Chapter 2

Lilac and Gooseberries

The next morning found Geralt and Vesemir continuing their work on the griffin contract in earnest. Vesemir went off to the outskirts of the village to scout out suitable ambush sites. In the meantime, it was Geralt's intention to visit Mislav's cabin before he left for the day's hunt. As a master tracker himself, he knew it would be hard to convince a hunter to abandon his hunt once underway. So to save himself some trouble and avoid antagonizing a source of information, Geralt was taking an early morning trek toward the Vulpine Woods.

Geralt walked down the main road of the village. The rising sun peaked over the hills, casting long, tinted shadows over his surroundings. It late enough in the spring so the air was not cold at the hour, and the rays of the sun warmed Geralt's back. He took a deep breath, taking in the sounds and smells of the countryside. They were Geralt's only companions as he continued through the sleepy village: the chirping of birds, the grunts of livestock, the smells of manure and piss, and… the smell of ashes? Hmm, something caught fire last night?

On his way past the main thoroughfare, he stopped to look at the notice board. Most of the notices were the same as yesterday, except for a new slip of parchment that read "Devil by the Well!".

"Sounds like a monster problem to me," he said to himself. He plucked the contract off of the board and read it over. 'Speak to Odalan, at the farm on the outskirts of town'." Interested in the chance for more work, Geralt pocketed the paper and continued on.

Geralt could now pick up the sounds of someone pounding a hammer on an anvil- irregularly, and harder than necessary. He's angry. The smell of ash began to overpower any other scent, and Geralt could pick out a burned out rooftop in the distance. Must be the smith's house. There wasn't any commotion last night, and that hut is close enough to other buildings where the fire could spread. So why didn't anyone react? Feeling the need to investigate, he approached the house. I'm probably early anyways.

As he entered the front lawn of the hut, he finally sighted the smith- a dwarf, who was screaming out to no one in particular. Must be Willis, according to the captain.

"Fifty...years...of work...up in smoke! What the fuck am I to do?! Eh?! What?!""

Willis' house and forge was completely burnt out. The roof had partially collapsed, and the blackening from the smoke and fire had caught most of the adjacent stall. All that was left was a dirty old cot, various tools spread out in the yard, and the anvil where the dwarf was still hammering away. Geralt stepped up behind him.

"What happened here?" he asked mildly.

The dwarf spun around, waving his hammer around wildly. "Oh, got a wee bit chilly last night, so I set fire to my forge. Got it nice and roarin'! Roasted some weiners!" His words become even more hysterical. "Whaddaya think happened, dimwit? Some bugger set alight me...me workshop! I've lost everythin'. Everythin'!"

Arson, from his own neighbors. Ouch. "Sorry," Geralt said in a low tone. "Any suspects?"

Willis seemed to calm down a tiny bit when he realized Geralt was genuinely interested in his plight. "Whole damned village. I've lived here half a century. Thought they saw me as one o' their own. But everythin' changed when the Black Ones came. I'm the only smith around, so I got to service their garrison. Band dents out o' plate, shoe their horses- that kinda thing." He sighed sadly and started pacing slowly. "Nilfgaardians don't pay me a bloody copper, just give me supplies and orders. But humans can't fathom that. They think I'm gettin' rich off their misfortune, that I sleep on a pile o' gold like a ploughin' dragon. They've stopped talkin' to me, spit when I pass...and now this."

Geralt nodded commiseratingly. People were often quick to blame others different than them for their woes. "I can find your arsonist. Provided you're willing to pay." A job was still a job.

"Huh. I've not much left...but I'll give ye all if ye bring me that whoreson. So that he gets what he deserves," he growled. "Last night, I heard movement outside my hut. Went out to see if I could find any tracks, but found nothin'. But then I haven't got cat eyes, have I? Good luck."

Geralt went around the back of the building to look around. He did a once over on the area and immediately found a pile of white shavings a few yards behind the hut. "From a tinderbox. Arsonist must've lit his torch here, tossed it on the roof...then fled through the orchard."

He could pick out a set of prints on the ground. "Boot prints. Large. Definitely male."

The prints meandered through the orchard, but were generally headed toward the river. Geralt came up close to one of the trees and found an empty bottle by the roots. He smelled the air and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Stinks of piss...and vodka."

Eventually, the tracks began following a small path behind the village, which led down to the riverbank. Geralt followed them until they ended in the water at the foot of a stone bridge. He noticed the prints had changed shape in the final steps to the water. "Took off his boots before going in the water. Probably wanted to cover his trail," he concluded.

Geralt glanced up at the Nilfgaardian watchtower sitting on the opposite of the bridge. Probably didn't cross to the other side if he was a local. Following his hunch, he stayed on his side of the river and went around the bridge. His guess was rewarded with a bunch of tracks crisscrossing over one another. There was also a splatter of blood on the sand. "Something jumped out of the rushes." Geralt noted the other set of prints were webbed, with sharp claws for toes. "Drowners. But he managed to escape. Lost his boots in the rush."

He stood up and eyed the footprints, now mixed with light amounts of blood on the ground. "Bleeding...but not badly. Surface wound. Tracks lead back to the village." Eventually, they led him to one of the huts near the inn. Geralt walked into the building without ceremony and began looking around for his arsonist. It was child's play at this point- there was only one person in the house, and he was leaning against the wall with a heavily bandaged arm. Drowner claw marks. It's gotta be him.

Geralt walked up to his suspect. "Nasty wound. Run into a drowner?"

The arsonist blearily glared at him. "What the fuck do you care?!" he snarled.

"Whoa! Our arsonist's a charmer, too. Come on. Smith wants to talk to you."

"I'll not talk to a nonhuman- sons o' bitches, all. And dwarves're the worst! Greedy little magpies- do anything for gold, they will!" He hiccuped, clearly still hungover. "Heh, they forge the blades the Black Ones put to our throats. Am I not right?"

Geralt rolled his eyes. Lovely, a racist to boot.

The arsonist's tone became more cajoling. "Listen, we can work something out man to man. I give you gold, you don't turn me in. My mum died a while back and I sold her tools. I've spent some...but what's left is yours."

The witcher was unmoved by his offer. "Magpies and dwarves may be greedy," he said sardonically, "but I'm not. Can't buy me."

The man's expression turned ugly. "Then I'll beat your fuckin' mug to a pulp!"

A violent racist, the best kind. Geralt raised a fist- the arsonist cowered at the mere motion- and cast Axii. "Calm down. Now follow me."

The hungover man immediately became befuddled and nodded dumbly at Geralt's command. He stumbled slowly behind his pied piper, who led him through the town and back to Willis' house. "I- ahem...I-I gotta...apologize. Gotta go...apologize," the arsonist mumbled single-mindedly.

Willis was working on the anvil when the witcher got his attention. The arsonist stumbled right up Geralt's side, unaware of anything until he was lightly slapped in the face by the witcher.

"Up and at 'em!"

"Hm? What...wha-what's goin' on?"

Geralt looked at Willis before sweeping his hand grandly like an announcer at court. "Here you go- one village pyromaniac in the flesh."

