Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eadelmarr was exhausted. 

The latest hunt had been grueling, and he’d had to argue quite a bit to get the pay he was promised, but he’d managed it eventually. He’d fled the village after, unwilling to stay in such an unwelcoming place when he could take to the woods and be left the hell alone.

At least, that had been the plan.

He’d barely made it six miles before he’d run into a small cohort of Nilfgaardians. They’d become far more common of late, as the Nilfgaardian king pushed his troops further and further into the surrounding kingdoms and claimed them for his own. Aside from the annoyance of having to share the roads or inns with the obnoxious arses, Eadelmarr ignored them for the most part as best he could. He was a witcher. That meant he stayed out of human politics if at all possible, did his job, and moved on as quickly as possible. For his own sake, and for the sake of his fellow witchers who would suffer if he brought trouble down on all of their heads. 

The policy had always served him well.

So he’d been beyond shocked when the soldiers had immediately tried to take him captive! He’d done nothing to warrant it, and they were coming from the opposite direction, so clearly hadn’t been sent by angry townsfolk. 

So why?

Trained soldiers they might have been, but they stood no chance against one who had hunted monsters for lifetimes longer than their grandparents had known. 

The witcher gathered items from the corpses. Things that would be useful, or that he could sell for a bit of coin. Things that didn’t have the Nilfgaardian crest on it, preferably. It was too dangerous to be flashing that crest around. People would wonder where he got it, as it was well known they didn’t care for witchers and only hired them when they had no other choice. Once word got around about a downed contingent of soldiers, the answer would be self evident. 

Better to stick to nondescript items that couldn’t be easily identified. 

It bothered him a little, to loot the corpses of those who had never had a chance against his skills and experience. It scraped against his honor and set his teeth on edge. As a young novice witcher, he had often wondered why some of the oldest witchers had sometimes scoffed over their lessons on honor. 

Surely they knew better than anyone how important honor was? 

“Honor is a grand thing to have boy, but only to a point.” An old, hoary griffin had gruffed when he’d asked. “But your honor is no use to yourself or anyone else if you sacrifice your life on it’s altar. By all means, live your life as honorably as you can. But understand that at some point honor must bow before practicality. There is a reason our school doesn’t sport as many senior witchers as some others, and it is entirely because such is a lesson that we do not teach. And that few manage to learn on their own.”

It had been a hard lesson to swallow as a teen, but it had kept him alive.

Eadelmarr flipped another soldier over and paused. The man carried a pouch on his hip marked with the Nilfgaardian crest. A message courier then. The soldiers with him had probably been an escort. It made even less sense. If their job had been to deliver this messenger and his missive in one piece to his destination, then why had the soldiers thrown themselves at him? Why? 

Had the Nilfgaardians declared war on the witchers? Were they hunting them for sport? Attempting to recruit them into their army? There were too many options, and no way of knowing which one was correct. Unless…

The witcher eyed the pouch. 

He’d already killed the soldiers, he couldn’t be in any more trouble than he already was. And if there was any chance that the messenger’s papers might shed some light on the situation… Eadelmarr sighed, and opened the pouch. It was full to bursting with various documents, all of them neatly folded and individually sealed with wax and twine. More than he had time to read. Not if he wanted to be out of sight by the time someone happened across the carnage here. He would read them later.

Mind made up, he stuffed them inside his shirt and continued searching.

He was on the move again within’ ten minutes, the corpses behind him divested of anything useful and tossed into the ditch beside the road. Hopefully they wouldn’t be noticed for a while. A string of horses trailed after him, a couple divested of their tack lest the Nilfgaardian crest worked into the leather give them away as stolen. 

Well. Not stolen per say. They had attacked first. Perhaps it was better to think of the horses and various other odds and sods as recompense for their misdeeds. Either way, they would more than make up for the trouble their owners had caused. He clicked his tongue, his own mare responding with a soft wicker as she picked up the pace a little. He guided her down a side road, one that cut across to a major highway if he remembered aright. 

He would sell the horses as quickly as possible, and then be on his way.

It was the unexpected crinkle of paper beneath his clothes that reminded him about the documents.

Eadelmarr hummed, sitting back up in his bedroll and fishing the missives out of the inner pocket of his tunic. Thick as the packet was, it was a wonder he’d managed to forget it was there. He set the stack on the log he’d repurposed into a bench and set about poking the fire back to life enough to be able to read. Witcher eyes were sharp, but even they needed at least a bit of light without the help of a potion.

Selling the horses had gone exceptionally well, and he’d gotten a good price for the lot of them. All but one anyway, though not for lack of trying on the buyer’s part. A beautiful, sturdy dark bay beast that Eadelmarr knew for a fact would serve him well on the path. His own dappled gray mare was getting older, and was due to be traded out soon. She wasn’t so old that her working days were done, but she was skirting the edge of being too old to run from monsters, let alone chase after them. He’d give her to the Wolves, they had a good sized herd up in the mountains. She might grant them a foal or three, before age came for her. 

Point being, she’d be safe there to live out her fading years without worry, or so he’d heard. 

Coen (and by the gods, he would always be grateful to the Wolves for putting him in contact with the only other living member of his school so far as any of them could tell) spoke highly of the wolves of Kaer Morhen in his letters. The master of the keep, Vesemir, Coen had explained, had already given his leave for the two Griffins to join them for the winter. Eadelmarr couldn’t wait to meet Coen in person. The other griffin was much younger, and so far as Eadelmarr knew they’d never set eyes on each other. But they were all that was left of their school, and he was inclined to befriend the man for that alone. 

The fact that the man genuinely was likable was just a bonus.

He studied the packets curiously, making note of the various signets pressed into the wax seals. He didn’t know most of them, but the ones he did recognize were pretty high up the chain of command in the Nilfgaardian forces. At least one was part of the ruling elite, though not the royal family. Eadelmarr’s stomach sank. Ye gods and little fishes, what in the continent was he about to willfully get himself into?

Swallowing hard, Eadelmaar drew a dagger and popped the first seal.

The first few were relatively boring. Oh, if he cared at all for the war effort (of either side) he would most assuredly have found it interesting. And he did, in a distant, academic sort of way. But none of them really applied to him or his brothers… well. That one did tangentially. 

It detailed their intended troop movements to the west, and Eadelmaar would be passing that information along to any other witcher he saw. No one wanted to be in an active war zone in general, but if the Nilfgaardians were attacking witchers on sight they would do well to steer doubly clear of large groups.

He popped a larger seal, an absurdly large crest imprinted into the wax. Must’ve been someone important, to have such a large hand stamp rather than a signet ring. Better quality paper too. Perhaps an important position, rather than an important person… 

The name Pankratz seemed to jump off the page he was skimming, and Eadelmaar froze. He skimmed back up through the blocks of text to find it again.

….the identity of Jaskier the bard has been confirmed to be that of Professor Julien Alfred Pankratz, a professor of music and composition at the University of Oxenfurt during the off season. He is the son of a viscount in Redania. As the witcher Geralt of Rivia, ‘White wolf of Kaer Morhen’ and ‘Butcher of Blaviken’, has shown an unusual fondness for the man, his royal majesty has decreed that the bard and any and all associates are to be taken into custody at the first opportunity. Our sources indicate that Pankratz’s relationship with his parents is strained, if not completely estranged. They will prove no help to us in apprehending their son.

However, evidence suggests that he holds great affection towards his younger siblings. If such is the case, they would make excellent leverage. Should we capture them, there is little doubt that Pankratz would be willing to exchange himself, or perhaps even the Princess Cirilla, for the children. Given past demonstrations and declarations of affection towards his siblings and his predisposition for recklessness, the chance that he would attempt to do so even against Geralt of Rivia’s express wishes is exceptionally high. Whether he is successful or not, it will either gain us a pawn to be used against his pet witcher, or else reveal the location of the princess and deal a heavy toll on the witcher with such a betrayal.

A complement of soldiers have been dispatched to collect the children from Lettenhove, under the guise of hostages against the nobility’s good behavior. The parents wont object if they believe all the children are being gathered in a central location as insurance against their parents’ insurrection. By the time the Viscount realizes something is amiss the children will be well out of their reach. 

Furthermore…

Eadelmaar made a disgusted noise.

He didn’t know who the Princess Cirilla was, or why the White Wolf was protecting her. But the fact that the powers that be were willing to threaten children to force the bard’s compliance in order to acquire her was sickening. It explained why the Nilfgaardians had been so quick to jump at him though. They were probably interrogating or outright capturing any witcher they came across in the hopes of finding some lead to the wolves.

Edelmaar tapped the folded sheets of paper against his knee.

Witchers didn’t get involved in politics. Neutrality was the core of their practices, to ensure that they could travel freely from one kingdom to another without hindrance in pursuit of their prey. Eadelmaar could think of precious little that would tempt a witcher to get involved. Witchers didn’t generally do bodyguard work, at least not wolves, so far as he knew. The princess must’ve offered an absolutely outrageous sum for the white wolf to’ve agreed to the risk. 

Ordinarily, Eadelmaar would’ve let it be. It wasn’t his business. The most he might’ve done was spread the word that the Nilfgaardians currently had an axe to grind and should be avoided. Which really ought to be common sense, honestly. But… 

…but he owed Pankratz.

He’d owed the man a debt from the moment one of his students had taken it upon herself to see him fed after a grueling hunt. Let alone how much he owed him now for having established the use of lute marks, and for putting him in touch with coen. But could he take the risk? If he went after the children, he would very decidedly be casting his lot with one side over the other.

