Author's Notes: I thought it was all over when I finished my other Witcher story, and you probably did too. But oh no, buddy, it ain't. Strap yourselves in, because here comes another.

This story is going to have a drastically different tone than the other story in that it is much less tragic (though there will be some pretty sad parts), and mostly is light-hearted and humorous. This is mainly a story of kids being kids, after all. Well, witcher kids. There isn't really going to be an overarching plot, just a bunch of snapshots of our three little protagonists growing up.

I also became incredibly fascinated by the School of Bear. Incidentally, there is very little source material on Bear, and I can hazard a guess why. CD Projekt created many witcher schools in the Witcher game universe and, like a parent with multiple children, they had their favorite. And it wasn't Bear, hun. So I claim Bear unofficially, and whatever I say becomes not-so-canon!

That being said, enjoy the story! Feel free to provide any kind of feedback!

They were up on that cliff at this very moment. And on that cliff they would stay until the sun had risen and set five times. That was usually how long it took for them to determine which ones had succeeded.

The grandmaster had seen them off as they left the walls of the school to travel to the corner of the isle where the camp was. It took about a day's travel to reach it. The narrow cliff in which the camp was located stretched from the body of the isle to far out into the sea, as if that bit of land had tried to pull itself free but never quite could. And it was there that the alchemists and elder witchers took the young apprentices to undergo the ultimate test. A stocky horse at the head of the band pulled a cart and the sealed cauldron within.

It was a strict policy that the grandmaster was never to go to the cliff and witness the events there. He was never sure why. Perhaps it was to keep the grandmaster within the walls where the school needed him most. There were still students to teach, after all. Or maybe, he suspected, it was so that the grandmaster's faith would be preserved. He recalled something an elder witcher had confessed to him in secret—that nothing was more harrowing than watching the Trial of the Grasses.

And yet nothing was more necessary.

How fitting, then, was it that the Trials partook on that cliff? Tradition had deemed the location of the camp, but surely the founders of the School of Bear had chosen that steep, isolated cliff for particular reasons. One of them being that it made the camp surrounded by the roaring, crashing waters. The bodies of the failures were never brought back.

But enough with these gloomy thoughts. Grandmaster Undevar had a school to run. It was nearly dawn, so it was time for the morning horn to bring the students out of bed. Today marked their seventh day of Sign training. That, along with meditation, was something that the students of this guild often had trouble with. Yet without the Signs, one could not truly be a witcher.

Once again, progress was slow. That was to be expected. Grandmaster Undevar had dismissed the students to their first and only break of the day when the envoy arrived. He notified Undevar that the Trial party was on their way back with the successes. The grandmaster pondered quietly to himself for a moment, and then went to notify the students that the day's training was canceled. He went to the wall and restlessly waited.

An hour had passed when he finally spotted figures in the distance. Eagerly, Undevar studied the oncoming precession, trying to count how many had survived. As they drew closer, he saw… three.

Three? Only three? Undevar felt his spirits drop a little, but fought to remind himself that he should count himself lucky that any had survived at all. He thought back to a few years back when he had met with the grandmasters of the Schools of Wolf and Griffin. They had briefly talked about the mortality rate of the Trial. Three in ten was the usual success rate.

Five days prior, he had sent 25 boys to the cliff.

Bear only takes in the strongest, Undevar reminded himself. His guild's concoction was far deadlier than that of the other schools, but they produced the most fantastic results. Because of this, they were the smallest guild. But here, on this small isle in Skellige territory, the best witchers were crafted.

When the party arrived at the wall, Undevar stopped them briefly to study the three remaining apprentices. They were pale and looked sickly, their bodies desperately trying to recover. Still, Undevar could already see strength cultivating in their tiny bodies and in their hooded, slitted eyes.

One had fiery hair, which his eyes now matched. Undevar remembered this one well—he had been the mouthiest apprentice in the batch. The second had handsome golden hair, but now it was matted and stuck to his sweaty neck. The last was a black-haired boy who seemed the most aware. As Undevar looked at him, the boy stared back. Finally, the grandmaster raised a hand and beckoned the party to continue.

"Take them to the infirmary," he ordered. "Their training starts tomorrow."

It is in the nature of humans to be drawn to each other after experiencing a traumatic event together. In doing so, they subtly support and comfort one another. Connections are formed. Camaraderie is born.

So it was only natural that those three boys quickly became the closest of friends.

That night in the infirmary was the first time they truly became aware of each other's existence. Before the Trial of Grasses, the master witchers did not allow the apprentices to interact too often with one another. Most of them, after all, would not be returning from the cliff.

The next morning, Grandmaster Undevar came in to wake them. He asked them for their names, the first time he had done so since they had come to the school. Oslan was the name of the fair, golden-haired boy. And the red-haired boy boomed out his name: Andryk.

The last boy didn't answer when his named was asked. Usually, this form of disrespect, especially towards the grandmaster, was severely punished. However, Undevar was a patient man—a trait that was rare in the School of Bear.

"When a master requests something from you, you will deliver without hesitation," Undevar told the black-haired boy. "Tell me your name."

Again, the boy stared at his lap without answering.

"Wh'as the matter with ye?" Andryk blurted out, his voice sporting a particularly heavy Skelligan accent. "Just tell 'im yer name!"

"And you," Undevar said sharply to the red-haired boy. "You will only speak when addressed." Andryk opened his mouth to retort when suddenly there was a quiet voice.

"They threw them off the cliff." It was the black-haired boy. He was now looking straight at the grandmaster. "The other boys died, and they threw the bodies over the edge."