The dwarf seemed to recognize the man as his expression became a mix of betrayal and anger. "Napp? You?! I knew your mum for years, charged her nary a copper! This is how you repay me?! I've had enough. Oi, soldier," he shouted to a passing patrol, "A minute of your time, please!"

Geralt had a grim feeling about what was about to happen. The Nilfgaardians started walking over. "No! Willis- I beg you! I-I-I was drunk...di-didn't know what I was doin'!" Napp pleaded desperately. Willis only looked down in disappointment.

"I've told you, Master Willis. We will help you rebuilt once reinforcements come," one of the soldiers said, "The supplies have been ordered."

"Not what this is about, mate. This here's the arsonist! The witcher found him!"

The soldiers looked at Napp with narrowed eyes. "The forge was important to the garrison. Destroying it was sabotage. No trial needed here," the lead soldier said coldly, "Just a tree."

They grabbed Willis and dragged him away, who sagged in despair and didn't try to fight his fate.

Geralt watched them move off into the distance. "Harsh as punishment goes…"

"But deserved," Willis asserted, "You know, I hated the Black Ones at first, like everybody else did. Now, I'm thinkin' they might just bring order to this place- teach these layabouts some manners!"

He sighed. Most of the monsters people faced were born of their own hatred. "You realize you'll still have to live with these layabouts. They'll really love you now."

"I don't give a rat's arse about them, honestly. But enough about that. Your reward." He handed Geralt a pouch of coins. "And- I've managed to save some things from the fire. Anvil's still whole, as you can know, so I'm sure I can bang something out on it. You need anythin', let me know. Give you a good price."

Geralt shrugged and made to leave, not interested any further in debating race relations and forgiveness. "Thanks, farewell."

III

Mislav's cabin was situated along a small winding path off the main road. It was an isolated location, standing as the only building around for at least a quarter of a mile. A rack with a stretched out wolf pelt sat in the front yard, but otherwise it was a run of the mill abode.

Geralt knocked on the front door. "Anyone home?" There was no answer. "Hello?" No noise came from inside. Must be out hunting already. Geralt pulled out a small pocket watch he had picked up from a contract the month before. Pretty early, I thought I had enough time.

"Guess I'll just look for his tracks." It didn't take long: a fresh pair of footsteps leading out into the forest were easy to find and left a clear trail to follow. Mislav just left home.

Following the tracks led Geralt into the nearby brush, where he found his target crouched in the bushes. He was a middle aged man, with a short ponytail and goatee. He was clad in greens and browns to fit in with the surrounding forest. He certainly fit the bill for a hunter, with a bow and quiver slung around his back and an axe at his waist. He didn't even move as Geralt approached, indicating a sound awareness of his environment.

"You Mislav?"

"Shh! You hear that?"

A series of howls echoed in the distance.

"Wolves? No- wild dogs."

Mislav stood to address Geralt. "Yes...more dangerous than wolves."

"Dogs more dangerous than wolves?" Geralt repeated skeptically, "Don't think so."

"It's the truth. Know why?"

Geralt sighed. "No, but I guess you're about to tell me."

"Wolves hunt to fill their bellies. Wild dogs kill for sport."

"Just like humans."

"Aye, they've learned much from us. Why not cruelty, too?" Mislav asked pensively.

"I'm hunting bigger game. The Nilfgaardians the griffin killed- where'd you find them?"

Mislav gave him a closer look at his proclamation. "Ah I see...You a witcher? That monster slayer they's talkin' about in the village?"

"Mhm."

Their conversation was interrupted by more barks. From the sounds, the dogs seemed more excited than before.

"I'll show you, sure. But, er, I gotta kill those mutts 'fore they hurt someone. Will you help? That is, if you don't mind bluntin' your silver blades on 'em."

You scratch my back..."Sure. Griffin's not going anywhere."

"No, dogs might, though. So step careful, now. Come on."

They started jogging in the direction of the howls, dodging around the thick underbrush. They spotted signs of the dogs' passing- torn branches, footprints, and the ever present howls.

"These dogs been a problem for a while now?"

"Since the war started."

"Not before?"

"Soldier on the march, he'll stop to rape a woman, strangle 'er, kill her man for a chuckle, even butcher a cow. But a dog? A kick in passin', no more."

Another forgotten casualty of war. The kind of thing people like that scholar will never realize. Geralt caught sight of a few of the dogs in the distance, running ahead of them. Probably tracking prey.

"These stray mutts form packs. They're gaunt, guts stuck to their spines, covered in scabies...but they just won't die."

"Cause they're clever. More so than foxes." The dogs howls had begun to turn into snarls. "And they hate man somethin' fierce."

They came to a clearing in the forest. "Too late. Attacked another one," Mislav reported. The pack was circling around a dead body, tearing into its guts. As Geralt and Mislav approached, the dogs picked up their scents and began to run toward them, looking to take down their next meal. The feral way the bloodthirsty beasts bared their teeth, spittle dripping from their mouths, made it clear these animals no longer held any love for mankind.

Geralt unsheathed his sword and began approaching the canines. Mislav nocked an arrow and pulled the drawstring back, firing into the gut of one of the dogs.

The pack, angry at the initial attack, began circling around the two hunters patiently. The wild dogs would try their luck a few at a time, making strafing runs at Geralt or Mislav to draw them into a position where they could be flanked. But the two humans held their ground. Geralt methodically sliced away at any who got too close to them, while Mislav put down any who stood out of the witcher's reach. In a matter of minutes, most of the pack lay dead at their feet, while a couple of stragglers ran off into the woods.

With the danger cleared off, Mislav and Geralt went to identify the corpse. It was a man, who had clearly bled out from dozens of bite marks riddling his body. Mislav took a closer look at the face. "Dieter…"

"You knew him?"

"We served at the lord's manor together, where the black army's encamped now. He was a stable hand, I was the lord's hunter."

"But that was before…" Mislav looked back down at the body, "Well, long time ago."

"Before what?"

"Before they drove me from the village," he replied bitterly.

Geralt recalled the Nilfgaardian commander's description of Mislav- 'A little strange'. A bit of strangeness never bothered Geralt though. "What did you do?" Geralt asked inquisitively.

"Nothin'. I'm a freak," he spat out. He made a visible effort to collect himself. "Sorry, I'd rather not talk about it."

"I'm a 'freak', too." Geralt sympathized. It was a slur he was all too used to hearing.

The hunter gave Geralt an ironic glance. "Aye, but of another kind."

A hunch came to Geralt. "If it's lycanthropy, I can help."

His face turned blank. "What?"

"Lycanthropy. Werewolves? Handled a few cases in the past," Geralt explained, "It's usually a simple curse that-"

"The lord's son, Florian, and I...We loved each other."

Geralt's train of thought came to a crashing halt. His witcher instincts had led him to consider all of the monsters or deformities he could have possibly been. Of all the possibilities, It had not crossed his mind that Mislav's sexuality could be what made him an outcast.