Honor versus practicality.

Eadelmaar scoffed. “To hell with practicality, it’s the right thing to do and you know it. Your honor’s not so cheap as that. Not yet at any rate… Okay Eadelmaar… Okay. You’ve uncovered a plot against children , so what do you need to do to foil it? By the numbers now…” 

He settled back, considering. He’d always been one to talk through his problems, and the loss of his brothers had only made that habit turn inward until he was quite prone to talking to himself. It made him seem odd in the eyes of the people around him, but it wasn’t like there were many who were willing to speak to him outside the terms of a service, contract, or profanity. Trouble was more likely to leave him alone if they thought him slightly mad, and it helped him sort out his thoughts, so what was the harm?

“Okay… better read the rest of the papers, make sure there’s nothing else important or damning in there. Never know when documentation might come in handy. But best hide it well later…” His eye settled on the one horse he hadn’t sold, and his lips twitched up. “Good thing you kept the stallion. You’ll need an extra animal to move fast with multiple children in hand… damn, did those papers say how many?” 

They did not, in point of fact, specify how many children needed rescuing.

“Hmph… hope it’s no more than three. You’ll be hard pressed to carry more with just the two horses… Maybe you can send word, get more witchers on the lookout for the children.” His mare snorted, stamping a hoof. Eadelmaar chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Won’t be much good to anyone if I drop out of your saddle in exhaustion… Okay. Sleep now. Race for Redania tomorrow.” The stallion gave a rumble, likely out of contentment, but it sure sounded like agreement to him. 

The Gryphon banked the fire and settled down in his bedroll.

He had a lot of ground to cover in the coming days.

The creation of the lute marks were a godsend.

They were a newer concept, having only been created within the last year or two. The brainchild of Professor Pankratz, they had become invaluable. Inns, shops, magic users, and homes that were witcher friendly were now marked with the lute mark. Eadelmarr’s purse kept a good deal more of his coin since the advent of the Lute marks.

They also served as good hubs to pass messages between witchers.

Eadelmarr trudged into the inn with a sigh, the tension bleeding out of his muscles as the inn’s warmth curled around him. It’d been nothing but rain and bitingly cold wind out of the north for the past three days and he needed a break from it. He wouldn’t be staying, but it would be nice to warm up and grab a hot meal before moving on. 

“Ah! Master Witcher! What can I do for you?” The innkeeper bustled up to him, hands wringing through a towel to get the worst of the kitchen mess off them. He had more salt and pepper in his temples then the last time Eadelmarr had passed through.

“I would appreciate a meal.”

“Of course! Will you be wanting a room as well?” 

Eadelmarr shook his head. “No. I’m just here for a hot meal, to give myself and my horse a chance to warm up, and to check for any messages. We’ll be on our way again before you lock up for the night.” 

“Certainly! There’s another witcher ‘as stopped by for a bite and a minute by the fire. He’s over there, sir, if’n you’d like t’ talk while you wait.” 

Eadelmarr followed the innkeeper’s pointing finger across the crowded inn towards the fireplace on the back wall. Sure enough, seated at the table closest to the fire was another witcher. Gold eyes flicked up to meet his own, and eyebrows rose in surprise. Eadelmarr cocked his head, a silent question. The other’s mouth quirked up, and he nodded back.

“I’ll sit with him.” Eadelmarr confirmed. 

The innkeeper beamed. “Very good, I’ll have your meal out to ya shortly!” 

He trundled off back towards the kitchen, hand towel draped over his shoulder and large serving platter tucked under his arm. His younger brother leaned across the bar to tug at his sleeve as he passed, calling out a couple more orders from those seated on the stools by the bar. The two had been running the inn together for the past three years since their father died, and the inn was flourishing under their care. The stubborn old bastard would’ve done well to let them see to the running long before instead of clinging on to the bitter end as he had.

Eadelmarr turned away, weaving between the various tables and patrons to make it to the witcher by the fire. 

The other was broad shouldered, as most of them tended to be. Not the solid burly mountain of muscle that bears tended to be. He didn’t look like a crane, nor did he have the effortless grace of a cat or the unnatural stillness of a viper. That left gryphons, wolves, and manticores. Wolves were damn scarce on the ground these days, gryphons even scarcer. Which left…

He leaned across the table to offer a calloused hand. “Manticore?”

The other met him gladly, offering a warm little smile. “Mikolaj, of the Manticores.” He confirmed easily. “Good guess. Your armor’s pretty distinct. Don’t think I’ve ever met a Gryphon before.”

Eadelmarr clasped the other’s hand warmly. “Not surprised. There’s only two of us left. Eadelmarr, at your service.”

The maticore winced. “I’m sorry. That can’t be easy.”

“Easier than it might’ve been. I was recently put in touch with a surviving brother, who also thought himself the last. He's younger than I by several years, not one I knew before. We've plans to meet up in the fall and get to know each other. And to travel together in the coming years, lest one of us become the last once more.”

“Then I’m happy for you.” Mikolaj asserted, smile genuine and far to understanding as he sat back in his seat. There were far too few witchers for any of them not to understand the grief of brothers lost. 

Eadelmarr settled into the seat across from him, studying his fellow witcher. In addition to his swords, he wore a bandoleer across the opposite shoulder, the plethora of little pouches holding gods only knew what. Anyone who had a shred of self preservation would leave those alone. Manticores were well known for their love of explosives, and tended to carry the makings on their person at all times. 

His skin was a dark tan, that honestly could’ve been born of heritage or sun, not that Eadelmarr much cared which. He had thick black hair that hung down to his jaw on the right side, the left shorn short. 

Eadelmarr gestured along the left side of his own head. “Interesting choice of hair cut.”

“Not my first choice. Had to cut it to get a sticky gods awful mess out of it. But I generally winter in the north these days, and I’ll take the judgmental looks if I have more hair for warmth come winter. The hair doesn’t grow back near as fast as the beard will, so I’ll keep shaving until the first frost.” He tossed back a swig from his mug, a barley beer, if Eadelmarr’s nose served him right. “Where are you bound from here?”

“Redania. I… ” Eadelmarr quieted, accepting a plate and a mug from the inn keep. Once the man was well out of earshot, he picked up the conversation again. “You’d do well to avoid Nilfgaurd, as well as any of its soldiers. They are currently targeting witchers.”

Mikolaj paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. He set it down again and leaned forward, expression shifting to something more serious as his voice dropped to a pitch only another witcher could hear. “Oh? Why? What’s set them on our asses?”

“The princess Cirilla. Seems she hired the White Wolf to hide her, or escort her, I am not certain. But he seems to have performed his duties well. And they are angry enough to take it out on all of us.” He enjoyed a few bites of his meal, giving Mikolaj a moment to digest that. “What’s more... You’ve heard of Professor Pankratz and his students?”

“I’d be dead if it wasn’t for one of his students.” Mikolaj answered immediately. “Bit off more than I could chew. The Ekimmara nest was the biggest I’ve ever heard tell of, and I didn’t realize until I was in the thick of it. Got gutted for my trouble. The idiot in charge saw an opportunity and whipped what was left of the town into a frenzy to finish me off. A teenager managed to get me out and drove all night in a fucking donkey cart to get to a sorceress nearby. Zuzanna was a former student of his. She patched me up and spent the rest of the winter nursing me back to health afterwards… They didn’t take the professor prisoner did they?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Eadelmarr grimaced. “It is far less palatable than that. It seems that the bard Jaskier, and Professor Pankratz are one in the same. And the Nilfgaurdians intend to capitalize on that. They have discerned where his family lives, and have dispatched troops. The professor is not close to his parents, but his younger siblings are another matter. The troops are to take the children hostage, and Nilfgaurd will hold their lives over his head and demand that he betray the White Wolf.”

The manticore’s lip curled in a snarl. “Bastards. Have the whore’s sons taken the children yet?”

Eadelmarr shook his head, turning back to his meal. “I do not know. The only reason I am aware of any of this is because a satchel of marked dispatches fell into my lap. I am making my way to Lettenhove in Redania as quickly as I can, in hopes that I intercepted the only dispatch. Or to collect the children if they have already been taken. I have never had any dealings with Kaer Morhen’s wolves, but I owe the White Wolf and his Bard for putting me in touch with my brother, and a great many other kindnesses besides. I cannot turn away, knowing what I do.”

“Nor I.” Mikolaj pulled a pack out from under the table and rooted out a small journal. “Were you going to bunk here tonight?”

“No, I intended to go on.”

“Good.” He flipped through several pages, nodding to himself when he found what he was looking for, then dug out a map to spread on the table. “I had the good fortune to encounter one of my brothers a couple weeks back. Updated our lists of lute marks. There’s a few along the route we’d need to take. We can leave messages to spread word to any other witchers that stop by.”

Eadelmarr drew up short. “We? You’ll help?”

The grin leveled his way across the table was fierce, and a touch wicked. “I owe the professor. And I’ll not abide anyone that lays hand on a child. I’ll help. My mare’s no sprinter, but she’s solid. We can alternate riding and walking if you’re on foot.”

“I am not.” Eadelmarr’s lips twitched up in a matching mischief. He lightly scratched at his short, neatly trimmed beard. “In fact, I’ve a spare at the moment. Some soldiers were kind enough to offer me one in apology after they quite rudely accosted me on the road. He can carry the children, once we find them.”

