethereal layer of golden skin falling away. “Am I to use every defense I have in order to counter your bag of tricks?”

“I think that all entirely depends on how many of them you try to use on me.” He replied with yet another shite-eating grin. “I am a Wolf who meets escalation with escalation if I so see fit. Using an advanced technique like Ironshod is only poised to entice me to see how far I may push it and any other forms you may wish to try.”

“Well, do I at least pass this little test of yours then? Or am I to try and gauge my success thus far off your demeanor and expressions alone?”

“No need, my friend. I should inform Razorbeak to ask you for a demonstration the next time his students study Heavy Doctrine techniques involving the usage of Signs! That performance was truly commendable, I can see again why you favor defense as it most certainly suits your style. I personally favor a much more offensive approach myself if you haven’t noticed, I find it finishes my engagements faster. After all! There is no enemy left to retaliate when I am able to strike first and leave them behind in pieces!”

After batting aside another half-dozen attacks before I was able to get in a blow of my own, I replied, “Ah yes, I truly could not tell at all. It isn’t as if I am normally able to get more than one or two strikes in at a time on any given opponent…”

Another wide slash laced with fire and a blast of Aard, which I countered with one of my own, and he responded with an amused laugh, “Well, I suppose I do make little effort to hide any of that from plain sight…”

“Truly the embodiment of subtlety, utterly without flaw…” I sighed back with a small, amused smirk of my own at his antics. “I must ask though since it has come to mind again, is there a plan to take in that band of sons, fathers and uncles who formed a monster-killing group of their own?”

His expression fell somewhat, along with that of his guard allowing me to dupe him with a feint flowing into a hearty thrust, which he managed to deflect away from striking his chest, if barely. Instead, the speed of my thrust ensured that though I ‘missed’ his heart, the blunted tip of my sword managed to make some contact with his shoulder near the pit between his leg and torso. Like most armor, the auxillae remained a key weak point that any warrior worth their salt would prioritize should it offer up the opportunity. In the toss-up between full protection and the full range of motion of a primary limb, like most Witchers’ choice to fight without a helmet, it came down usually to agility over protection. Had he been anyone else save a member of the Heavy Doctrine, I might have been able to maneuver my blade into that gap and simulate a tidy dismemberment of the whole leg. Rather, he rolled his torso into my thrust, sending my blade skidding across the riveted mail of his leather-backed arming doublet. The same crystal sound as my armor produced rang out clear as shattering glass to the ear prior to him swiftly bringing up his sword once again to bear. My attempt to use his minute lapse in attention had been met with immediate failure, and I found myself frantically drawing my steel Fang from the small of my back to catch his swing directly by the crossguard. Graciously, my defense proved swift enough to spare my lower abdomen a thorough walloping as I stymied his attack less than a half-meter from making contact with my side. Not only that, I was exceedingly lucky I had not wildly missed entirely and gouged out a groove in his cheek with the un-blunted edge of my other weapon. His expression changed to one of satisfaction as he pressed his sword against the narrow window of defense offered by my slender Fang. Attempting to defend against a longsword with a curved dagger nary thirty-five centimeters in length was neither an easy, nor a very wise decision to opt for. However, given instinct had drawn my Fang true and managed a near-perfect catch of his blade…I had to wonder if my Mentor smiled upon me from somewhere in the beyond. A solid defense becomes more difficult to enact the shorter one’s weapon grew, meaning I was the gracious recipient of near-equal parts honed skill, and blind luck. At least...that was one mare’s humble opinion.

“Well now, what an interesting choice in defense! I was curious if you would bare your Fangs in this fight.” He chuckled heartily as he gazed at our blades locked mid-air by the crossguards. “Seems I will not be disappointed then! Pray tell, might I convince you to sheath your sword and engage me with the tools unique to your School? Every Witcher carries a longsword, so I am in no shortage of learned practitioners in that art. Impress me with the skills of a Master Viper, dear Frejdá!”

In that brief moment I hesitated to respond as a crippling awareness struck me that the Archmaster of the School participating in anything active would draw the eyes of all but the least interested of people around. Performance anxiety was not a common conundrum I faced as I, like any self-respecting mare, enjoyed having some time basking in the warmth of positive recognition. However, being asked to fight with naught but my Fangs atop the Pendulums against the master in using a Witcher’s longsword? A duel with the Archmaster in front of…Gods, who knew how many spectators? I refused to look elsewhere but at him lest I catch someone's eye and lose my nerve entirely. Istiél guide my blows…

“Very well…” I replied with yet more hesitation as I paused to sheath my longsword upon my back and split my steel Fang into two parts for combat. “Please spare me any laughter as these were not made with duels such as this in mind as you should remember.”