Mislav looked down, a sorrowful expression on his face. "Dieter walked in on us in the stables. They drove me away...Florian hanged himself. Lord started drinkin', and the estate fell into ruin. That's the long and short of it."

Geralt couldn't say he was surprised that people react poorly, but it still made him sad and weary to see such bigotry. "I'm sorry."

"Ah, ancient history now," he said, seemingly resigned. He seemed more than ready to move on from the painful topic. "I was to show you where I found the Nilfgaardians. Come on."

They started jogging westward, heading deeper into the Vulpine Woods.

"Griffin- know anything about it?"

"Oh, not much. Not my kinda game."

"You're his kind though. Survival instincts alone oughta make you care."

"I walk silent through the woods. No griffin can hear me nor spy me."

"Hmm. Even so, he still might smell you."

Eventually, Mislav and Geralt arrived at the scene of the attack. The spot was a small campfire of sorts just off of one of the small trails winding through the forest, and any observer could tell it was a gruesome attack. Huge bloodstains still soaked the ground; trees were snapped apart and splinters were scattered all over the area.

"One lay there, by the stump, headless. The other hung from a branch, guts splayed, stretchin' down…" Mislav shivered. "Watch out for yourself now."

"I'll be fine. Not the first griffin I've dealt with. Not likely to be the last, either."

"Hope you're right...good hunting now." With that, Mislav departed.

Geralt walked into the camp, looking to gather as much information as possible. He started at the campfire. The positioning of the bloodstains around the firepit indicated they were sitting around the fire at the time of the attack. He dug around the debris looking for bits of evidence of their activities, and came up with a blood-stained bottle. He smelled it. Cheap vodka. Nilfgaardians were celebrating. Griffin interrupted them.

Nothing else about the bloodstains or firepit told Geralt anything he didn't already know about the griffin itself. It was clear that the soldiers were caught off guard and ambushed by the griffin, who had torn down the trees and brutalized the bodies in the attack. It was clearly angry at these men, enough to maul their bodies. Need to find out why.

Combing through the rest of the area yielded little information. The witcher put together what he knew- this was the first attack site, and by Geralt's estimation, probably the most brutal. The patrol was sent to take care of the griffin, and were celebrating some feat. Yet the griffin still lived, and it had abandoned its nest. Only thing they would be celebrating is the destruction of the nest then. Need to find the soldiers' tracks, should lead me there.

With the goal in mind, he started searching for sets of footprints leading to the site. A lot of tracks crisscrossed the area but were much too recent and likely from the clean up crew. After some time, he thought he had found the right sets of prints.

"These prints are older. And deeper. Heavily armored...Nilfgaardians, probably."

Geralt retraced their steps, which led him down the path for a short time and across a broken bridge. Shortly afterwards, he found his way up a few cliff faces, until he reached the summit.

Jackpot. He had located the griffin's nest, but was a gory mess. The smell of blood and rotten guts was palpable, and a swarm of flies buzzed about, picking at the corpses all around the nest. Piles of old bones littered the area- horses, dogs, and human. On the approach, Geralt found a body of a soldier, torn to pieces and left to rot. Corpse is a couple of weeks old. Still alive when the griffin brought him here. Took a long time dying.

Rounding the corner, Geralt found a vital clue: another griffin's corpse. The beast was sprawled out, with one wing fully extended. It was just as large as the griffin he and Vesemir had fought at the ford: from this close of a look, the wingspan looked to be at least twenty-five feet wide.

"Female. Larvae in her wounds have already hatched. Been dead at least a week." Other griffin must be a male.

He examined the wing feathers. "Thick shaft, dense bards- a royal griffin." Means I won't have to worry about acid. Only archgriffins have that ability.

"Deep cuts over the whole body. Not a drop of blood on the beak or claws. Didn't defend herself. Crept up on her while she slept."

"Beak tip's worn, gray hairs in the coat- ten, twelve years old. Griffins pair up for life when young. Male must be about the same age."

The picture started to come together: the patrol attacked the nest while the female slept and the male was away, killing the female and destroying the nest. But they had failed to complete the job, so the male returned to the nest some time later. "Explains why the male I ran into was so aggressive. Hunted down the Nilfgaardians in the forest, then started prowling the area." In some ways, they brought this on themselves.

Griffins, while hated by humans, had also become a symbol for loyalty, bravery, and tenacity. When engaged in battle, it would fight to the death to protect its mate. In this case, it likely would fight to similar lengths out of anger.

Geralt sighed. This is going to be a tough kill.

III

On his way back to town, Geralt stopped by Odalan's farmhouse to ask about the contract. He knocked on the front door and was answered by a middle-aged man, who peered at the witcher curiously.

"Greetings, good man. Having trouble with your well? That's what I read."

The farmer's eyes widened in realization, who opened the door and ushered Geralt inside. "Aye, 'tis haunted. Has been for a good twenty years."

That threw Geralt off. "Twenty? So why'd you put out a notice just now?"

"'Cause earlier on we drew our water from the river. But so many corpses floatin' in it after the battle, it's turned noxious." Odalan led Geralt into the other room where his wife was caring for a small, shivering child. "Me daughter Mandy drank half a pitcher, fell dreadful ill, can't keep nothin' down...she grows worse by the day."

"Herbalist claims you fight fever with drink, and not beer nor cider, but water- clear water. And where'm I to get it if not from the well. But first the ghost's gotta be driven away. And it don't let any man near."

Good advice from Tomira. "This ghost- describe it for me."

He shuddered. "Well, it's awful frightening- awful."

Geralt shook his head. "I meant, what did it look like?" he probed.

The farmer's face took on a haunted look. "It looks...like a woman, but fresh from the grave. Wears a dirty dress, all rags, its skin flaking off its bones. And it howls...like it's sufferin'."

He ran the description through his head. "Hmm, some wraith...or maybe an alp."

"If you don't wallop it, master...if you don't take care of it, that is, it'll come kill me daughter."

The witcher's eyes landed on the small child for a moment. "Fine...I'll help. Where's this well?"

Odalan walked to one of the windows and pointed south. "In Hovel, a settlement on the heights. It's abandoned now, no one ventures there on account of the ghost being about. Drive it off, please!"

Geralt gave him a firm nod and exited the home.

III

In Geralt's opinion, Hovel might have been a cozy little village at some point, but the name was now a rather appropriate one for the small, burnt out group of buildings he encountered. The village was surrounded by a small palisade that was losing the fight against local vegetation after decades of neglect. The buildings were arranged in a circle, and sitting in the middle was the infamous well.

The whole scene was missing something important though. Strange, no sign of the ghost. Maybe it only shows at a certain time of day?

Making note of that, he got right to work. The first abnormality Geralt noticed was the extremely blackened area surrounding the well. He bent down to examine the foliage there- all of it was scorched. A dog carcass was near the well, unnaturally dried up and sporting signs of burns. All signs point toward a wraith of some sort. Most likely a noonwraith, if the farmer encountered it. No way he'd try fetching water at night. His checked the sky- it seemed to be mid-morning by now. If his guess was correct, he would need to work quickly.