“It’s a plan then. If you’ve your book of marks on you, we can compare while we eat.”

Made sense. They’d plan their route more effectively if they pooled information. And it was swiftly becoming common to compare lists when one encountered another witcher. So that even in unfamiliar territory, a witcher would have some general idea of where he might find safe spaces, unbiased healers, and honest merchants. 

Eadelmarr passed over his notebook without complaint. He’d edit his once he was done eating.  He didn’t often travel up north. It would be nice to have more lute marks should he ever have to head up that way.

Given that that was wolf territory, it seemed more likely by the day.

“Well? Any notice on the boards?” A heavily scarred blond called.

A dark haired Cat witcher flopped down beside the other two Cats beneath the tree they had chosen at the edge of town. The three had each individually heard about a hunt in town, and had run into each other on the road. Given the reputation of Cats, they had agreed to send just Sebastian in to check the boards.

The brunette witcher, Alan, stretched out a leg to nudge Sebastian with a toe. “Well? Don’t keep us in suspense, Seb. Answer Bart’s question. We’re a quiver with anticipation.”

Seb swatted Alan’s foot away. “No contract. Seems someone else beat us to it.” He waited while the other two got their grumbling out of their systems, then added, “ However . There was a message left at the Lute in town.”

The other two perked up.

“The Lute here is the apothecary, right?”

Seb shook his head. “Lute’s the book binder. Decent sort. He’s got a room to let that he’s more’n happy to rent to witchers when the innkeeper’s feeling particularly bigoted.”

Bart made a rolling gesture. “Well? Get on with it, Seb. What’s the message?”

Seb scowled, the stick he’d been toying with snapping in his grasp with a sharp little crack . The other two stilled, sharp eyes narrowing. Cat’s weren’t exactly the most stable witchers on the best of days. It paid to be observant when your brothers were pissed.

“Seems the Nilfgaardians have it out for witchers at the moment. And they’re targeting Jaskier the bard. Which is apparently the stage name of Professor Pankratze.”

Alan flat out growled at the notion.

“Oh are they?” Bart’s voice was cold and flat, scars pulling as he scowled. He slowly pulled himself upright and fished his notebook out of his pack. “Well, we can’t have that , now can we?”

Seb cocked an eyebrow at him. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well…” Bart flashed an innocent smirk at the pair of them, acting as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Well, if I was the wolves, I’d get the bard safely sequestered away at Kaer Morhen. Humans might not remember where the old keep is, but those of us old enough to remember know that the passes up to the castle are nigh on impassible once the snows set in. The wolves will all be heading north. So . If we were to spread the word and, perhaps, suggest that everyone else should spread rumors that the White Wolf and his Bard are headed elsewhere…?”

Alan visibly started to calm.

Seb grinned and fetched out his notebook and a map. “You know, that’s a thought. If we split up and went in opposite directions. Left messages at as many Lutes as possible…”

“ Precisely… ” Bart finished. He scooted closer and laid his book beside Seb’s. “Come on now, Alan. Get your notebook and get over here. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Here you are, Mister Witcher. Is there aught else you’ll be needin’ then?”

Alek of the Bears shook his head, counting out the coin onto the counter. “No, that’ll do. Though, if you’ve any messages to be passed on, I’d be grateful for the courtesy.”

“Hm? Oh! Yes, hold on just a moment, Sir. There was a message, if I remember right.” The store owner darted back into her storage rooms, returning minutes later with a dusty book that had clearly seen better days. Alek had to suppress the urge to sneeze at the bloom of dust when she thumped it down on the counter. 

Oblivious, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and opened the book to the most recent page. “Ah! Here we are! … Oh. Um, Mister Witcher? It says here that the Nilfgaardians are angry at you witchers. And that they’re trying to hunt down someone named Professor Pankratze and Jaskier the bard?”

“They’re what?!” Alek bit back any further outburst, motioning her on.

Gratifyingly, she didn’t seem the least bit worried about his outburst, instead shooting him a look full of sympathy as she glanced back down at her book. “Exactly that, Sir. The message says that everyone is to pass the word and try to steer the Nilfgaardians away from them. I take it they’re not witchers?”

“No. But they’re near and dear to us all for their kindness.” Alek affirmed. “Anything else?” She shook her head, and he hurriedly gathered up his purchases into his pack. “Then I’d best be off. Thank you for passing the message along. Tell me, is there a mage in this town that can send messages?”

“There is! She’s on the far side of the market. Look for the red awning.”

“Thank you.” 

Alek strode out of the shop and made his way across the crowded market. Melittel’s tits, he’d be damned if he stood by and did nothing while those curs hunted the professor like an animal. There weren’t many witchers that he counted as friends, but he should have enough coin to warn them. And if more sightings came in from other corners of the continent, it would muddy the waters and make it a hell of a lot harder for the search parties to track Pankratze down. 

Alek smirked. 

The Nilfgaardian’s just kicked a hornet’s nest.

The White Wolf of Kaer Morhen. 

The Bloody Butcher of Blaviken.

After being a ghost for all that they’d been able to pin down a location, abruptly the Nilfgaardians found themselves with the opposite problem. Now reports were coming in from all corners of the continent. Many from countries that they were decidedly not in control of. Countries that they weren’t welcome in. Where it would be exceedingly difficult to get confirmation. 

There were a plethora of sightings of the bard too.

Some of them coincided with sightings of the Butcher, but more didn’t. Which wasn’t unusual, given that the two seemed to part ways and join up again as the fancy struck them. With the exception of the winters. The bard usually returned to Oxenfurt then. Or at least he used to. They’d missed their chance to catch him there twice already, his appearances there growing more and more random each year. The fact that he still had a job there was a testament to his skill as a musician and educator.

Much to the irritation of the headmaster.

But no matter. They had leads now. Said leads would be difficult to chase, but that would hardly deter them. The powers that be set to work, dispatching soldiers and spies to hunt down the Princess Cirilla and the Butcher with renewed determination.

Bonus Memes! 

Chapter Text

Traveling with Eadelmarr was pleasant.

The gryphon was well supplied and skilled in hunting or foraging whatever else he might need. Not that Mikolaj had doubted his skill, the man had far too few scars to be clumsy or stupid. 

Mikolaj smirked at his traveling companion.

He’d only joked about Eadelmarr’s height once or twice. Usually in the form of offering him a box to stand on to help him mount. He’d had a short brother or three amongst the Manticores, and was well aware that while a little light ribbing was fine, excessive teasing got old fast and would inevitably lead to a blow out. Eadelmarr was well aware that he was short, he didn’t need it constantly pointed out to him by all and sundry. It hadn’t escaped Mikolaj’s notice that village aldermen got bolder with Eadelmarr than they did with him. Eadelmarr had to work to make them take him seriously when half the time they were a touch taller. It gave them a confidence they wouldn’t otherwise feel, being able to quite literally look down on him.

The stallion took a testing nibble at the dappled mare’s mane, earning a grumpy nip for his trouble.

“That stallion’s a pain in the ass.” Mikolaj grunted.

Eadelmarr chuckled. He leaned out to stroke the stallion’s sleek fur. “Give him a break, I had only just acquired him a few days before we fell in together. I have not had much chance to train him. Besides, I think he belonged to someone important before, and that he was spoiled a fair bit on account of it.” Straightening up again, he gestured to their mares. “Still. You cannot deny that he’s learning fast.”

Mikolaj huffed, but gave his own mare an affectionate pat. “Spoiled is the least of it. But you’re not wrong, he’s young yet, and I can tell there’s a brain ‘twixt those ears. Even if he’s yet to figure out how to use it. He is learning. How could he not, with such good teachers?”

Eadelmarr chuckled and nodded.

Mikolaj’s pretty mare tossed her head, as if in agreement with her rider. His Sweet Rose was one of the best he’d ever had. And he was loathe to part with her. But better to retire her while he had a chance, rather than risk losing her to a monster in a way that was sure to be bloody and traumatic. 

“True enough. Surprised you picked a strawberry roan like that for our sort of work. Not as bad as a palomino, but keeping her hidden on a hunt has to be difficult.” Eadelmarr hummed.

Understandable. Bright colors and unique patterns tended to end up in the hands of the aristocracy, and cost a pretty penny besides. And Sweet Rose was built on lines that looked delicate, like those dainty dessert horses. Far slimmer and sleeker than what witchers tended to prefer.

Mikolaj chuckled. “Nah, I couldn’t afford her like. And even if I could, who’d sell her to a witcher like me? No, Sweet Rose here was a gift. Before the professor’s students started changing our lives, one of the few truly positive interactions I’d had with humans was after a job that’d cost me my gelding. The duke who’d hired me, he liked to breed horses. Good ones too. The type you and I would rarely dare set eyes on.”

The two shared a rueful smile, well aware of the caliber of horse he was talking about. And how protective the owners of said horses tended to be.

Mikolaj stroked Sweet Rose’s neck affectionately and pressed on. “He said that as it was his contract that’d cost me my mount, it was only fair that he replaced it, in addition to my fee. I didn’t even have to haggle, not that I would’ve. The purse he’d offered was enough to purchase a mount, and I’m not fool enough to argue with a royal as close to the king as he was. But I didn’t need to, he just did it. Ordered an hostler to fetch Sweet Rose by name. Assured me she was clever and sturdy, despite her delicate look. And that she’d serve me well. And she has. She really has . She’s the best I’ve ever had.” He huffed a sigh. “I’m dreading having to retire her. But I know I’ll need to do it eventually. She’s only fourteen, so I’ve a few years yet before I need to find her a replacement to train. But still…”

“I know what you mean. My Dove here has carried me well on fifteen years now. She will be eighteen in the coming year. She could go on for a fair few years yet, but that is tempting fate, and I know it. She has been a faithful lass, and I would rather her end be kind. My brother Coen tells me the wolves have a herd near Kaer Morhen. And that they treat their horses well. I am hopeful they would be willing to take her. She might grace them with a foal or two yet, and she would be safe with them.”

