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When the old witcher returns to his horse he is met with the strange sight of a cat leisurely lying on Daphne's dapple gray back. The first thought that comes to his mind is that the cat is damn lucky he took Daphne and not Malwina down the keep. His other mare would have trampled the poor thing without hesitation.

Then he notices the weird thing about the cat. It doesn't hiss at him. In fact it doesn't show any signs of aggression at all. In all his years on the Path and afterwards, which is to say many, many years, that has never happened before.

It's a general, well known rule that predators, no matter the kind, don't like witchers. Some domesticated ones, like dogs or birds˟, can be trained out of it, but cats had long since shown to be an incredibly effective witcher repellent. It's so known that for a while humans in bigger cities went a bit crazy with breeding the things until it turned into a plague. Most city mages ended up with the knowledge on how to safely castrate a cat and a full purse.

The cat on top of his horse was looking at him entirely too peaceful. While it had lifted its head when he entered, it didn't react further. Even now, when he enters the stall and therefore also the cat's personal space, its mood doesn't change. It blinks at him lazily out of big topaz eyes and watches him pet down Daphne.

As far as the old witcher can tell – he barely knows anything about cats – it's not a simple tavern stray. It looks too nice to be ever considered a stray. He wouldn't be surprised if it's one of the expensive ones. He may not know a lot about cats, but he knows how much some aristocrats are willing to pay for pets. The idea of having an animal around that's just there to look pretty and be friendly seems absolutely ludicrous to a witcher.

Even to him it's obvious that the cat is incredibly well cared for. If not because of its peaceful demeanor than because of the way it looks. Its fur is almost luxurious long and soft looking, though clearly made for a colder climate. It's colored a dark shade of brown with many black stripes down its sides and long, thick one that starts in its neck and goes all the way down to its tail. The eyes, big and round and watching him, are of a dark topaz coloration and if the color reminds him of his sons' eyes and makes him a bit emotional he would never dare admit that out loud.

The most prominent feature of the cat is its leather collar though. It was crafted with a lot of care and recently polished as it still has a bit of a shine to it. There's a little round metal coin hanging from it with a sparkling star engraved on it, not unlike the medallion witcher trainees wear before they receive their official wolf-head-medallion. Hanging above it is a little blue tear-drop shaped gemstone. Definitely an expensive cat that belongs to someone rich enough to put gemstones were they could easily be snatched. He almost expects his medallion to hum, indicating some form of tracking spell, but nothing.

The cat looks at his gloved hand when it comes closer to where it is lying on his horse but doesn't swat at it, doesn't hiss in warning, doesn't even turn its ears back. Instead it lets out a tiny, friendly sound, a 'mrrp' and curiously sniffs the leather of his glove.

Utterly baffled, the old witcher has to take a moment and steps out of the stall. He catches a glimpse of the stable hand, a growing boy hardly older than fourteen who's refilling a water through in the back and with a sharp whistle calls for the boy's attention.

The boy turns mid movement and looks at him wide eyed, “Ser?”

He nods his head towards Daphne's stall, “Have you seen the cat on top of my horse?”

The boy blinks at him and replies with a, “Yeser.”

“Who's cat is that?”

“'snot yours?” The boy's speech is slurred, his thick accent pulling at the words like they belong together. The kaedweni courts call it the accent of the peasant. Some times the old witcher adapts it just to annoy them.

“Ever seen a witcher with a damned cat?” He barks out, annoyed that the boy's short answers don't give him the information he wants. Not at all helping, the stable hand simply shrugs his lanky shoulders. “Never seeno witcher before,” he says.

“Then whos cat is it?” the witcher bites out, “Who else is in town?”

“None, ser. You an'the postmaster, but he's gotno cats. Make'm sneeze.”

“Any witches that have passed through recently? Some upper folk, a lord or lady perhaps?”

He shakes his head, “None, ser, 'swhy I thought the mouser's yours.”

Said mouser takes the opportunity to make itself known with a series of loud meows, strutting right towards the witcher and bumping its head against his boots, then sitting down next to him. Seeing this the stable hand shrugs again, “Looks like's yours now. 's always the mouser choosing.”

Apparently that ends the conversation for the boy, because he turns away and gets back to work, leaving a dumbfounded witcher staring down at fluffy brown cat that looks back up at him and blinks. He decides not to think about it too much, shakes his head to clear away the tangle of thoughts and turns back towards Daphne's stall.

The cat is right there in the stall with them as he saddles his draft horse. It follows him like a obedient puppy when he leads Daphne out of the stable and bumps its head against his boots when he checks his packs one more time. If it weren't for the fact that he doesn't feel a single drop of chaos on the cat he would have thought it to be some sort of creature or shape shifter. Even testing it with a piece of pure silver doesn't cause a reaction and it only yawns widely when he starts reciting chants that would have any form of devil screeching.