Geralt began to look around the burnt out village with a new intensity. "Something's binding the wraith to this place. An object- something she needs before she'll leave this world." Noonwraiths were born from the spirits of women who had died sudden and tragic deaths, often before their weddings. One never strayed far from a certain area because it clung to objects of emotional significance. Thus, a wraith could only be banished by the destruction of the object.

Needing clues about the village's past, he began to search through the rubble of the houses. The first two he searched had no correspondence or papers within its dark and dusty confines, but had not been cleared of its valuables even after all of this time. Geralt corrected that quickly and moved on.

It was in the third and final house where he dug up an old, faded journal. Geralt gently pried open the small book and peered at the pages. It belonged to a young woman who had lived in the village- the entries were dated a little over twenty years ago, around the same time the wraith first appeared. Geralt could begin to reconstruct the story of the village from the logs. The settlement was created by a group of peasants who had successfully petitioned for freedom from an abusive and cruel lord. They set up Hovel and were starting to build the beginnings of a life, when the lord came to visit a few weeks later. The diarist seemed very skeptical the lord had come with truly good intentions. The entries ended there.

Two pieces of information stood out to Geralt- the first was how the husband had gifted her a bracelet which she had seen as an expression of his love. Might be what ties the woman's spirit to this place.

The second was an innocuous observation in the journal.- "They say he's calmed since his son's died, that he's not as quick to anger about small slights." He would have glossed over it normally, but it was so familiar to an earlier conversation. This must be the same lord Mislav spoke about. The one who drove him away, caused his son to commit suicide...took to drinking. Takes a trip not long after to this village, which is populated by peasants who had humiliated him...Geralt put the journal down and narrowed his eyes.

He focused his senses and searched the house again. This time, he was looking for something more specific. Even though much time had passed, he still managed to pick it out quickly. He knelt down and swept away some dirt. "Blood stains, barely visible." He examined the shape of the stain in closer detail. "Someone was dragged this way. Someone who was still alive." The blood kept leading toward the door. "Palm prints in blood. Small hands- a woman's. Someone dragged her out. She was wounded, fought for her life."

"No body in sight, but still might find some tracks. Under the right conditions, blood stains can remain visible for decades." He looked at the well. Another print on the supports.

Before approaching the well, he glanced at the shadows cast around him: there was still a little bit of time before a noonwraith would appear. He walked over to inspect the print. It was the same size as the one in the doorway, horizontal and nearly at Geralt's eye level. She was being carried over. The other prints were a little more faded because of weathering, but it led to a tied rope at the base of one of the wooden posts propping up the well.

"Blood stains, almost faded." He furrowed his brow. "But the line's taught. Something's not right." He leaned over the edge of the well. "A corpse. Hanged by the bucket rope. Woman the journal belonged to, must be."

Carefully, Geralt pulled the skeleton out of the well and laid it on the ground. He took a closer look at the bones. "Wide pelvis, small jaw- a woman. Around thirty, judging by the teeth. Left arm's missing." Need to cremate the remains. Gotta find the object that binds her to the place before I do, though. Was she wearing the bracelet from her husband? Might be why her arm fell off. Which meant...

"Gotta jump down there." He reluctantly took a peek down the well. The soft echoes of flowing water were reassuring to Geralt that this was not a stupid idea. Heaving a great sigh, he vaulted over the edge and took the plunge. Hope I don't break my legs.

III

Soaking wet, but satisfied, Geralt reentered Hovel. Lucky not to come up empty-handed. He had found the arm at the bottom of the well along with a bracelet that had an inscription- "To Claer, from Volker." It was a lovely bracelet, and Geralt regretted the need to burn it to exorcise the noonwraith.

He knelt in front of Claer's skeleton and added the left arm and bracelet. The sun was shining straight down on his head. He pulled out his silver sword and laid it in his lap. The witcher closed his eyes, taking deep breaths and slowly sinking into a heightened state of awareness. With every breath, he could hear more clearly the rustling of trees and the whipping of the wind. A wolf ran far in the distance, birds called out in the trees. The taste of ash was on the tip of his tongue. The cold silver sword was a sharp contrast to the warmth of his hand, and he could feel the grooves of the handle, the balance of the blade.

"Igni."

Geralt felt the heat of the fire slowly consume the bones. He stayed in his meditative pose, stretching his senses outwards, waiting. For a long moment, nothing changed- the wind, the fire, the silver in his hand. The sun slowly moved into its highest point in the sky...

Suddenly, Geralt opened his cat-like eyes. A bright green light burst forth from the well, and the noonwraith appeared. The Devil by the Well looked like a dessicated corpse, gaunt and weathered, a long, rotted tongue spewing out its unhinged jaw. Wrapped in linens and wearing a wreath of gnarled white flowers and tattered green ribbons, the noonwraith truly was the greatest perversion imaginable of a young maiden.

"Hey...I think it worked," Geralt mused. He stood, spinning his sword around in anticipation of the fight.

The wraith let out an inhuman shriek before dissolving into smoke. Geralt anticipated this and listened closely for it to reappear. She's going try to blindside me. He circled around, a sign on the tip of his fingers.

A small gust of displaced air came from behind him. There! He threw down Yrden and whirled around, sword raised. His blade met the claw of the noonwraith, suddenly corporeal again. Geralt grunted, taking the full strength of the wraith's swipe on his sword. It shrieked in surprise, unexpecting its sudden solid state. Geralt quickly disengaged and sliced at the wraith's still outstretched hand, severing it.

The noonwraith glided backwards in anger and pain, floating out of the Yrden circle and disappearing from view again. It reappeared right in front of Geralt, clawing towards him at close range. Geralt made a quick roll, his enhanced reflexes saving him from great harm.

With a great cry, the wraith disappeared again. In a puff of blinding smoke, three apparitions appeared and started circling around Geralt. This was the part he hated- the tightening sensation in his head and chest as the wraith tried to drain his strength. Any combatant would lose consciousness in less than a minute under this assault.

The only advantage for Geralt was how vulnerable the specter's split sections were in this state: any kind of attack could dispel the illusions. Geralt immediately pirouetted toward the closest one, slicing through it like air. He rolled toward the next illusion and thrust his sword through its middle. He finished off the last one with a blast of Igni. With the illusions dispelled, the noonwraith reappeared a distance away and began to circle slowly. Geralt tried to close in, but the wraith blinked away, reappearing out of Geralt's reach again.

Need to stop it from phasing. He looked around the battlefield and a tentative plan began to take hold.

He started backing away from the wraith toward one of the old houses. The wraith floated after Geralt, keeping the same distance between them. Come on, just a little more.

About a dozen feet away from the house, Geralt quickly spun around and threw a grapeshot bomb at the door frame. The explosion blew bits and pieces of wood off, widening the frame. The witcher quickly backed through the entrance until he was standing in the house itself.