That didn’t sound too bad… 

“Hmm… I wonder if they’d be willing to take my Sweet Rose in a few years.” Mikolaj mused. He glanced over at Eadelmarr’s spare. “And what of your stallion? He have a name yet? ‘Mule’ or ‘Jackass’ has a good ring to it.”

The laugh the suggestion startled out of Eadelmarr set several crows darting up out of the nearby trees, croaking in offense for the scare. Mikolaj grinned. It was good to laugh, the chances to were always few and far between in their line of work. 

The Gryphon shook his head. “I had not had a chance to choose one for him. And I have no clue what his name might have been before. Your suggestions don’t seem to quite strike the mark. I appreciate the effort, though.”

“We’ll find something.” Mikolaj chortled. He sat up, shading his eyes from the setting sun. “Town’s up ahead. You still wanting to check in with the apothecary before we speak to the Pankratzes?”

Eadelmarr hummed in agreement. “My store of yarrow is getting low, and I have not seen a wild patch in weeks.” He held up a hand, forestalling anything Mikolaj might have said before the words had a chance to leave his lips. “I am well aware that you would be willing to share, Mikolaj. But better that we are both well stocked if something happens. It won’t take more than a few moments, and the apothecary might have information we can use.”

“Hm, fair enough. Let’s go then. We’ll want to present ourselves at the estate before sundown.”

Eadelmarr clicked his tongue, Dove and the stallion picking up their pace down the last slope into the small town. Sweet Rose picked up speed to match them without his asking, and he let her set her own pace. 

It’d taken far more time than either of them would’ve liked, even with a sorcerer being willing to portal them part of the way there for a fair bit of their coin. They’d need to take a contract soon, to make up for it. And perhaps budget better in case they needed to use a portal again, in hopes that they’d be able to travel farther on their return journey north. But they’d made it.

As they descended towards Lettenhove, the Pankratze estate visible in the distance, Mikolaj just hoped that they weren’t too late.

“Say that again.”

The apothecary’s assistant flinched. Mikolaj ducked his head, embarrassed by the outburst. He dipped into a slight half bow. “My apologies, miss. Please, could you repeat what you said before?” 

The girl looked between the pair of them and her mentor, hands wringing.

The apothecary curtly gestured her towards them. “Well go on then girl, no use hiding now. There’s nothing as can hide from their cursed devils ears. Tell them what they want to know so they can be on their way and out of my shop. This isn’t a tavern to be filled with idle gossip.” Still grumbling, he retreated into the back room without a backwards glance, content to leave her there with them.

Eadelmarr scowled after the man’s retreating back. “Does he often leave you alone with customers he deems unsavory?”

“N-no sir. At, at least, he doesn’t often. I mean…”

Mikolaj raised a hand, and her jaw shut with a click. “We aren’t upset lass, I’m sorry to’ve startled you, I didn’t mean to. What you said caught me off guard. And has bearing on our journey. Please.” 

Still nibbling at her lip, she bobbed her head and screwed up her courage. “I said you’d best avoid the Pankratze Estate, Master Witcher. The Viscount and Viscountess are in a right temper after the Nilfgaardians tore through their estate two weeks back.”

Yeah, that’s what he’d thought she’d said. 

“What happened, miss?” Eadelmarr asked gently.

The girl darted another glance at Mikolaj, before turning her attention to the more soft spoken of the pair. “They helped themselves to some of the estate’s goods and livestock is what they did. Nothing the Pankratze’s couldn’t replace. But there was a few of the servants as didn’t move quickly enough to suit the soldiers. They…” She swallowed hard. “They hurt them, sirs. Badly . One of the men died of his injuries, and there’s another that ‘as the healers despairing. And…” Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket to muffle a sniffle. “They, they took the children. All three of them.”

Mikolaj felt a stone settle in his stomach. “We were too late.”

She gave them a confused look. “Too late?”

“We had received word of what the Nilfgaardians intended to do.” Eadelmarr agreed, voice gentle. “As Mikolaj and I owe the young professor a debt, we sought to arrive first and protect his younger siblings.”

“Not the parents?”

Eadelmarr hesitated. “... No. We were given to understand that he was estranged from his parents.”

The girl gave a wet, angry scoff. “You understood right. There’s no love lost ‘atween Julien and them. But he adores Zofia and the boys. They’re all from the Viscount’s second marriage, so they’re a sight younger, and he detests their mother with a vengeance. But he adores them, you’ve never seen a better older brother. And they love him just as dearly. He’ll be heartbroken when he hears they’ve been taken.”

Of that, Mikolaj had no doubt.

He heaved a sigh, and patted Eadelmarr’s shoulder. “Well, it looks like you’ll have to put up with my company a tad longer, my friend. We’ll have a ways to go yet before we’ll catch up with them.”

The girl did a double take. “You’ll rescue them?”

Mikolaj grinned and tossed her a wink. “The plan was always to rescue them, lass. Where we rescue them from makes no difference to us, the work is still the same.”

Something a little like hope lit behind her dark brown eyes. She darted a glance at the door to the backroom, then leaned across the counter. Voice dropping into a whisper she breathed, “Go to the tavern up the road. Ask for Caleb. He’s one of the servants from the estate. Tell him that Anja sent you. Viscount and countess’d sooner spit on you then lend you a second of their time, but Caleb and the others can tell you whatever you need to know.” Resting on the counter top, she twisted the handkerchief in her hands, fingers turning white with the strain.

It was a beautifully embroidered kerchief, the lacy edges far too fine for an apothecary apprentice.

She bit her lip. “Please, sirs. Save them. And take them far away from here. Straight to Julien if you can. Zofia just turned fourteen, and lived in terror of her parents and the man they intended to marry her off to in the spring. The disgusting bastard was easily old enough to be her father…!”

Eadelmarr covered her hands in his own. “We will, never fear about that. We will see your friend safely to her brother. You have our promise.” He’d caught the handkerchief too, then. A gift from the young aristocrat, no doubt. The poor apprentice had probably been sick with worry for her friend.

Hopefully they wouldn’t be too late.

Caleb, as it turned out, had a fair bit to say.

The viscount and viscountess had been more furious over the Nilfgaurdian’s audacity than over the loss of life. The Nilfgaurdians had damaged their property, and helped themselves to a fair few of the Pankratze’s possessions. They couldn’t have cared less for the injuries done to their servants. The loss of life. In fact they’d already started looking to fill the positions, and the one hadn’t even breathed his last yet. 

Caleb scowled into his mug. “There’s no love lost, ‘tween us and the count and countess. It’s th’ children we ‘ad our ‘opes pinned on. They’re the ones ‘as is good, and kind , and decent . Lettenhove’d flourish under their care, whatever one as takes over. Melitelle knows Julian don’t want the position. An a’ course the count an’ countess blame Julian for the whole incident. Anythin’ that goes wrong gets blamed on ‘im.”

One of the others huffed and nodded. “Fools can’t see what’s under their damn noses. They think the Nilfgaurdians took the children as hostages to ensure all a’ them don’t raise a fuss. Idiots think they’re takin’ all th’ kids. But they passed three other estates on th’ way ‘ere, an’ they didn’t take any a’ them! Nah, somethin’ ain’t right.”

Eadelmarr hummed. “You are not wrong. We received word that the young professor had accidentally gotten in the Nilfgaurdian’s way.”

“And they’re petty bastards at the best of times, and we owe the professor a debt. So we came looking.” Mikolaj finished with a grim smirk. “We’ll find them. An’ we’ll be taking them to the professor, rather than bringing them back here. Seeing as how their parents did kick up any sort of fuss when the Nilfgaurdians took their children, I figure they’ll be safer with their older brother.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Caleb grumbled. “Though I’m curious ‘ow our Julian got th’ likes of you witchers indebted to ‘im.”

Eadelmarr waved the tacit question off. “That has no bearing on the current circumstances. Caleb, did the soldiers allow the children to take any clothes or belongings with them?”

“No sir. Not so much as a stitch more’n they ‘ad on at th’ time.” 

“Right…” Eadelmarr scratched at his beard, considering. “Could you pack a few things for the children? A couple changes of clothes, perhaps a comfort item or two? We can acquire whatever else they might need, but it would surely be comforting to have a few items that are familiar to them.”

Caleb straightened in his seat. “Aye… Aye, I can get you that. The maids what look after them’d surely be willin’ to lend a hand. Give me two hours, Master witchers sirs. I’ll have what you need by then, so ‘elp me I will! Meet us on the edge a’ town, south side.”

Caleb was as good as his word.

Within two hours he and several other servants came trooping to the edge of town, the fading dusk ensuring that identifying who was consorting with witchers would be damn difficult for anyone watching from the town or the estate. Which was probably wise, the viscount and viscountess struck Mikolaj as the vicious type of petty bigot. They wouldn’t take such a ‘betrayal’ from their servants lightly.

And there were a fair few that had shown up.