“Indeed not! I fear the Gauntlet would have been a far better place for such a performance…” He sighed sheepishly as he acknowledged the twirling Fangs in my soft green telekinetic aura. “You lot excel at multi-target engagements with those things. Don’t think I forgot your actions during your…ahem, ‘deployment’ in the Bitter Fens conflicts.”

“And I was beginning to hope you’d finally forgotten about that whole sordid affair after…what, seventy years is it now?”

“Seventy-three and two months to be more precise. If we are accounting for the absolute last of that lengthy set of conflicts...”

“Duly noted… You have yet to answer my earlier question, though. I'd prefer an answer before both our attentions become bogged-down again in mindless action.”

“Ah, yes…the Thorns of the Highlands. The matter is still as of yet officially undecided I’m afraid to say. As of yet, I am unable to tender a letter of response with our official answer. Sorceress Rosemary…well, I'm sure you witnessed for yourself her stubborn, obstinate response to the whole matter earlier. She is most unwilling to entertain the idea of taking in a band of Equestrian mercenaries and making them Witchlings, though…admittedly her points are not entirely without merit. I will admit myself that I too hesitate somewhat in this matter, as they number nearly thirty-strong which is…simply too large a number. That would undoubtedly cause conflict with Her Majesty given how many currently train in the Bastion already this year…”

“Ah…indeed, that number of burly stallions on the High Road into the Valley would surely be noticed by Ire’s Steeple and relayed back to Canterlot post-haste. Could they perhaps be brought in a few at a time, year-on-year to stagger their arrival in smaller, less conspicuous batches?”

“A possibility Tahl brought up at our meeting as well… However, it fell on deaf ears given Rosemary’s staunch resistance to the idea at large. Even were that issue resolved, it still has yet to save us the other issue of their overall number. They are almost exactly as numerous as the number of students currently undergoing the Trial of the Sword as we speak. We simply just cannot take on that many more students at one time. That…and it would simply not be fair to any other potential applicants were we to delay their acceptance papers until next spring. There’s no exact number of students we may have at any one given time per-se, but I simply do not wish to tempt any boundaries with Her Highness…”

“Well…surely not all of them will pass the Trial and survive the Changes, yes? As dour as that sounds, you and I both know there is never an absolute certainty that those teas won't end up killing a couple along the way. Merely because they start at three-dozen strong does not ensure that same number will come out the other side fully intact. I know full-well that is hardly the kindest thing to say, yet we cannot help but be pragmatic about the facts if we are to try and accommodate them all. So many trained and willing stallions at one time is not a gift we receive often around here anymore. And though I know not of their personal exploits, I’ve little reason to doubt the glowing reviews I overheard during your Council earlier.”

“Indeed… Alright, enough of this topic for now if you would so please, Frejdá. I wish to see those Fangs flash and sparkle in the Sun!”

With that said, he grinned once more and settled into a ready-stance, keeping to his preference for a mid-guard position; equally poised for defense or offense at a moment's notice. With my steel Fang split into two equal dagger-halves, and now covered with a protective ward, I too followed his lead and set myself into a fighting-stance. If with some trepidation as this was still the Archmaster I was dueling and his skill-ceiling had shown itself fully several times already. The situation was entirely different to what it had been the last time he had requested I spar with him with the tools unique to my School. At that time I had only just arrived in the Valley from our scattered flight from the wreckage of Kaer Nathair in the three-or-four years after the Cleansing… One had to prove themselves worthy of the rank they’d received in their former School, engaging in single-combat with the Archmaster if they were to carry over that title into their status of living within Kaer Solaris. My comfortable place in the Master’s Tower, the weapons, gear and armor of my rank, even the gracious (and tantalizing) renewed offer of Mentorship on my own terms were boons that had been on the line that fateful, yet rewarding day. With one Fang held before me with its blade to the ground and the second hovering above my left shoulder pointed in his direction, I was about as ready for anything this friendly little spat had to offer as he was. Though I held to what I said regarding my policy of defense, my Fangs were simply too short to expect reliable defensive coverage when compared to that of a longsword. Instead, I was prompted (or rather forced even) to exchange policies for the time being, and opt for a far more aggressive style to press my advantage in speed and the use of two weapons.