The noonwraith, thinking its foe had no way to escape, began to close in on the witcher. He watched the wraith float through the doorframe, and as it entered the threshold of the house, Geralt threw an Aard at its form. In its immaterial state, the monster was hardly impeded. Thinking it had Geralt off guard, the Devil by the Well lunged after him. Geralt smirked. Got you.

What it didn't realize was that Geralt's Aard had obliterated the weakened doorframe, creating a large enough gap for him to dive under the specter's arms and escape the house. He took to his feet in an instant and unhooked a moon dust bomb from his belt. He chucked it at the off-kilter wraith's back before it could phase away. The bomb exploded in a shower of silver dust, covering the specter from head to toe.

Infuriated at the dust and its target's escape, the wraith howled and turned to charge at Geralt. Geralt raised his sword in a parrying stance and held his ground at its approach. "Come on!" he taunted. Rising to the challenge, the wraith reared up one of its claws to strike. All it could see was that the witcher had not cast the glowing trap: nothing would stop the attack. It committed all of its ghostly momentum into the swing, expecting to slash right through the mutant's sword and into his flesh. Geralt grit his teeth and thrust his sword up, bravely meeting the monster head on. It shrieked in victory, expecting to finish the fight.

That is why it was woefully unprepared when Geralt's silver sword stopped the specter's attack in its tracks. What it had failed to realize was that the silver dust had rendered it stuck in a corporeal state, and thus vulnerable. Taking advantage, Geralt dropped his parry and swung in an upwards arc, chopping an arm off. The wraith staggered back, injured and trapped. He attacked with a renewed fury, his blade dancing forward in sweeping arcs, quick horizontal slashes, and deep thrusts, tearing the wraith to shreds. None of its feeble dodges would allow it to escape the witcher's precise cuts.

The Devil by the Well gave one last terrified shriek just before Geralt lopped its head off. The wraith disintegrated in a flash of green light and smoke, falling at Geralt's feet.

Geralt took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. The world slowly came back, his battle trance gradually receding. He looked down at the wraith's body. "She's gone...for good." And may her spirit find peace.

As was the witcher's way, Geralt took the noonwraith's head as proof of his deed. The only thing left to do was to collect the reward.

He brought the head in a sack back to Odalan's house. It had only been a couple of hours since he had accepted the contract. The farmer was sitting in a chair in the bedroom when Geralt walked in, clasping his hands together as he watched his daughter. Geralt cleared his throat softly to get the man's attention.

"Job's done," he said. He held up the sack. "The well was haunted by the ghost of a woman who was killed there. I drove it away."

Odalan looked relieved and worried. "I just hope every unburied wretch don't start hauntin' us, or that battlefield will cause us a heap o' trouble."

"If they do, you know who to contact," Geralt replied. "Meanwhile...Claer, Volker...names ring a bell?"

"Hmm, I don't know 'em. Though I did hear our herbalist Tomira mention a Claer once...same one maybe?"

He pulled out a small pouch. "Your reward, master witcher. The gold I'd hid away for Mandy's dowry. Without you, she'd never 'ave lived to wed. Now...there's hope for it at the least."

The little girl's own dowry? Geralt shook his head. "At this point, doubt I'll ever marry," he joked, "You keep the coin for Mandy, her wedding. Raise a toast to my health then."

Odalan smiled gratefully. "Thank you, master witcher. Them's warm words, and you've a good heart. But I can't let you go empty handed." He walked over to the dresser and pulled out a small box with an amethyst inside. "Take this at least- for luck. "

Geralt accepted it silently, giving a small nod of farewell as he left the house.

III

"Good man, whose field is that on the other side of the river?"

"By the wood? Boyan Klimmick's. Good lad, master witcher, though he-"

"Yes, yes. This Boyan, will he venture out to inspect his grain any time soon?"

"Why would he? Harvest is a long way off."

Vesemir thanked the man and bade him farewell. Geralt took the seat the villager vacated at the inn.

"How'd your search go?"

"Pretty well. There's a spot on the other side of the stream- there's fields and a grove. Plenty of room and far enough so no one'll get in our way. Did you find the nest?"

"Mhm. Learned some things. It's a male, had its nest in the hill of the Vulpine Woods. The Nilfgaardians burned the woods down, killed its mate, smashed their eggs- thought they had fixed things."

"Hm. It's always the same. Instead of sending for a professional, they try to do it themselves, only end up making matters worse."

"Lucky they have both of us."

"Indeed. It took you awhile to go about finding that nest. I got back hours ago, nearly started lunch without you."

Geralt snorted and pulled out a coin pouch. "Lucky for you, I made enough to pay for it."

III

After the meal paid for by Geralt's multiple diversions, the two headed to the location Vesemir had picked out for the ambush.

Geralt looked around. "A stream, amber waves of grain...charming place," he remarked. "Perfect for an ambush."

"I know how to choose 'em."

"Wind's good, bait's scent will spread quickly," he said agreeably.

The witchers propped up a dummy sheep in the open field and emptied the vial of buckthorn around the area. Once finished, they headed into the small patch of birch trees on the edge of the field.

"Now all we have to do is wait."

They knelt in the underbrush, keeping an eye on their trap. Hours passed and there was no sign of the griffin. Geralt looked at his mentor, who was silently keeping his vigil.

"So, tell me...once we find Yennefer, what'll you do? Got your eye on a contract?"

He shook his head. "No, I'll go to Kaer Morhen."

"A little early to settle in for the winter," Geralt noted.

"Snows are a ways off, yes...and that's what worries me," Vesemir explained, "Nilfgaard's crossed the Pontar in the east. Puts them maybe a week's march from Kaer Morhen. If they reach the valley before snows can cover the passes...well, we need to cover our tracks, hide our paths." Kaer Morhen was nestled in the Blue Mountains in the far north of Kaedwen, and while it was relatively secluded, its location was no secret.

"Speaking of winter, and wintering- think you'll come this year?"

"Maybe," Geralt said. His thoughts wandered toward his recent dream, "Might bring a guest."

More time passed in anticipatory silence. Both warriors were long accustomed to long, solitary hunts for their prey. However, it was rare for witchers to work together, so they passed the time by sharing stories about their adventures, as witchers were wont to do when together.

"-and as soon as I call him out on his lie, he just bolts for his horse. Doesn't say a word!"

Vesemir chuckled. "You figure out what he wanted with the box?"

"I did. That's not even the most interesting part. Turns out our nervous-"

A piercing screech interrupted their conversation, followed by the flapping of wings. The griffin had finally taken the bait.

"Hear that? It's close." Geralt stood first. "Let's go give it a warm welcome," he growled.

"Wait. Take this." Vesemir dug into his pack and handed Geralt- "A crossbow?"

Vesemir shrugged innocently. "Won it in a card game while you ran around. Might come in handy."

Geralt smirked. "How about that. Always lectured us on the evils, but you're a gambler yourself."

"Stop talking. Got a griffin to kill."

They turned to spot their approaching target. The royal griffin circled the site a few times before it finally swung down and landed by the decoy. It cocked its head back and forth in confusion as it sniffed suspiciously. Having a second look at the male, Geralt guessed it was just as large as the female, a hulking twenty-foot specimen. It looked no worse for wear from the cut Geralt had inflicted on it the day before.