A dark skinned woman with a hard set to her jaw and cheeks stained from crying stepped forward to greet them. She had bruising all along the left side of her face, the swelling forcing the eye on that side closed. Her lip was split, and she walked with a limp as she approached. Her salt and pepper curls were partially protected by a white cap, and she clutched a canvas pack to her chest. “You’re the ones who are going to rescue my babies?”

Mikolaj gave a polite little half bow. “We are. And you are?”

Her shoulders drew back, head high as she held his gaze. “I’m Merna, their mother in every way that counts. I raised Julian after his mother died. And I’ve raised Zofia, Dawid, and Jakub since they were infants and the viscountess couldn’t be bothered to care for them. They are my babies, and I’ll be damned if I don’t help them however I can.”

The bow Eadelmarr gave was far deeper and more respectful. “Madam. I am Eadelmarr of the Griffins. My companion is Mikolaj of the Manticores… And we cannot allow you to accompany us.”

Merna scowled. “And why not?”

“We will be traveling faster than the average human is capable of managing. Much as I respect you, you will not be able to keep up such a pace.” He offered her a smile. “Make no mistake, Madam. We will rescue the children. And we will take them to their elder brother. Mikolaj and I owe our lives to Professor Pankratze, and we will do our utmost to protect his siblings. If there is any message you wish us to convey to the professor or your children, we will gladly do so. But we cannot bring you with us.”

The older woman scowled. “... you’ll take a message?”

“Gladly.” Mikolaj assured. “Let us worry about rescuing the children. You focus on your own recovery. I am sure the professor will send for you eventually. Given the life he leads, he will be ill-equipped to care for them on his own.”

Merna sagged, a tired sigh escaping her lips. “Very well. I’ll wait for word from Julian.” She pointed a finger at them. “But I expect an update from you two, if at all possible, once you’ve gotten my babies away from those monsters.”

“We’ll do our best.” Eadelmarr assured.

“Right.” Merna seemed to compose herself a little, then gestured two younger women in maids' uniforms closer. The two carried smaller packs, and she was quick to take them from their hands and set them on the ground. She rummaged through her own pack quickly, passing items to the maids to stow away in the smaller packs. “Caleb? Could you go back into town and find me paper, and a quill and ink?”

Mikolaj spoke up before he could hurry off. “No need, I have some she can borrow.” 

Within twenty minutes, the packs had been rearranged and the smaller two secured on Eadelmarr’s spare mount, and short letters to each of the young Pankratzes had been penned on some of Mikolaj’s spare paper. 

Much to their surprise, they were also provided with additional food and supplies. 

“You’re gonna be rescuing our kids. The least we can do ‘s feed you an’ ensure you ‘ave enough blankets.” The man who’d carried the supplies mumbled. He pointed down the road. “Last any a’ us ‘eard, they was makin’ fer th’ coast. Prob’ly goin’ t’ th’ fort on the island t’ th’ south.”

Mikolaj grinned and swung up into his saddle. “Thank you.”

“We appreciate the help.” Eadelmarr agreed. He gave a polite bow towards Merna and the two maids with her. “We’ll write as soon as we’re able, Madam. Though I dare say it will not be as soon as you would like. If you can, see if you can’t get a letter through to the professor. Let him know what has happened, and that we are working to rectify it.”

‘Makin’ for the coast’ had been right on the money. 

It took four days of fast travel to reach the sea, and the Nilfgaardians’ tracks made a straight shot directly there, then turned south to travel along the coastal road the rest of the way. It took two weeks to reach the fort the servant had mentioned. Mostly because they stopped a few times to pick up easy contracts. Much as they both chafed at the delay, they also knew they would need the coin later. The Lettenhove servants had been as generous with supplies as they could, but it wouldn’t be enough for the whole journey. Stopping was a necessary evil.

At least the fort itself was easy enough to find.

Eadelmarr suspected that finding the fort would be the only easy part of this entire caper. The fort was built on a small island a good mile and a half offshore. The only way to reach it was by barge, which the soldiers controlled. The island itself was tall and rocky, with precious little plant life for cover. Getting out there would be a trick and a half, but staying hidden once you were on it? Nigh on impossible, so far as Eadelmarr could tell.

“Not too far that swimming would be out of the question.” Eadelmarr commented, hoping his expression wasn't as dubious as his voice sounded.

Mikolaj snorted. “For us maybe, but is that a swim you’re confident making with full gear both ways, and with a child or two clinging to your back on the return? Because that’s too much for a child, even if they are a strong swimmer.”

Eadelmarr sagged. “You are right, I had not considered the distance from a child’s perspective. Even the witcher trainees would have struggled with such a distance, it would be unfair to expect untrained children to manage it. And noble children at that...”

“Crane trainees might’ve been up for the challenge, but I doubt any other school’s would’ve been.” Mikolaj thumped Eadelmarr on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go back to the inn. We need a different approach, and standing here staring at it just makes us look suspicious. Especially with the ill will the Nilfgaardians harbor toward us these days.”

Eadelmarr made an unhappy noise of agreement and led the way back. 

The inn they’d taken up residence in was called the Crooked Cat. Named, apparently, after the fat dowager tabby that presided over the establishment and had an exceedingly crooked tail from a run in with a heavy cart. She had crossed eyes and was unable to walk straight, but the woman who ran the inn adored her and doted on her and her progeny.

The inn was also a Lute point, wonder of wonders, and the innkeeper Carlotta had been happy to help them however she could when they’d explained why they were there. She ran a clean and well supplied establishment, and it was clear it was popular with the locals as well as road weary travelers. With so much foot traffic in and out of her dining room, it was no wonder she had her finger on the pulse of the local gossip and at least an ear turned towards the news from elsewhere.

Carlotta called out to them as soon as they entered the door. “Oh! Good, there you are! There’s someone here as is looking for you.” She pointed towards a back corner, where a man presided over a table alone enjoying a bowl of the evening’s stew. “I don’t know how he caught wind of why you’re here, but I’ll wager you’ll need all the help you can get.”

“Thank you, Carlotta. We will speak with him.” Eadelmarr assured. He patted Mikolaj’s shoulder and started for the back corner. “Come on then, let us go meet our prospective new friend.”

As they drew closer, it became obvious that their possible friend was a witcher.

The man was tall, lithe. Frame woven out of corded muscle in a way that tended to lean towards one school over the others. It wasn’t impossible to find that build in other schools, but Cranes tended towards the tall and slim stature of their namesake in a way that was particular to them. Both due to the specific quirks of their mutagens, and because swimming was a massive part of their training. 

After all, a crane that wasn’t a strong swimmer was a dead one. No one else was crazy enough to specialize in monsters from the depths the way they did. 

Eadelmarr had heard a trainer grumble once that the mages had snuck a bit of fish into the crane mutagens and that it let them breathe underwater for short periods. As the Crane his trainer had been bitching about had bested him in a contest to hold their breaths in the nearby pond, a good number of the trainees could well believe the assertion. Eadelmarr doubted it, but the idea had been intriguing when he was a kid fresh from the grasses. 

The medallion looped around the man’s neck glittered in the light of the oil lamp set in the center of the table, standing out brightly against the darker olive tones of his skin. White teeth flashed in a friendly grin, honey colored doe eyes crinkling at the corners in prominent laugh lines. The witcher tossed a thick black braid over his shoulder, beads and trinkets woven into his hair clicking and jingling softly. 

It surprised Eadelmarr a little, he would've thought such noises (slight as they were) might give the witcher away to his prey. Either the noises or the little sparks of light where it caught the tiny metal charms. But, evidently not. The witcher had his fair share of scars, but not the plethora Eadelmarr knew from experience were the earmarks of someone with naught betwixt their ears but a couple pebbles and the gods own pity to keep them alive. No, this one was well traveled and blooded and had the lived experiences to back it up. He could prove a good ally to have in their rescue endeavor.

He held out a hand. “Eadelmarr of the Griffins. And my friend, Mikolaj of the Manticores. What might we call you, good Crane?”

The witcher met him happily, his hand warm and calloused against his own. “You've a good eye, most guess Viper. Vren of the Cranes, at your service. Sit! Sit! We've things to discuss, I'd wager.”

Mikolaj thumped down into the seat across from the newcomer. He smirked, offering his own hand for a shake. “Yes, I think we do. How did you hear about our current job?”

“Job, huh?” Vren settled back, humming as he scanned the inn around them for eavesdroppers. “Is that what they’re calling it these days? Bah, no matter. I didn’t know about you two, not at first. I came for the children. Fishermen gossip worse than washerwomen, and as I ply my trade mostly on the water, it’s gossip I’m privy too. One of the younger lads mentioned that the Nilfgaardians had… acquired , shall we say, the old Cormorant Island Fort and named it after some old politician or other. Not that I much cared, outside of the knowledge that I’d best be warier ‘round here. But seems the lad had helped ferry supplies and passengers out to the island. And, well, these ears perked right up at the name Pankratze.” He pulled his bowl close again, idly stirring his spoon through the thick stew. “It didn’t take much asking to find out the rest. Reckoned I’d come looking. Imagine my surprise when I asked Carlotta for the lay of the land and she mentioned I had two more brothers here for much the same reason.”

“We just came from looking at the fort.” Mikolaj muttered. He drummed his fingers against the tabletop, lips pursed in a scowl. “Getting out there and up to the keep is going to be a hell of a feat, let alone getting back with three noble children in tow.”