It was somewhat under-hoofed to strike before the proverbial bell had been rung, yet I knew I needed to beat him to the first blow if I wished to stand any chance at all. Flinging the Fang at my shoulder directly at him, I lunged immediately after it to deliver a second stab and a slash at his chest. He effortlessly parried aside my first Fang and expertly hopped across several posts, flipping back over himself as daintily as a younger Wolf away from my attacks. I worried not over my weapon getting batted aside and out of my grip, as my Guardian instinctually manifested its tail from my Medallion and lashed out to retrieve it for me. By the time it had been flung back into my grip, I was using a hind leg to kick away the flat of his blade and transferring into a near-horizontal pirouette to flip over a second, lower swing. All the while, I struck out with my daggers in a stabbing furry trying manically to fluster him onto the back paw with my assault. I was successful in pushing him away from me again for a brief moment as a result of my rush, coming to a landing and finding excellent placement of my hooves on the section of beam beneath me. Poised as I was in the perfect position to retaliate with something grander, I twirled my Fangs about as I began to give him a taste of the Viper School’s take on the Whirlwind of Razors. He had asked for it after all, if in not so many words.

To describe the technique in its fullest form would be like attempting to make an interpretation of honed instinct and trained muscle memory from raw, unmitigated emotions that lay beyond words. Each slash, stab and slice of my Fangs flowed around and around my body in fluid tandem with my dance to and fro along the raised sections of beam. Those who religiously practiced the Whirl (and its counter form) could simply give themselves up wholly, body and Soul, to the deadly motions which decades and centuries of repetitious practice could make as easy as taking in the next breath of air. The Whirl was not necessarily expected to be used as a primary tool of engagement with the intent of dealing direct damage, save in the hooves (or paws) of a skilled practitioner who could still precisely aim so many blows. Instead, the combination of strikes so close and far from the body were designed to ward off multiple attackers at once, whilst getting in the occasional hit on one or more targets in the sequence. One-on-one however, the motions could be adapted somewhat to focus many more blows in one particular direction over all others; even by a learned-amateur of the technique. Ludovic had already brilliantly displayed the fruits of honed mastery over the art, and for his part possessed a formidable stalwart defense of his own. I could not however help but enjoy the rush of satisfaction which washed over me as I saw his face begin to form a snarl of concentration. His strategy of overwhelming offense was meeting its match against a pair of smaller, far more maneuverable weapons as he likewise began to struggle to ward off my flurry of attacks. I was like unto a snowball caught rolling downhill in the lofty mountain peaks, only gaining strength and momentum as I further gave myself to the complicated series of motions I adored. The choreography I employed was at once both highly refined into sets of prescribed strikes and anticipatory blocks, as well as chaotic, unpredictable barrages of ad-hoc attacks thrown in at random in direct response to the attacks of my opponent. Before long, all other thought was purged as unfiltered instinct took complete hold of my faculties, and my bubble of awareness fed reams of information subconsciously into the back of my mind.

It was at this time that my Guardian saw its chance to join in the fray as our instincts combined and our motions synced in conjunction with one another. With my veins coursing with adrenaline and other hormones heightened by the thrill of the moment, my lively vigor was a deep veritable well of energy for my Guardian to manifest itself in the physical world. Striking out with its spectral green tail and broad, diamond-shaped head graced by long, curling horns, my attacks were further flushed with its help creating a true maelstrom of wanton violence. While capable of interacting physically with the world around me, attacks dealt by one's Guardian were purely Arcane in nature. The strength of the attack was entirely dependent on the spiritual strength of the Witcher, a factor housing a legion of other minor factors of its own. With his grandmaster armor woven with chain links of Dimeritium, the damage dealt was heavily blunted; a fact that was to his benefit as it caused even such vicious attacks as my Guardian’s to feel no more than painful needle pricks through his armor. Ordinarily, strikes from a Guardian upon non-protected beings were almost always lethal unless there was another intent present in dealing less damage to an opponent for some specific reason. Were his armor not impregnated by the magic-destabilizing rings of hammered metal, the far more traditional Arcane aura which formed a Guardian’s body would have absolutely devastated him at this strength. They were capable of dealing blows which could pierce the spiritual veil and directly attack an enemy’s Soul at their core. With sustained, significant enough damage, one could poke metaphorical holes in it, enough to cause a ‘leakage’ of spiritual energy. As a result, a Guardian could then choose to additionally engorge itself upon this secondary (if temporary) rush of energy oozing out of a victim’s inner spirit.