After a few more tentative sniffs, the griffin bit down on the dummy. Seeing the monster fully committed to the fake farm animal, Geralt and Vesemir charged out of the trees. The beast ignored their charge for a moment to chew on the doll. The witchers took advantage of the situation by tossing a salvo of grapeshot bombs that exploded on the griffin. Screeching angrily, the griffin threw the dummy aside and rose on its hind legs to meet the two witchers.

"Let's flank it!" Geralt yelled.

"On it!"

Geralt and Vesemir split up ten paces away from the creature, Geralt darting left and Vesemir cutting right. The griffin slammed back onto the ground at their approach in a plum of dirt. The two witchers forged through and began to circle at opposite sides. The beast darted back and forth between the two like a cat, its powerful wings curled in and ready to strike.

Vesemir cast Quen on himself before making the first approach, slicing fearlessly at the monster's side. The griffin raised its wing to protect itself, taking the sword strikes head on. Vesemir jumped out of the way just before the wing swung outward at great velocity. However, the wing managed to clip him and staggered him back. He grunted and recovered his balance. Fortunately for him, the attack was unable to break through his shield spell.

Geralt took the opening Vesemir had created, jumping in and inflicting a gash on its exposed flank. The griffin cried out and spun again, thrusting its other wing at Geralt before snapping its beak at him. He gracefully dodged out of the way of the griffin's blitzing attack, dropping a Yrden trap to facilitate his escape.

Geralt saw Vesemir cast a blast of Igni at the griffin's hind legs. Howling and realizing its disadvantageous position, the griffin took flight. The witchers kept their distance from each other, not wanting to present an inviting target. They watched it circle around a few times before the griffin screeched and pivoted in midair.

"It's about to dive!"

They rolled out of the way of its outstretched claws and watched it land on the far side of the field. The two monster hunters gathered themselves and sprinted toward it. Witchers knew that the most devastating attack from a griffin was easily its ability to close the distance and tackle its opponents. Not even a witcher or a soldier in full plate could withstand the battering force of a charging griffin. Geralt saw the griffin face him halfway across the field and gather itself for the very tactic. It was only a moment before it burst forward in a flash of outstretched claws and beak. A quick roll saved Geralt from being flattened instantly.

"Damn! It's fast!" cried Vesemir. He jumped in close to occupy the griffin, slicing away with precision and speed that belied his advanced years.

With a cast of Quen, Geralt came to his feet and joined the fray, creating more gashes in its dark mane. Vesemir blasted it with Aard, further staggering it.

Faltering under the onslaught of the witchers, the griffin lifted its head and let out a piercing roar. Geralt clutched his ears. It was much louder and higher pitched than its usual cries, and it could stun unmutated humans and burst their eardrums. While it only left Geralt with a piercing ringing in his head, he was forced to break his attack to shake it off.

Vesemir was closer to the source when it screamed, catching the full auditory assault head on. He stumbled back and blindly executed a backwards dodge. The desperate maneuver put him in a safe enough distance from the wind-up swing the griffin viciously threw at him, but not at the follow up, which connected and sent him sailing back. He landed on his back, rolling over twice with the momentum of the hit.

Seeing his friend in a tough position, Geralt grit his teeth and redoubled his attacks, leaving more wounds in its sides and legs. The griffin swiped at Geralt, but his Quen shield took the brunt of the hit, allowing him to continue his assault. The beast swept Geralt away before abandoning its position to fly off again. Geralt quickly got up and ran over to help Vesemir during the reprieve.

Geralt looked over his old friend. "You alright?"

He nodded. "Fine, but I'm way too old for this shit!"

Geralt cracked a small smile. "How old are we talking again?"

"Shut up! It's diving again!"

Geralt turned to see the griffin flying straight at him. At that moment, he remembered the weight of the crossbow on his back for the first time since the fight began. Pulling out the unfamiliar weapon, he aimed at his target.

The griffin bore down on him, stretching out its claws. Time slowed as Geralt aimed down the sights. Just as the griffin's flight path began to bottom out, the witcher fearlessly fired the crossbow. The bolt struck true, lodging itself into the griffin's wing joint. Vesemir hit it with another Aard right afterwards. The combination caused the griffin to cry out in shock as it tumbled over their heads and slammed heavily into the ground. Satisfied with the small crossbow, Geralt reholstered it and charged at the prone creature alongside Vesemir.

Rolling away, the griffin desperately forced itself into the air again just before Geralt and Vesemir could reach it. But instead of circling, this time it turned and fled. It beat its enormous wings to quickly gain speed, flying off towards the windmill far in the distance.

"After it! We can't let it get away!" Vesemir warned. There was no telling what destruction a wounded and angry griffin could wreak if left to recover. Geralt and Vesemir sprinted after it, parting fields and hopping fences. It had left a trail of blood spatters from its numerous wounds, indicative of its weakening state. They ran all the way to the base of the hill where the mill stood. At the base, the griffin was prowling about, cawing in pain and bestial anger. A large stretch of torn up grass hinted at a hard landing- Geralt's bolt had stilted its ability to flee any further. At their approach, the griffin spun around and narrowed its eyes at the witchers.

Geralt and Vesemir broke apart and repeated their earlier tactics- Geralt charged head on while Vesemir circled around the monster's back. The beast, sensing it was cornered, fought even harder than before. It spun around constantly to claw at whichever witcher was attacking it at the moment, making it near impossible for them to do damage. It was a constant dance- one witcher would jump forward then quickly jump back as the other jumped in. After some time, the griffin began to slow down from its numerous wounds. Its swings began to get sloppier and the two witchers began to sneak in a few hits.

Finally, Vesemir sliced it across the neck and the griffin fell to the ground. With a grunt, Geralt jumped onto its back, spinning his sword around and plunging it into the monster's head. With a final roar, the griffin stilled and fell dead.

Geralt jumped off the beast and landed by Vesemir. They looked down at their prey in silence, each catching their breath and taking in their success.

"Not bad...not bad," Vesemir breathed out, "Though you could stand to improve some things."

"Man spends his whole life learning," Geralt said with a hint of irony.

"Not a witcher. Unless he doesn't want to live long. But more on that later. You take the head to the Nilfgaardians, I'll head back to ready our horses. Meet me back at the inn."

As it was, killing the griffin was just another day in their lives. Geralt nodded in agreement and walked up to the corpse.

III

Bathed in the twilight of the fading sun, Geralt strode into camp. With the griffin's massive head in his hand and blood-stained armor, Geralt cast an impressive figure as he walked through the base of the Nilfgaardian camp. I could really use a bath though. Buckthorn, blood, guts, and sweat- not a great combination.

A few of the soldiers looked at him curiously, some with fear, others with distrust. A surprise handful here and there nodded respectfully in recognition of the potential danger he saved them from. He ignored all of their reactions and made his way up to the manor, intent on learning more about Yennefer's whereabouts.