He feels almost relieved when he sees one of the barn cats walk around him with a wide berth and its ears plastered to its head. When he looks at it, it's eyes thin and it hisses at him. When he looks at the brown cat at his feet big topaz eyes look back at him. So it's just this cat that's weird. He can live with that.

What he can decidedly not live with is the fact that as soon as he's up in the saddle and ready to make his way back to Kaer Morhen, the cat lets out another mrrp and suddenly jumps up onto Daphne like it's done so a hundred times before. His mare doesn't react at all and so he watches a bit wide-eyed as the cat settles down between his legs and over the small bags that are tied to the front of the saddle. Then it starts purring and the only reason why he doesn't loose his shit is because he's in the middle of the town square.

He nudges his legs together and Daphne obediently trots into the familiar direction of home.

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Chapter Text

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After leaving town the old witcher follows a wide mountain path along summer meadows and thin patches of trees. They ride past several shepherds and their herds, cross a short wooden bridge over a sparkling river and make their way northeast towards the keep that has been his home for centuries.

The cat doesn't really budge from its place in front of the witcher for a couple of hours. It stays docile the whole time even when he has to shift in the saddle or reach back to adjust his bags. When he touches it out of curiosity it starts purring again and he decides then and there that he likes cats. Or at least, he likes this cat.

So it comes to a total surprise when suddenly and without warning the cat's head shoots up and it starts caterwauling. He honestly would have never imagined that such a small creature could scream so viciously. It actually startles him.

The cat jumps off of Daphne in one wide leap and takes a few steps into the direction of a small game trail, then stops and continues its yelling. The witcher might not know a lot about cats, but he's seen enough to know when someone or something wants to be followed. The cat is screaming for attention. Literally.

The trail is too narrow for him to ride through safely, so he follows the example of what the creature he hopes is a cat and dismounts Daphne to lead her along. His mare is still completely unaffected by the cat and their sudden change of plans, which he tries to think of as a good sign, given that witcher horses are trained to react when they sense danger nearby. And while Daphne might not be the youngest lass out there anymore, she's certainly always been a trustworthy companion on the Path.

That doesn't stop the deep frown from appearing on his face as he goes after the cat. His gut feeling isn't exactly telling him that something bad is about to happen, but one does not survive the life of a witcher for so long by following every strange cat-like creature into the woods. Actually- This is exactly the kind of situation they used to warn the trainees about. Rennes, very helpfully, called it rule number one; Don't do anything stupid. And he is probably about to break said rule, but it's not like Rennes is there to witness it.

So he follows the maybe-cat that leads him further and further into the woods. It runs ahead, stops and turns to look at him out of its big round eyes, then continues to run. Once again he wishes he knew more about cats so he could tell if that kind of behavior is normal or not. It is strange, sure, and the cat shows very obvious signs of intelligence but he simply cannot tell if it's too strange, too intelligent to be what it claims to be. It could be normal. That would at least explain why so many sorcerers favored cats as companions.

He lets out a long and deep sigh to ground himself. He feels too old for these kind of shenanigans. If he were two centuries younger, he could certainly imagine getting a bit excited about the mystery behind the whole situation, but now he can't stop thinking about turning around and simply going home. There's still lots of work waiting for him at the keep. He hadn't planned for his trip to turn into something more, so while he does have his swords and potions with him - he always does - he thinks of the piled up laundry, the wobbly chair that that needs fixing and the weeds that grow between his tomatoes. There's definitely more than enough things that need his attention that aren't a cat that could turn monstrous at any time.

He should turn around and go home. He really should. But Daphne is a calm and steady presence behind him and the cat had been so nice. It had sat in his lap and purred, had even let him pet it. The least he could do is to check out whatever the cat wants him to see. What he does afterwards can be up for debate once he knows what's going on. The idea of owing an animal anything is a bit ridiculous, he knows, but he can't quite shake the feeling.

Having slowed down in his musings the gap between him and the cat has widened and it has no problem with making its displeasure known. He still doesn't understand how the mouser has such strong lungs. “I'm coming,” he answers out loud before catching himself in the act. Talking to it is an incredibly bad idea. It's really no secret that the wolves get attached to their animals fairly quickly. His oldest boys are the best example for it, their horses spoiled rotten. He has enough self awareness to know that he isn't much better in that regard, so he shuts his mouth into a thin line and follows the cat silently.

He tries to, at least. But he can't stop the curses from escaping his mouth when they round a corner and it suddenly becomes all too apparent where the cat is leading him. The mage tower stands eerily silent in the small clearing. It's not quite tall enough to look over the tree tops, but the witcher knows that most sorcerers like their homes bigger on the inside. No need to make the tower taller on the outside if it stays hidden this way. And hidden mage towers are never a good sign.