Our Medallions had indeed grown highly accustomed to the taste of monster and Daemon Souls alike through our grisly work; though some, like the School of the Cat, had proven they could be swayed after a time towards relishing in the taste of Sentient Souls. As such, those Guardians they had managed to corrupt became just as wild and ruthless as Ferals; seeking to further fatten themselves up on their new taste in Souls. Naturally, no killing blows were intended on either side in this little sparring session of ours, yet my Guardian did not see it fit to hold much in reserve as it added its assault to my own. Like a raging river of power and focus, I allowed all my and its attacks to flow and form themselves together into fitting combinations as they would. My constant racing thoughts and pondering mind had entered into a state of hibernation as our assault continued unabated. That was, until at last a fourth challenger was introduced to the mix to further spice up and escalate the situation. True to his earlier statement, he met my escalations with an equally measured amount of his own and our fight only continued to evolve in complexity and scale as it dragged on.

Though it lacked the ability to strike at two targets at once like unto my Viper, the Wolf Guardian which manifested in a spectral red color erupted violently from his Medallion to further counter our blows. Wielding steel as we were, we stood no chance at bringing any real harm to each other's Guardians; the Lunar Silver of our secondary weapons still capable of damaging their manifested forms with enough focused effort. Rather, he and I continued to exchange our blows and counter-blows at full force while spectral tails, paws and jaws warded off attacks and dealt some of their own amidst the mix. Whirl was met with Counter-Whirl and the crystal ping of our weapons striking and blocking the other’s assault formed a cacophony of noise akin to the Pygmy’s Grand Blast Furnace and its attending army of Master Smiths. Soft sparks of magic still erupted occasionally from the clash of our blades, even despite the protective wards placed around them earlier as the enchanted runes lining the fullers abraded near one another. Our combined words from earlier notwithstanding, we were still finding ourselves caught in a spiraling series of exacerbating circumstances of our own making. The Pendulums, still continuing to swing and sway between the sections of beam, had become all but forgotten afterthoughts between the both of us. Chips of wood found themselves occasionally flying amidst the gale of sparks and streaks of silver as some of our attacks inevitably crossed paths with one or two of them as we continued to go at each other with abandon. All the while, our Guardians continued to likewise manifest yet more and more of themselves until at last, they too were entangled around the other; engaging in their own private match with one another around and between us. At last…the faint echoes of the wondrous thrill of the chaotic battles of yesteryear began to tingle my spine and set my heart a-flutter with joy. I still meant no harm upon my Archmaster, yet I was no longer holding back. I had utterly devoted myself now to-

“ARCHMASTER! ARCHMASTER LUDOVIC, SIR!”

I had been mid-air when the boisterous call of a burly Griffin echoed across the narrow section of the School we occupied trying to get our attention. My bubble of awareness had only found space in its attention for my opponents, and nothing else besides. As a direct result of blindsiding myself, and with startled yelp of soft fright, I too followed in Ashandra’s hooves (or paws) and missed my landing rather embarrassingly. Tumbling off the outer face of the Garden wall, instinct immediately took hold once again over my motions and I tucked myself into position for a safe landing on the pads below. With a height just over seven-and-a-half meters, the fall was a quick affair ended abruptly by my cushioned impact with the specialized training pads I had laid down earlier. My momentary gratitude for such safety measures was unfortunately swept aside by overwhelming self-consciousness as I came to a full reckoning of my surroundings. Several bodies already occupied the raised landing spanning under the length of the Pendulum wall, part of a larger group of students, Mentors, Instructors and many others who had undoubtedly been witnessing the spectacle. Those immediately nearby rushed to aid me back up to my hooves while I profusely apologized for almost falling on top of them, followed by grateful acknowledgements of their kind words towards my performance. Those on the walls and stairs above focused their attention upon Ludovic and whatever pressing business had so rudely interrupted us whilst I thanked those who congratulated me on a ‘spectacular’ performance. I had known there would be dozens, perhaps even hundreds of individual eyes watching and closely scrutinizing my choices and actions…yet, this was almost too much. Had I been allowed to further press my attack without getting cut short, I was sure I was primed to beat him. Or, at the very fucking least, drag him down into declaring a draw so I could keep my personal sense of pride and respect more intact. Their words of encouragement, and even outright wonder and amazement over my performance, felt deeply satisfying to hear… And yet all the same, I felt that I had not quite fully earned a single thing said about me. Even through the sudden impact of landing on the training pad, I could still feel the smarting bruises under my armor from where some of his blows had managed to strike true. There were brief flashes of the fight which prickled my mind’s eye like the queasy hindsight felt after a particularly nasty written exam. Moments that played out again in my thoughts as if to point out what could be considered glaring flaws in my form or technique. Always was there space in the self for further personal improvement, and our dear Archmaster had so graciously, and indeed inadvertently, brought further insights into the matter to my attention.