If that boy had witnessed that, it meant that he had fought against the pain of the Grasses and stayed conscious for hours. Undevar was impressed. Before he could reply, Andryk proudly boasted, "It means we're the best o'the best!" He was promptly shushed by Oslan.

"Those who are not strong enough to overcome the Trial are returned to the tides," Undevar answered.

The black-haired boy looked back down. "This place is awful," he muttered.

The grandmaster leaned towards him. "Did I hear weakness coming from your mouth, boy?" Undevar demanded. Oslan and Andryk shot nervous glances towards the black-haired child.

"No, Grandmaster."

"Then lift your head up. No witcher of the Bear guild keeps his face lowered and his eyes downcast like some shamed bairn."

The boy raised his head, looking into Undevar's eyes. "Now give me your name."

"Kozin."

"It's going to be this long!" Andryk claimed, holding his hands to just below his torso. "A right muckle o'a beard, it'll be!"

Oslan watched, amused. The fork in his hand hovered over the plate of half-finished food. "How're you going to fight properly with that big ol'bushel hanging off your face like that?" he challenged.

"Grandmaster Undevar manages jus' fine with his, don't he?"

"Yeah, but he keeps it tidy with those braids and gold clamps," Oslan countered. He jabbed a finger towards Andryk. "Not like you with that mop on your head."

Andryk reached up and ran a hand through his unkempt orange hair. "Oi, a real man keeps 'is mane free like the wind, y'hear? Not like ye ninnies with yer hair dun up like that." Oslan's hair was in a short braid, and Kozin's was pulled back in a ponytail.

"So I suppose a real man enjoys fighting with hair in his eyes?" Kozin said slyly as he picked apart the slab of fish in front of him. Suddenly, he spotted someone entering the dining hall. It was one of the master witchers. Automatically, the three jumped to their feet to greet the elder. However, the master barely noticed them as he marched right past, a grave look on his face. Kozin spied a letter in his hand.

When the master disappeared, the boys sat back down. "Did you see that?" Oslan asked them in a hushed voice. "That letter was sealed with the royal crest. I reckon that letter came from His Majesty himself."

A letter from the king of Skellige? Kozin wasn't exactly sure who the king was. The School of Bear, on its tiny island, was relatively isolated from the rest of the nation. As far as he knew, they only interacted with the outside world when taking in boys or accepting donations.

Andryk shrugged. "Not our business," he said, and he was right. That kind of thing was handled by Grandmaster Undevar. Their only concern was training. And sneaking out after hours to wrestle on the rocky beach. And seeing who could catch the biggest fish, even though Andryk and Oslan swore Kozin's uncontested record was due to the fact that his fishing pole was probably enchanted or something.

As there were no other inhabitants besides those of the School, the island bore an all-male population. Kozin, Oslan, and Andryk reached and passed their adolescent years. No longer were they considered children. They were men—albeit rather young and inexperienced ones. It was a tradition among the Bear guild that boys, upon standing on the brink of manhood, down their first tankards of lager.

Kozin and Oslan had never really showed any real interest towards alcohol, but Andryk was just about ready to jump out his trousers at the sight of the tankards.

"It is said a man can't grow a beard proper without some fire in his belly," Master Brimir told them. Sitting around them were the other masters and older students, cups of ale and mead and other drinks in their hands as they curiously watched the boys. Only the Grandmaster was absent from this little celebration. He had been terribly busy as of late. Even Kozin had seen little of the grandmaster; the two of them had become quite close. His absence disappointed Kozin a little, but the boy didn't take it much to heart. Honestly, this little occasion was really just an excuse for the older witchers to break out the alcohol and drink themselves stupid.

"Go on, lads!"

The three took the tankards and raised them. They stared at each other while trying to come up with something to toast. The silence stretched excruciatingly long.

"To teats!" a fairly intoxicated student called out. He spread his arms out. "May we all be graced with the finest Skellige—and the world—has to offer!" There were a few chuckles and many strong 'aye's. Everyone raised their drinks to join in the toast, save for a few prudish masters.

Shouts of joy erupted as the cups and tankards were harshly rammed together. Plenty of liquid sloshed onto the table. The men threw their heads back as they downed their drinks. The three boys quickly followed.

Almost immediately, Andryk lurched forward and sprayed the lager from his mouth. Kozin and Oslan lowered their tankards and struggled to contain their laughter as they fought down their mouthfuls of beer. It didn't help that everyone at the table was roaring with hysteria.

"A delicate maiden, this one!" a student cried.

"Aye! You blew that lager like a breaching whale!" Kozin sneered. Andryk glared at him as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Shut it!" he snapped. "It jus' went down wrong, is all!"

"'Course it did, Addie."

"Why don't ye try?" Andryk challenged. "Show me how it's done!"

Kozin smirked as he swiped his tankard back up. "Watch and learn from a real master!" he crowed, oblivious to the wicked glint in his friend's eyes. He leaned back, holding the tankard with both hands. As he did, Andryk elbowed Oslan. Suddenly, the two boys reached out and smacked Kozin's tankard upward. The jolt caused the rest of the lager to splatter all over his face. As Kozin coughed and shook the beer from his hair, the two boys burst out laughing.

Kozin rose to his feet, eyes flashing and liquid dripping from his chin. "You're dead!" he shouted to the both of them as he cracked his tankard on the ground. Oslan and Andryk stood up too.

"Bring it, big man!" they taunted before being tackled to the ground. The cheers and shouts from the others tripled in volume. The fight spurred the crowd into an energetic frenzy. Many jumped to their feet. A wooden table was flung and smashed into the wall, causing a decorative shield to fall and clatter noisily on the ground.

Kneeling in his study, Grandmaster Undevar opened his eyes as the books on his shelf rattled.