What is strange, is the silence. The tower doesn't look abandoned, but the traces of chaos in the air are faint enough to go unnoticed by his medallion. There's also no barriers. Not a single one that hides or protects the tower further. Whoever owned the place must have left recently and with no plans on coming back. It's either that, or-

The cat meows at him, pulling him out of his thoughts and directing his eyes to where it's sitting, bushy tail neatly placed around its paws. He's not sure how he could've possibly missed the giant crater in the ground. Big black scorch marks that have stopped smoking days ago cover the rocky ground. The grass is singed and it's a small miracle that none of the trees caught fire.

The mage's familiar looks at him wide-eyed and miserable and lets out a tiny mewl.

He's suddenly very aware of the fact that he can not leave it behind.

“Well... shit.”

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Chapter Text

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Actually going inside a mage's tower without their explicit permission is just as stupid of an idea as following a weird cat into the woods. Vesemir does it, of course, but not without a deep frown on his face and Rennes' voice stuck inside his head.

The cat – now quieter, but still meowing every now and then – winds around his legs and slips inside the tower before the witcher has the chance to fully open the door. He follows after carefully, eyes and ears trained on any possible warning sign that tell him to leave the tower this very instant. But there's nothing.

As expected, the tower is bigger on the inside, but it's suspiciously atypically for a mage.

That is to say; it looks like a normal home. The air inside is a bit stale, indicating that no one has been here for at least a couple of days, but nothing actually smells bad. There's a bit of dust dancing in the air and quite a few cat hairs on the floor, but it's clean. There's a kitchenette in one side of the round room and a pillow-covered divan on the other side. It's facing a big hearth that still has some half burned logs inside and a kettle on one of the hangers. A thick round rug covers a good portion of the floor and he watches the cat doing a big full-body stretch before digging its claws into the fibers. By the looks of it it has done so many, many times before.

His eyes follow the fluffy ball of fur- His eyes follow the mouser as it elegantly jumps on top of a velvet armchair and from the armchair it jumps right onto a bookshelf. Said shelf Is perhaps the most suspicious thing about the entire room, simply because it is stuffed to the brim with books, scrolls and loose papers. A few crystals of various shapes and sizes, small figurines and burned down candles are shoved between the mess and on top of it all – between a potted plant and a golden candelabra – sits the cat.

Only then does he notice the gold-framed portrait on the wall behind the cat.

Vesemir stares at it openly.

It's a detailed depiction of a rocky landscape. In the center of it lies a fully grown griffin on its back, eyes vacant, tongue out in the open, clearly dead. Standing on top of the griffin, puffy tail held up high, is the mage's cat. A golden plaque is nailed onto the frame. In swirling letters it reads, “Topaz the Griffinslayer”.

Vesemir's eyes meet the cat's. “Surely not,” he huffs at it.

Topaz meows back at him.

“No.”

The cat sneezes. It's adorable.

Vesemir lets out a long suffering sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. He truly is far too old for all of this. His age is making him soft. Soft and more and more willing to simply accept the things the world keeps throwing at him. Forty, maybe fifty years ago he would have gone through the mage's belongings, would have looked through his research, attempted to understand what they were trying to accomplish before their unfortunate device. He would have sought out clues that would have taken him across the continent, would have slain monsters and uncover secretive plots and gotten involved in whatever madness was going on.

If he made his way back home now, then his tomatoes would be just right for picking, the basil wouldn't overtake his garden and he'd have enough time to pick forest berries and preserve them for Lambert.

As if able to read his thoughts, the cat – Topaz – goes through another full body stretch and yawns widely, before putting its big paws against Vesemir's shoulder. He freezes at the new sensation of a cat climbing on top of him. Its claws dig into the thick leather of his coat and before he knows it Topaz is draped across his shoulders like a fox shawl around a woman's neck. Topaz purrs and Vesemir gives in.

He takes that goddamn painting with him.

Months and months later Eskel is the first to make it back home. He finds Vesemir sitting underneath the old oak tree, surrounded by falling leaves and dancing patches of sunlight. Approaching him from behind, his son doesn't immediately see what has him so occupied, so it's no wonder that he sounds a bit unsure when he calls out.

“Vesemir, is everything alright? You weren't at the gate when I arrived.”

The old witcher smiles to himself. “Quite alright, lad. I just found myself a bit trapped, that's all.”

“Trapped? What on earth are you-”

Eskel stops talking mid sentence. As soon as he has rounded Vesemir he is able to see the fluffy brown tabby cat curled up in his father's lap. It's softly purring, fuzzy little paws kneading Vesemir's stomach. “That's a cat.”

“Indeed it is. Well spotted, Eskel,” the old witcher replies full of mirth.

“You have a cat?”

“It appears so, doesn't it?”

“Huh,” Eskel says and scratches at his jaw. He sits down on the ground next to Vesemir and stares at the cat like he expects it to sprout a second head any moment now. Vesemir can relate to that feeling all to well. Eventually his son awkwardly asks, “Does it have a name?”

Vesemir lets out a low chuckle and locks eyes with Eskel.

“This is Topaz. The Griffinslayer.”

Eskel's mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

He frowns at the cat.

“Surely not.”

Topaz meows at him.

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