Vren made a rolling gesture with his spoon. “More than you’d guess. Old Petra tells me they had mages out to lay wards round the island, five hundred feet out from the island’s shore, give or take. Said one of the mages was boasting how they’d trip if even the smallest boat crossed the wards.”

Eadelmarr sighed, scrubbing his fingertips through his beard. “That will present a problem…”

The Crane shrugged and went back to his meal. “Depends.”

Eadelmarr couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “On what?”

“On whether you can make your peace with a few things quickly, and if you’d be willing to trust. I’ve already found a way out, I just needed to wait for nightfall.” Vren grinned at them. “How ‘bout it? Can you trust a man you just met not to get you killed for a hair brained scheme?”

Eadelmarr looked to his companion. He was inclined to take the chance, but his wasn’t the only opinion. Mikolaj tipped his head back, gold eyes tracking the woodgrain of the beams supporting the inn’s ceiling. He must have found some answer there amongst the knots and worls. He huffed and nodded.

“I’ll trust. Don’t make me regret it. Eadelmarr?” 

It seemed it was unanimous then. “I will take the chance. What did you have in mind?”

The tall Crane pushed his empty bowl aside and leaned forward over the table, honey gold eyes alight with mirth and mischief. “Nothing too wild I don’t think… but still, for the sake of argument, you understand… what are your opinions on the mer folk?”

Bonus Meme!

Chapter Text

The short one, Eadelmarr, looked distinctly green around the gills.

The Gryphon was doing an excellent job of appearing composed, but Vren was a Crane. He knew the look of a man valiantly holding onto his supper in the face of too much rocking when he saw one. 

And they were still on the shore !

Vren chortled to himself, amused by the proceedings. He had a great many failings to his name, and a great many burdens to bear, but motion sickness had never been one of them. Still, he knew what to do in such situations. 

And he’d come prepared!

Fishing into Tempest’s saddlebags, he fetched out a few of the fruits he’d bought at market just that afternoon. Striding back to Eadelmarr, he held one out to the much shorter witcher with a grin.

The Gryphon tried to ward it off with a hand. “Ah, I had better not. I have never handled water based travel well. I would hate to waste it.” Eadelmarr offered him a tight smile, stressed but genuine.

Vren held it out again. “I’m a Crane, Marr. I know motion sickness when I see it. This will help.”

“It settles the stomach?” Now the Gryphon was curious, taking the banana and turning it over in his hands. “... I have no idea how to eat this. I am not certain I even know what it is, quite frankly.”

Vren snickered, tucking one under his arm and holding the other so Eadelmarr could see it. “It’s called a banana, you usually only see them down south in the warmer climates. But a ship came in just yesterday with a shipment from Metinna. They’re usually only sold to the nobility up here, but some of them were just this side of too ripe. They’d have spoiled by the time they made it inland, so the merchant was happy to be rid of them. Now. You’ll often see people twist it open here at the stem end, but I’ve always found it easier to just pinch the base here. It splits easy as you please, and you can peel the skin off with barely a second’s effort. And as for settling the stomach…” 

He waggled his hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture. “Yes and no. It’s light on the stomach. But its true value lies in the fact that it’s one of the few foods that will taste the same coming up as it did going down. Speaking from experience, bringing up nothing but bile is fucking miserable. If you keep it down, well and good. But if you don’t at least this will taste better than stomach acid. And it will be far less brutal on your throat. Now hurry up and eat, the pod will be here any minute.” 

Eadelmarr made a face, but obediently set to work on downing the banana. The Gryphon paused at the taste, then shrugged and moved on. Vren tossed the other to an amused Mikolaj, who didn’t look as though motion sickness would be a problem but wisely didn’t put up a fuss. Coming from further south, he was more likely to have seen one before. Though that was still questionable, seeing as Manticores were desert dwellers. Hopefully the two would be able to keep them down. Vren hadn’t imagined motion sickness being an issue with his plan, but Eadelmarr seemed to turn green just looking at the water.

Still, this was the best plan they had.

It had been fortunate that Carlotta had pointed Vren in Eadelmarr and Mikolaj’s direction. While Vren had the means of reaching the fortress, and likely could’ve managed the rescue by himself if he’d had to, he couldn’t deny it would go smoother with the extra hands. The fact that his fellow witchers had spoken with the childrens’ surrogate mother and carried letters from the woman was an unlooked for windfall. The kids would be more apt to trust someone their mother had sent to rescue them. It was better than Vren’s initial plan of ‘get there and hope you can talk them into following you once you do’.

A quiet splash drew their attention to the water, and Vren beamed. Their guides for the evening’s caper had finally arrived!

Vren had always liked mermaids. The School of the Crane had had the unique distinction of being neighbors with a sizable mer settlement. Trainees learned to swim from mers, picking up their language and playing games in the surf right there alongside them. Other schools had often questioned the wisdom of raising the trainees cheek to gill with beings that they might be someday called to hunt. But the mer settlement had always been peaceful, happy to coexist with the witchers and trading with them. The school couldn’t have wished for better neighbors. 

And truthfully it was due to the mers that so many of them had escaped the pogroms with their lives. 

And in all honesty, in all the years that Vren had walked the path, he’d often found that if there was trouble between human and mer it was almost invariably the humans who’d started it. Only once had it been the other way around. And given that that particular mer had been poisoned by runoff from a mage’s lab, the argument could still be made.

The local pod was one that he’d had dealings with before, on the rare occasions that he’d come so far up the coast. They weren’t a large pod, barely fifteen of them all told. But they’d been exceedingly helpful in the past when something bigger and more bloodthirsty had invaded their territory and humans and mer alike had desperately wanted it gone. The humans had paid in coin, but the local pod had been only too happy to collect some rarer ingredients from the seafloor for him as thanks for his efforts. He hadn’t intended to charge them, but if they were offering, he would’ve been a fool to refuse. What he hadn’t had any use for had earned him a pretty purse from those who did have use for it. 

Once he’d learned that the Pankratze children had been taken out to Cormorant Island, the bay that the local pod had claimed for themselves had been his first stop. 

There was no love lost between the pod and the Nilfgaardian soldiers. Where the locals were friendly, or at the very least respectful, the soldiers often tried to net them for fun and profit. More than one member of the pod sported fresh scars from nets or spears they hadn’t seen until it was too late. And in more recent months, several of their members had been harpooned and dragged back to the island, never to be seen again. A tragedy to a pod that had already suffered hard losses in recent years. 

So, to hear that Vren was going to beard the soldiers in their own fort? And rescue three kidnapped kids while he was at it? Of course they were happy to help him get out to the island! Nothing could be simpler!

He just had to trust them.

Natazatz was the first to arrive at the shoreline, bold and unafraid as ever. Beautiful and graceful as all mers tended to be. He was young, to be a pod leader. But he was the strongest of the lot, after an algae bloom had cut their numbers by well over half over the course of a summer. 

The pod had taken refuge in a small cove with a high breakwater during the algae bloom, the rush of fresh water from a stream that let into the cove warding off the salt loving algae. Fresh or brackish water wasn’t generally a mer’s preference, but their weakest and most vulnerable were safe there. But a pod that size needed quite a bit of food to match. Even supplementing with water plants and shellfish, there simply wasn’t enough in the tiny cove to sustain them. And they didn’t dare eat the fish killed by the algae bloom. Thus the adults still had to go out to hunt for the pod while the elders had remained behind to care for the little ones. The adults had brought their catch to the mouth of the cove and left it there, unwilling to risk bringing the sickness in. The tactic had cost the pod most of the adults, but it had ensured that just under half of the pod survived.

An elder had led the pod until Natazatz and some of the others grew into themselves and it became clear that Nata was physically the strongest they had. Which meant that protecting the pod from predators fell squarely to him, regardless of how young he was. 

Scales that would’ve been a bright royal blue in the sun shown almost silver in the starlight, glittering with sea spray as the mer pulled himself up into the knee deep shallows. He shoved his long hair out of his face, the beads and trinkets woven into the plait clicking faintly below the roar of the surf.

The mer offered a sharp grin. “Vren! Are you ready?” 

Dark eyes, larger than were human but not so big as to be monstrous, slid past Vren to the other two witchers trailing him down to the shoreline. His smile faded, the fins that took the place of a mer’s ears flaring up as he switched to his own species language. 

“ Who are your friends? You didn’t mention anyone else when discussing our plans earlier.”

“Natazatz.” Vren greeted. He knelt at the shoreline, the damp from the sand soaking up into the knees of his pants in seconds. He switched to the mer tongue in deference. “I didn’t mention them, because at the time I wasn’t aware of their presence. They also came to rescue the children, and for much the same reason I did. If you’re willing, I would be very grateful if you would allow me to include them in our plans. They can help.”

Natazatz eyed them, his tail slapping at the water’s surface. 

Further out in the surf, his aunt, younger sister, and another young female Vren didn’t know by name bobbed up and down with each swell. Even from the shore, he could see how their fins pricked to attention at their pod leader’s unease. For how far out they were, Vren knew that the two could cover the distance in a lighting flash if he raised a hand to Nata. As could any other members of the pod that lurked below the surface, hidden away from sight and awaiting a signal to attack or flee. 

Finally, the pod leader reached a decision. “You will vouch for them? They mean us no harm?”

“I will vouch for them tonight. We only want to rescue the children.”