“Frejdá! Are you well?” Ludovic called down to me from the beam far above, the level of concern in his voice rather minimal as a gracious sign of his trust in my abilities.

“A-aye!” I managed to call back through my bout of bashfulness at the presence of so many others around me all paying keen attention to the situation. “I landed safely, thank you for checking!”

“My pleasure and duty, my friend! A thousand apologies! We must speak later!”

I gave him a half-hearted wave of acknowledgement in return and watched as his face vanished from off the wall and towards whatever messenger had seen so fit as to embarrass me in front of nearly half the School. Before too long, the communal interest in the moment passed and most of the assembled crowd suddenly remembered there was a rather strict timetable still in effect on their daily work. Filing away as they would to wherever they needed to be, I was quickly left alone on the upper landing with naught but the lit red lanterns and the line of training pads for immediate company. And in all truth, I much appreciated the sudden bout of isolation after such an embarrassing blunder, regardless of the fact it had been an honest accident. All I was able to think about were the flaws in my performance which felt all-too glaring in my mind. I had been giving it my all during our fight, hoping beyond hope that somehow I would’ve been able to best him at something whilst in front of so many spectators. However…I was not so lucky as that. Despite his profuse words of positive reinforcement, I still felt that my efforts could have been better. It was more than a little pleasing to hear such praise from him regarding my skill behind my weapons and techniques… In fact, even to this day I tried to deny the deeply rooted need within me to be praised and honored for my prowess and deeds, as foalish as it truly was. I would attempt to enrich my Soul off the bounty of his words as best I was able, yet I could still not shake the feeling of disappointment in myself. Honest sudden distraction or no, I had allowed my awareness to wax narrow in its focus and had received an immediate and fitting retribution for my mistake. Had any of it been a true fight, there was all the more chance that my continual brushes with Death would at last end in a catastrophic, pitiful end. All I could take credit for now was the fact I hadn’t broken my damned neck during my fall and end up a disgraced corpse interred in shame in the Viper’s section of the Grand Cataco-

“Oi, Frejdá! Fuckin’ beautiful shite up there!”

“Absolutely! I’ve not seen you in such peak form since we all endured the Archmaster’s Trial of the Fang to keep our ranks intact! Did he piss you off or something?”

“Gods, could you imagine?!”

With a pair of mares so loud and obnoxious anytime they chose to speak together, it didn’t take a bubble of awareness to know my solitude had been broken by Violet and Topaz. Turning away from extinguishing the second lantern, I observed the two of them ascending the stairs from the Great Hall side of the Garden wall. Despite a Witcher being hard-pressed to draw beads of sweat out during physical exercise (indeed I was only mildly damp with sweat even after what I had just done), the pair of them were positively dripping with moisture in the waning rays of the late-afternoon sun. All dressed up in their leather-and-chain Fox armor, and proudly sporting their slender paired estocs upon their backs, the pair had surely been up to some rather intense training of their own. Upon closer inspection however, it became immediately apparent both of them were soaked through by water. Only the troughs at the base of the Upper Courtyard’s balance beam were deep enough to fully immerse anyone on site. Either both of them fell in or, more likely knowing them, one fell and took the other down with her to continue the fight. At least I could take comfort in knowing I was not the only one falling from the beams.

“Quiet thy shite…” I grunted back at them with feigned disinterest. “You should be more worried about yourselves! I can see the trail of water from the Lower Courtyard all the way up here so I assume you two were having a hard time on the lesser beam?”

“Oh, of course. Deflect the topic and proceed to point out my flaws. Truly the best way to deal with criticism in this day and age, wouldn’t you agree Topaz?”