He walked in the main camp to the sight of the captain inspecting the delivered grain from the village. The village ealdorman from the day before stood nearby, hunched over nervously. The Nilfgaardian cut open each of the bags and pulled out a handful of grain. After the third, he took a whiff of it and promptly threw it on the ground in disgust.

"What the hell is this?" he spat at the ealdorman.

"R-rye," the peasant said meekly.

"You take me for a blind man or a fool? This grain is rotten," the captain bit out harshly.

He shook his head vigorously. "I-...I didn't know!"

"So, a fool. Dammit, you never learn…" He straightened up. "Military codex, article two, section three: 'For the delivery of defective goods- fifteen lashes with a knout.' Make it so!" he barked at the nearby soldiers.

The ealdorman crumpled to his knees. "No, no, no! By the gods, no!" he wailed. The soldiers dragged him off to another part of the ruined manor.

Geralt stood there, biting his tongue through the whole scene. Men in power who professed kindness and understanding but then turned around and hid behind rules when pressed were a kind of hypocrite which he was all too familiar with.

The captain rounded on him. "What?!"

Geralt's stony visage turned colder than usual. "Guess you've dropped your good uncle act," he criticized.

"It was no act," he argued. "I extended a hand to these people. They spat on it."

"Could it be 'cause it held the sword that killed their loved ones?"

"Hah! A moralist!" he scoffed. "And what would you do in my stead?"

"Wouldn't ever be in your stead," Geralt returned matter-of-factly.

The captain physically stopped himself from retorting and took a moment to rein in his frustration. "Tell me why you have come."

Geralt tossed the griffin's head on the ground. "Fulfilled my end of the bargain." He stepped closer. "Your turn. Where'd Yennefer go?"

It was to the captain's credit that he responded immediately. "To Vizima."

"She was a day's ride from here the whole time, under my nose? Might've said so," Geralt said incredulously.

"Yes, I might have," the captain freely admitted, "But you would not have killed the griffin. Tit for tat."

You and your goddamn idioms. With the information he needed, Geralt turned and starting walking away.

"Halt!"

Geralt stopped and narrowed his eyes before facing the Nilfgaardian again.

"We are not done," he said. The captain pulled out a large coin purse. "It's yours, this gold. I would not want you to say you were inadequately compensated."

Geralt stared at the captain for a moment. The witcher squashed a childish impulse to reject the gold in protest- it would change nothing except his own financial situation. Without a word, he took the proffered gold and left the camp. The cries of the unfortunate ealdorman and the uncaring stares of the soldiers were the only things accompanying his silent footsteps.

III

Back at the White Orchard Inn, Geralt found Vesemir at a table sipping a drink from his traveling tankard. He was observing the clientele around them carefully. Geralt strode over intently and took a seat. Vesemir did not even look up at his arrival.

"Yennefer's in Vizima," Geralt announced, "Got a few friends there, so…" He stopped when he saw Vesemir sneer at whatever he was staring at. "Something wrong?"

"Look around. Trouble brewing," Vesemir said quietly.

Geralt followed Vesemir's gaze over to the table across from them. A bunch of shady, unkempt ruffians were glaring at just about anything and anybody around the bar. One of them was testing his idiocy by stabbing a knife between his fingers as quickly as possible. All of them were armed and raring for trouble.

"Who are they?"

"Patriots. Drinking their seventh round to Temeria, fists starting to itch."

Geralt looked around. "Don't see any Nilfgaardians."

"They'll find another foe," Vesemir said ominously.

Geralt nodded understandingly. Two witchers would fit the bill nicely. "Here, take this." He pulled out a pouch and handed it to Vesemir. "Half of the reward for the griffin."

Vesemir accepted it and stood up. "I'll buy some provisions for the journey. Then we'll go."

Geralt turned a watchful eye toward the belligerent patriots.

"Geralt." The white haired witcher looked up at his mentor. "We should stay out of it...just this once."

Geralt hated standing by and doing nothing when evil was unfolding. Being so close to finding Yennefer, Geralt knew he could not risk everything by putting themselves in a compromising position with the locals. Still, the mood in the inn was palpably tense: the other patrons were withdrawn, sulky, and the drink was flowing much more than the night before. It was enough to cause a tingling in his sword hand, a warning to Geralt of potential danger. He saw Vesemir walk up to the counter and put down his tankard, looking to get the innkeeper Elsa's attention.

A local woman sat by the counter, nursing a drink. Based on her slumped posture and bleary eyes, Geralt guessed she was more than a few drinks deep. She took a gulp of her drink before calling out. "What happened to the Lillies?"

Elsa looked over momentarily. "Took 'em down," she said.

The "Lillies" was the colloquial nickname for the Temerian crest. Geralt assumed they had once hung proudly in the inn but logically had been taken down to avoid antagonizing the occupiers.

"Took 'em down? To hang a golden sun there now?" the woman spat bitterly.

Elsa walked over and took Vesemir's tankard. "I cannot show Temerian colors," she explained, "They'll come and burn the tavern down."

Unwilling to accept the answer, the drunk local clenched her fist and slammed it onto the table. "Maybe it's true what they say? You fond of the Imperials? You Nilfgaard's whore?" she accused wildly.

The innkeeper looked at her with a hurt expression. She busied herself with filling Vesemir's tankard, handing it to him before answering. "I'll let that slide. I know grief eats at your heart," she said patiently.

Geralt saw Vesemir walk back toward him, which partially obscured the two women. It was still clear what happened next; the drunk slammed her fists and stood up. She pushed towards Elsa's face and screamed, "You know shit! They hanged my sister- dragged her out o' the cloister like a dog. Said Nilfgaard's no place for superstition. That they don't fear the wrath of the gods. And you, do you fear it!?"

The entire inn was watching the argument now. Geralt's feeling in his hand was getting much worse.

"If not for Annie your child woulda choked on its navel-string," she continued shouting. Elsa turned to walk away, but the drunk pulled her hair and dragged her back into her face.

"Let go!" Elsa yelled. Geralt quickly stood from his seat and began to make his way over.

"You owe your son to my sister attending the birth! And you don't fear the god's wrath?! You don't fear it, you cunt?!"

Elsa desperately reached for the meat cleaver on the table. The drunk snarled and slammed her head against the table then grabbed her ears and started mercilessly smashing her face into the table edge. Elsa began crying out in pain.

Vesemir, no longer able to stand and watch, disobeyed his own advice and threw the drunk to the ground.

"Leave me be!" she screamed.

One of the ruffians beat Geralt to the counter and shoved Vesemir. Vesemir was hardly moved, and put himself between Elsa and the ruffian. He calmly pulled out his wolf medallion. "Recognize this medallion? You know what it means? Back off."

The drunk woman got up and pushed past the men, fully intent on ignoring the consequences of her vicious attack. Geralt narrowed his eyes at her. When she neared him, he cast a surreptitious Axii at her. "Don't move." She blinked blankly, standing right where Geralt had cast his sign.