The careful phrasing didn’t go unnoticed if Nata’s rueful smirk was anything to go by. Vren could promise that these witchers wouldn’t be a threat to Natazatz’ pod tonight while they all had a common goal. But he didn’t know them well enough to say for a certainty that they wouldn’t be a danger in the future. And Nata would appreciate the honesty. 

The mer’s fins and frills relaxed, and he gave an amused trill before switching languages again. “Very well. We will help them too. You’re lucky we brought spare rope with us tonight.”

Vren barked a laugh. “Lucky indeed.” To the two witchers behind him, he added “Come on then, come meet our escort for the evening. Natazatz, meet Eadelmarr of the Gryphons, and Mikolaj of the Manticores. Boys, say hello to Natazatz, leader of the local pod for the past five years or so. I’ve known him since he was a guppy.”

Natazatz made an offended whistle and splashed Vren’s knees with his tail. “You lying sea cucumber! I wasn’t a guppy when we met, I was half grown at least and you know it! Don’t believe anything this scruffy sea bird tells you, he’s full of wind and nothing else.”

Mikolaj snickered and squatted down beside Vren. “Scruffy sea bird, I’ll remember that. It’s good to meet you, Natazatz. Thank you for being willing to adapt your plans for us. I know how annoying that can be.”

Nata made an approving coo. “We would have gladly done it for the sake of a friend, we’ve known Vren for years, and he has always treated us fairly. But the soldiers have caused harm to me and mine. Vren offered us a chance to get even in exchange for help rescuing the little ones they hold captive out there. How could we resist? We will see you safely out to the island and back again with your charges, and assure your escape too. It is on you three to rescue the children and cause a distraction. Are you up to the task?”

The manticore held up the oilskin sack Vren had given him and Eadelmarr to keep their sensitive gear dry. Such bags were invaluable to someone who hunted the sea, and Vren made a point to have spares, always. “Oh, we’re up for it, alright. Got the finest of distractions right here. Tonight’s gonna be a blast.”

“We will not fail.” Eadelmarr agreed. “Though I confess to some curiosity. Vren told us that you could get us out to the island and back, but he neglected to mention how. He might have a prodigious lung capacity as a Crane, but Mikolaj and I do not. The new moon will help, but there is still the chance of being spotted when we come up for air.”

 The mer laughed and whistled, tail slapping at the surface in his glee. 

“Did he not?” Natazatz shook his head at Vren, holding out a hand to draw the Crane into the surf. “Do you want to traumatize them?”

Vren snorted. “They’re witchers, they don’t scare easily… That being said, I’m not above a little mischief. And a practical demonstration would probably be the best way to go about this. The effect’s not exactly well known outside of the Crane school, and even we don’t take to it without training.” 

“Come out into the water then.”

Vren slipped into the waves, motioning to the other witchers to follow him. Natazatz darted out ahead of them, powerful tail letting him cleave through the waves like a scimitar. Vren stopped once he was waist deep. Generally he would’ve gone further, but Eadelmarr was almost up to his chest already, with Mikolaj fairing only somewhat better. They needed to be able to see what was happening to him, or they’d panic.

He passed the heavier of the two oil skin satchels he’d brought with him to Nata’s aunt, a brunette named Tifonna. “You remember how to use them?” 

Her low throaty laugh and the metallic clink of the tools in the bag were his only answer as she slipped away beneath the surface with hardly a splash. Three others they hadn’t even seen darted after her, the quicksilver flash of their tails there and gone in the blink of an eye the only sign they had ever been there. With any luck, the soldiers they were off to inconvenience wouldn’t even see that much without the aid of a witcher’s eyes.

“Gonna explain now? Or are you going to make us guess?” The Manticore's voice was dry as the Zerrikanian desserts he hailed from, but the smile was playful.

Fair was fair, they had followed him into the water, knowing damn well that they’d be at a severe disadvantage if the mers turned out to be hostile. He held out a hand to draw Natazatz closer. 

“Legend has it that a kiss from a mermaid can save a drowning sailor. They’re not entirely wrong. Mers have a magic about them, and that particular bit of magic lives in their saliva. Not entirely sure how it works exactly, but Cranes have been using it to extend our ability to breathe on particularly dangerous underwater hunts for centuries. It’ll be more than enough to get us out to the fort. With the wards set on the water’s surface, we’ll have to stay below for most of the way to go undetected. My lung capacity is good, but that’s a bit much even for me.”

Eadelmarr groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Perchance, would you Cranes happen to have found a way to incorporate that unique ingredient into your potions?”

Vren waggled his hand. “Yes and no. It’s a bit tricky. The magic degrades over time and we’ve never been able to determine why. Most Cranes either kept close track of how long they’d had it or shelled out an obscene amount of coin to have a mage enchant some of their potion vials to hold it in stasis and preserve its potency… Why do you ask?”

The Gryphon chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Because. I suspect such a potion was used in a breath holding competition at Kaer Saren in my youth. The Gryphon involved might have implied that some form of fish had been included in your mutagens to allow you to breathe underwater. And I know at least my cohort grew up believing it.”

Vren couldn’t hold back a cackle. “You’re telling me more about that later! But, most likely yes. The potion was likely close to expiring. He probably didn’t want it to go to waste, would be my guess. Anyway, since the pod is here, there’s no need for potions. The effect’s always stronger fresh, so it’s best to get it directly from the source.”

“Like so.” Natazatz surged up out of the water, cool hands clasping Vren’s face. He smoothed one hand along the witcher’s jaw and pulled him down into a kiss.  

Vren relaxed into it, jaw dropping open to give Natazatz full access. Access the mer took full advantage of, licking into his mouth to ensure he got the full effect of Nata’s magic. 

To be fair, Natazatz was actually a good kisser. And he went out of his way to make it pleasant. Not every mer did. A fair few would either lick once or twice and call it a day, or spit into a vial and let the witcher do what they would with it. Which was… decidedly less pleasant if it wasn’t intended for potion brewing. The Cranes were used to it. And a disproportionately large number of them had had their first kiss with one mer or another for training purposes. 

Natazatz broke the kiss and pulled away.

Vren hummed, the tingle of Nata’s magic bright on his tongue, his medallion giving a faint, familiar buzz against his chest. “Thanks, Nata. Mikolaj, Eadelmarr, once you feel the magic duck your head under and breathe out. Like this.” 

He sank under the waves and swam over to peer up at them. Two pairs of gold eyes stared down at him, wide and a little apprehensive. Much like the trainees Vren had once assisted in training. Just like he did back then, Vren blew out every bit of air he had right in front of them… 

And then drew in a deep gulp of the sea, brine tart across his tongue.

Mikolaj grabbed his shoulder, ready to drag him back up if he started to choke and drown. It was more than a lot of the trainees had had the presence of mind to do when Vren had done this demonstration for them back in the day. So, that was appreciated. He covered the hand on his shoulder with his own and gave it a squeeze. Just as he had every other time, he made a point to smile as he sucked in water, then puffed out his cheeks to blow it back out. Over and over again, in the most comically exaggerated style possible. He’d learned through trial and error that the funnier this part of the demonstration was, the better.

The tense hand on his shoulder relaxed. 

Eadelmarr patted him, then turned toward the mers. 

Vren could hear them talking, but couldn’t quite tell what was being said. Must not have been anything particularly important though. Natazatz swam closer, leaning up to kiss Mikolaj. Another mer curled her body around Eadelmarr, the nameless female Vren had noted before. Her fingers carded through his beard as she kissed him. As mers didn’t generally grow facial hair, they often found it fascinating when they got the chance to touch. 

The other two witchers sank into the water, facing him.

He could tell they were nervous. Could hear the way their hearts pounded almost human fast. Sound traveled strangely underwater, but they were far too close for him to miss it. Vren flashed them a grin, hands rising and falling to accentuate the exaggerated breaths he was taking. 

“Breathe, witchers.” Natazatz commanded, his voice wobbly and distorted through the water. The mer’s powerful body curled against Vren’s back like a cat, anchoring the two against the pull of the waves. “Breathe. And my pod and I will take you to the island.”

Eadelmarr was the first to take the plunge. 

The pillar of bubbles was sudden and explosive, and instinct had him making an abortive move back toward the sky. Vren snapped out a hand to grab his sword straps, dragging the Gryphon back down before he could break the surface. The Gryphon’s mouth dropped open, and his body’s panic had him sucking in a mouth full of water. He froze, bewildered to find that he could, in fact, breathe. 

Vren beamed. A good start. 

A lot of trainees panicked a hell of a lot more before they got it through their heads that they weren’t in the act of painfully drowning. Others required a little more cajoling to get them to take that first breath, though. He arched an eyebrow at Mikolaj. If the Manticor couldn’t force himself to take a breath, he’d either have to stay behind… or Vren was going to have to sucker punch him in the gut to force him to take that first breath. Neither were great options.  

Thankfully, neither one were options he needed to take.

Mikolaj found his courage and took the breath on his own. Vren grinned and thumped him on the chest enthusiastically. The smile he got back was shaky but proud. 

As he should be, he’d done very well for a first timer.

Natazatz and the other mers clicked, and trilled, and whistled happily. They reached out with webbed hands to draw them farther from shore, powerful tails working in tandem with the witchers’ own kicks to pull them through the water faster than they could’ve ever managed on their own. 

Nata’s younger sister swam ahead, whistling shrilly. 

More mers rose from where they’d been resting on the rocky bottom. This would be the rest of the pod. The ones who were more vulnerable to attack, by human or predator alike. Curled amongst the rocks, they would be well out of reach of any surface dweller, and predators couldn’t catch them from below. 