“Absolutely! Isn’t that what we’re doing right now, though?”

“Shut it!” Violet prickled in response, shooting her friend a poisoned look. “She’s the one with the bigger flub here, don’t let up! More people saw her fuck-up than ours so keep at it.”

“Ah, so you did fall off the lower beam!” I chuckled back with a smile of relief at the release of tension in the moment. “My, my…and do tel- .”

“Uh-uh!” Violet growled softly, shaking her head violently in response. “Watch this!”

With an overly dramatic clap of her hooves, she cast Quen about herself in our old trail technique, the water on her person falling away in sheets as if it were fleeing Hel itself.

“See? All gone and no more evidence! Us fucking up like that is nothing compared to getting your arse thrown off the Pendulums by the Archmaster. And now, you don't even have any leverage on us if you tried!”

“So were you watching us duel, or were you two dueling each other? I’m confused…”

“Well, both in due point of fact, Frejdá.” Topaz chuckled softly as she wisely took a chance to cast Quen on herself as well. “We started out by watching you two for awhile…but, then Violet here got the idea of following your example and trying to get some eyes on us too.”

“Yeah, except you two were hogging the Pendulums, and some damned arse of a Witchling broke the fucking Gauntlet so we couldn’t use anything actually impressive…” Violet continued for her with a scowl. “Had to make do with what was available, that’s all.”

“And what was within sight of the rest of the gathered crowd?” I smirked. “Please, Violet…you don’t need to play coy with me. I know you long to be the center of attention and I cannot blame you for it. Do any of us here know a single living Soul at this School, or any other for that matter, who joined our ranks for any reason other than hoping to become a legend? I will play the part of candor and admit I gave myself to the Vipers of my own free will for that very same reason. I saw the Second Born as the apex heroes to beat all other legendary warriors in the world and wished to attain such lofty heights as they.”

“And yet, the Archmaster kicked yer ‘legendary’ arse off that last bit o’ height didn’t he? What do you call that, eh?”

I rolled my eyes heavily towards the pair of them for continuing their verbal prodding despite everything that happened and scoffed, “Spare me that one, Violet…if you had actually been observing the entire fight, you would already know the circumstances around why I fell. I can stand for your typical jesting, but that one is borderline slanderous.”

“Oh…yeah, true. We eh, did sort of make assumptions since we…eh…didn’t exactly…see…it.”

“Vi, you had me in a headlock a meter underwater by the time her Guardian really started lashing out. We can’t even hope to salvage this one in front of her at this point.”

“Well maybe if some of us here stopped giving away everything about it, she wouldn’t have to know about it!”

“Ladies…please…” I groaned as I set about stopping the back-and-forth before it could get too far along. “I won’t say a word about your blunder if you will refrain from trying to point out mine. You have no right to criticism, nor played witness to the actual events as they truly happened. I would say that is a fair deal, wouldn’t you?”

Even as Violet opened her big mouth to retort something assuredly cutting and witty, she slowly closed it as her eyes fell and she sighed in begrudging defeat. Topaz for her part looked visibly relieved at her dear friend’s wise decision and cleared her throat in an attempt to coax Violet to say something. When she did not and instead glared at the wall of training pads, setting about lifting them back up and latching them in place, Topaz grumbled under her breath before speaking up to continue the conversation on their behalf.

“Yes, I would agree that is a very fair bargain. Shall we move onto something else? I know I for one would rather prefer not to spend the rest of the day pouting about something that’s already happened. Come on, Vi…hardly anypony was watching us up there anyway…”

“Humph…still too fuckin’ many eyes for my liking with a fuck-up like that…I’m going to be hearing about it for weeks now…”

“Well, in-lieu of raining down more shite upon your day, I would say we all deserve a hot bath after that experience, yes? Is that a more suitable proposal to your liking, your Highness?”

The mare in question stopped mid-motion at those fateful words she so despised, yet she found it fit to swallow whatever anger I’d kindled in her and finished up her distracting work in returning the pads to their recessed places against the wall. Once the last of them was raised and the hinged latch fasted in place, the second lantern being snuffed as well to finish off, she finally turned back to face us with a tired look on her soft purple face.

“I should slap you for that…” She grunted irritably underpinned by a tired tone in her voice. “Whatever…yes, that idea sounds fucking beautiful right about now…”

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