Geralt strode over to Vesemir's side, looking over the counter at Elsa. She was bleeding from a few cuts on her face and what appeared to be a broken nose. "You alright?" he asked. She gave the barest of nods, staring at the blood on her hands in shock.

The patriot glared hatefully at the witchers. "They say witchers steal young'uns!" he accused wildly. "That true?!" The rest of the drunken patriots gathered behind the accuser. "What'd the emperor promise you freaks? Your own land? Like he did the elves once?" cried another one.

Vesemir glared back. "Get out, all of you," he barked.

"We ain't goin' nowhere," growled the one who shoved Vesemir. One by one, they started to draw their weapons; clubs, maces, swords. "And neither are you."

Well, shit. This went south fast. Geralt drew his steel sword carefully, Vesemir following suit.

"They won't back down now," Vesemir stated unnecessarily.

"I can see that."

Geralt couldn't tell which of the patriots attacked first, but the entire group soon descended upon the two. It was an extremely unfair fight even though the witchers were outnumbered: Geralt and Vesemir had the advantage in strength, speed, experience, skill, and sobriety. In a matter of moments Geralt had disarmed the last belligerent and sliced his head off. It rolled over to the feet of Elsa, who frantically backed away from the detached head.

Geralt sheathed his sword and walked over to the panicking woman, not even noticing the blood on his armor. He extended a hand to her. "It's alright. It's over."

"Leave me be. Get away!" To his horror, she only backed away further with genuine terror in her eyes.

"See his face? Gods save us!?" cried one of the other patrons. He started puking.

"Begone. And don't ever come back," Elsa cried frightfully.

Geralt was stunned at the hostile rejection to his help. He blankly fumbled for his coin pouch as a form of apology. He stopped when a firm hand landed on his shoulder. Geralt turned to see Vesemir's grim face.

"So much for not getting involved," he said sadly. He gave Geralt an understanding look and squeezed his shoulder. "Come on, let's go."

III

Leaving the mess behind, Geralt and Vesemir stepped out of the tavern- and straight into a waiting group of Nilfgaardian soldiers. Geralt looked down at his blood spattered armor. Aw crap, this just keeps getting better. "That brawl- we didn't start it," he insisted.

"Excuses, excuses...you've not changed a bit," a rich, velvety voice drawled.

Her essence had reached Geralt before her words did- a clean, undeniably feminine scent that carried the barest hint of the road; but most of all, her lilac and gooseberry perfume. His cat-like eyes widened in recognition.

Inhaling her scent and hearing her voice awoke a familiar piece of him which spoke of joy and hardship, promises and regrets: A piece of him so familiar that reigniting it was like fully regaining one's senses without knowing they were dulled in the first place.

There was only one person who had ever affected him so.

Yennefer parted the soldiers with her measured, confident grace. She stood before Geralt with a slightly raised eyebrow and hands resting on her hips. Geralt saw every little detail as if it was the first time. Every part of her was just as he remembered- lush raven hair framing her beautiful face, her gleaming violet eyes, the slightly elongated nose, and the narrow lips. Even her lace trimmed white-collared shirt, diamond pendant, long black coat, black trousers, and high-heels were inextricably Yennefer. She radiated beauty, strength, and elegance in equal measure. The world stood still for a moment; time stretched out for eternity as Geralt marveled at the sight of her.

"Ye-Yen? How?" he whispered.

She walked up to him, eyes never leaving his. "I received a report. About a witcher who appeared in White Orchard. I knew it was you. Looking for me. I might have waited until you found me...but you know me. Patience has never been my strong suit."

She allowed a small smile to grace her face. "It's...good to see you, Geralt," she said, "I...I'd even embrace you...were you not covered in blood."

The witcher's grimaced at the reminder. "Sorry...wasn't expecting to see you. To be honest, this isn't at all how I'd imagined we'd meet," he admitted.

"How did you imagine it?" she coyly asked.

"He didn't imagine you'd have a Nilfgaardian escort with you," Vesemir cut in, "Don't get me wrong, Yennefer. We're glad to see you...but I think you owe us an explanation."

"And I shall provide it...in Vizima. Ready your horses," she commanded to Geralt.

He blinked, finally regaining his footing. "We can talk here. Some charming orchards nearby. In bloom, even, so you almost can't smell the corpses," he lithely suggested.

"A tempting proposition. Sadly, I must say no," she said with a laugh in her eyes, "You see, someone awaits you in Vizima. Someone who doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Geralt had a strong feeling about who that someone could be.

Yennefer did not disappoint. "Emperor Emhyr Var Emreis...or, to those on more intimate terms with him, the White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes," she announced.

"Can't wait to see what this is about. Far as I know, last time we saw each other, he wanted to kill me," he noted dryly.

"Well, now he wishes to make you an offer."

"The kind one can't refuse?" Vesemir half asked, half insinuated.

"I didn't. Though I could have," the enchantress said simply.

"Must've been a damn good offer then," Geralt couldn't help pointing out, "Not many things you'd give up your freedom for. And even fewer people."

Her brief stare revealed nothing to him. "The sooner we set off, the sooner you'll find out," she said enigmatically, before turning around to ready her mount.

Geralt, unbothered, turned to Vesemir. "What about you?"

"I'm going in the opposite direction. Somehow I doubt the emperor's invitation mentioned me. Besides, I've got things to do at Kaer Morhen, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember. Thanks for your help, Vesemir. See you soon." They embraced, no more words needing to be said.

Geralt walked up to Yennefer. "How's your horse? Swift?" she questioned.

"Can't complain," he said with a shrug, "Why do you ask?"

"I'd like to be back behind some thick city walls. As soon as possible," she replied seriously and mounted her horse.

Geralt tilted his head at her words: they seemed particularly ominous from someone as capable as Yennefer. Seems to fit what we knew about her tracks. Hmm, sounds like something is afoot. He looked toward Vesemir and gave a parting wave, who nodded in return. His business concluded in White Orchard, he and Roach fell in with Yennefer and their Nilfgaardian escort. Together, they started on the path to Vizima- and the emperor.

III

A/N: Here she is! "The Woman", to borrow parlance from Sherlock, has made her way into our tale. Completionists will notice that I've decided to leave out a mission in the prologue part of the game. This is intentional- not every side quest will have a logical place in the narrative, and an open world game is inherently dissonant to a plot which has a sense of urgency to it. That said, Geralt does have an insatiable sense of curiosity, and half of the fun is to see how everything he does has a purpose or effect in the world.

In recent Witcher news, the Hearts of Stone teaser trailer just dropped - go check it out if you haven't already! A character we have already met in our story is featured...

I want to also say that I really appreciate the response this story has received so far. Your support brighten my day and helps me keep at it even with the craziness of real life coming full force with internships, job searches, classes, and every other thing that comes about in the daily life of a college student. Unfortunately, updates will come less frequently than they have because everything else has started to demand my time, but I shall push on!

Next up Geralt ends up in Vizima and confronts his greatest fear- picking out clothes. Many thanks to carolcat for her wonderful support and work as editor for this chapter. As always, thank you for reading, and I'll see you soon!

-HyperS