They curled around them, keeping the witchers below the surface, but not letting them sink any deeper. 

A little girl that couldn’t have been older than two or three peeked at them from behind her guardian, a mer so old that even her scales had gone milky, her hair pure white and her face lined with age. Myriad trinkets had been woven into dozens of tiny braids that caged the rest of her hair as it floated loosely in the currents around her. Dozens upon dozens of beads, shells, and shinies to denote how much she’d been loved over the course of her long life.

Another elder, young enough she still possessed a faded version of her original green gold scales and her hair was a steel gray, floated close to the first. She held an infant against her chest, a toddler cradled in a sling on her back. It spoke to the strength of the pod or to their own cunning that the two mers had survived to such an old age when the sea was far from forgiving. It also spoke to how small the pod was that they couldn’t afford to split it. Having those that were vulnerable wait forty feet out while some of the young adult members of the pod went to shore to converse was one thing, the fighters could be back in an instant should anyone send up the alarm. 

But not if the able bodied mers left them behind to take the witchers to the island a mile and a half offshore.

An elderly male with salt and pepper hair produced a rope of braided kelp and offered it to the young female that was holding Eadelmarr up. She curled her tail around to keep him from drifting away, then grabbed the rope. The mer was quick, tying a loop in one end and settling it diagonally over her torso. Another youngster took the other end and mimicked her. 

Two more pairs were doing the same by Mikolaj and Vren. 

Vren waved to catch their attention, hands flicking through the signs the witcher schools had created for non-verbal communication on hunts. Two mer pull together. You hold rope. They carry you.

The other two signed back acknowledgments.

Consisting primarily of young adults and the elderly left the pod with a bit of a problem here. The older mers were double the length of a human but weren’t strong enough anymore to haul full grown witchers and their gear for any great distance. And the youngsters were healthy and strong but half the size. Even just trying to haul them back to the pod had left Natazatz and the others panting. Doubling up was the best way to go about this. Had it just been him, as they’d planned, they probably would’ve doubled up even more.

A pair swam up to Vren and he put the rope they were trailing across his back and under his arms. They waited just long enough for the other witchers to follow suit, and then the group were off for Cormorant Island. They couldn’t have been traveling more than ten minutes before they had company.

Chittering heralded the arrival of dolphins from the left.

Vren waved a frantic hand at Mikolaj and Eadelmarr, signing safe over and over. Reluctantly, they took their hands away from their swords. 

The older mers reached out to touch the dolphins and direct them towards other pod members. The youngsters who were pulling the witchers happily gripped the dolphins dorsal fins and let them help pull, tails working in tandem. The whole pod picked up speed with the dolphins taking some of the weight. 

Vren couldn’t hold back a garbled laugh at Mikolaj’s face. 

It wasn’t surprising he and Eadelmarr had never seen dolphins before. Even though Kaer Seren had been located in a primarily coastal kingdom like Poviss, the icy northern waters tended to repel a lot of the water based monsters Cranes hunted. Which in turn encouraged Gryphons to focus their attentions inland. And Manticores tended to stick to the inner continent, close to the deserts that birthed them.  

But dolphins loved mer pods, and it was almost unheard of to see one without the other. 

Vren liked them well enough, they could be funny or even helpful if the mers they’d adopted were inclined to direct them that way. But the clever little bastards could be a royal pain in the ass when they felt like it. They were too smart for their own good sometimes, the little shits. More than one inattentive witcher trainee had had possessions snitched by mischievous dolphins. Said belongings were delivered into mer hands, and the trainees left to suffer the teasing that followed.

Around his neck, Vren’s medallion started to vibrate.

They must be passing underneath the wards. Which… Vren’s eyebrows shot up his forehead and he glanced up. As if the wards would be visible up there if he just looked hard enough. 

That was a surprisingly heavy vibration for a ward. At least, for a ward on an unimportant outpost. But if there was more at play here… A quick glance at the other two showed a similar surprise and understanding. Something was up.

Melitelle, just what were they walking into?

For as strong as the wards were, they were only about a boat length or so wide. As soon as they were past them Natazatz patted his shoulder and darted ahead and out of sight. Off to find a safe stretch of beach to deliver them to. Several of the dolphins raced after him, chittering amongst themselves. Good. If he got himself into trouble, they wouldn’t hesitate to help him however they could. 

The ones left behind clicked and whistled after them, but didn’t abandon the main pod. 

Above the water, Vren could see the fort looming ever closer, a hulking black void against a sea of stars. By day, he knew it wasn’t anything more sinister than any other pile of giant sandstone blocks. But the added height of having been built up on a hill made it seem bigger and more intimidating than it was. Especially under a sky bereft of a moon.

Natazatz darted back into view, and the whole pod veered to follow him to the right, around the northern edge of the island. 

No sense barging through the front door.

Mikolaj was having a weird night.

‘Weird’. 

That was actually putting it mildly , in point of fact. ‘Weird’ wasn’t enough. Nor was ‘strange’ , and ‘abnormal’ seemed too pedestrian for the farcity he now found himself embroiled in. 

But what other word was there to use ?! 

It wasn’t every day that you learned how to breathe under water and swam with mers and their giant pet fish that were easily as big as you were ! And said mers and fish helped you commit crimes against a foreign government, what's more! 

There was surely a word that could encompass the absurdity of what they were doing. But by all the gods and their disciples he couldn’t think of what it might be. Maybe Eadelmarr would know, Gryphons were supposedly more studious and book learned than the rest of the schools were, right?

He’d have to ask. 

Later.

Ahead of them, the sea bed finally rose up to meet them. The mers drew them forward until the water was barely an arms length above their heads, then set them down on the bottom at a gesture from Vren. The Crane motioned Eadelmarr and Mikolaj closer and signalled for them to watch .

Then, he took a deep breath, and strode several steps back until his head broke the surface. In a display much like the one he’d given before, he breathed out hard, a cascade falling from his mouth and nose and back into the sea. He covered his mouth and nose with an elbow when he was done, likely trying to muffle himself so as not to give them away. Mikolaj could hear him coughing a little, his lungs ejecting the last of the fluid they weren’t designed to filter air from. 

Then the Crane motioned for the two of them to follow.

Contrary to what Mikolaj might have thought, the deep breath before the switch back to air did help somehow. He didn’t have the words to explain why or how , but it did . And unlike switching from air to water, which had been weird but tolerable , the switch back was decidedly unpleasant . The body’s natural reaction to breathing salt water was apparently to produce as much mucus as was physically possible all at once and the sensation was disgusting . He muffled his own coughing into his elbow like Vren had and sent the man a dirty glare. 

Sure, he could breathe the air again, but at what cost?! He was going to drown in his own slime ! He wasn’t built for this, he should’ve stayed in the desert where shit made sense .

Beside him, Eadelmarr’s coughing wasn’t subsiding.

Vren hauled the smaller witcher further up into the shallows until he could bend him over at the waist without dunking him, then thumped his back hard. Multiple times. More water escaped Eadelmarr, trickling in streams over the arm Eadelmarr was using to try and smother his struggles. 

Irritation forgotten, Mikolaj slogged after them. “How can I help?”

“Not much you can do.” Vren winced at another round of hacking coughs were muffled into Eadelmarr’s elbow. He smoothed a hand up and down the Gryphon’s spine. “It happens sometimes when you don’t expel it all in one go. It’s why the deep breath before switching is so important. No room for anything else. If you don’t take a deep breath, or don’t manage to expel it all at once, you end up with both in your lungs at the same time. Something about having a mix makes the switch rough. He’ll be alright, he just needs a minute. We’ll also need a Swallow each within the next few hours, but that can wait until after we get the kids. Odds are good we might need other potions before then.”

Eadelmarr finally quieted. “I am alright.” He offered a wan smile when Mikolaj gave him a disbelieving look. The man certainly hadn’t sounded alright just now! “But I am not looking forward to the return journey.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’ll be leaving by boat.” 

Natazatz bobbed in the water nearby, shoving his braid over a shoulder. He pointed a webbed finger along the shore towards a torch lit dock around near the front of the island. “My pod will be collecting a boat for you and the children to use, and ensuring that the rest aren’t available to chase you with. We’ll wait for you. We’ll escort you back to shore, and cover your retreat if necessary. But it will do little good if the mages are not sufficiently distracted and decide to portal after you. On land, you will be on your own. We won’t be able to help you. So be quick. Be safe. And come back to the sea in one piece, my friends.”

“Nata. Thank you. You and your pod stay safe. May the currents be kind and may the waves cradle you close.” 

Natazatz patted the hand Vren had placed on his shoulder, then darted back out into the waves. His sister and the rest of the pod cut through the water after him. There was a flash of the silvered elder’s tail, her white hair pale against the sea, and they were gone. 

Leaving the three witchers behind, alone on the rocky shore.

“Come on. We’re wasting time here.” Mikolaj grabbed Eadelmarr by the back of his armor and slogged forward again, half dragging the smaller witcher out of the water with him. Vren brought up the rear. Eadelmarr huffed, grumbling about being scruffed like some unruly puppy under his breath. But he didn’t fight the grip either.

Up on shore, the Crane pulled them to a stop and fished some sort of amulet out of a pouch. He closed his eyes, squeezing the amulet tight in his fist… and his form wavered, like a mirage in a desert. He held it a moment longer, then relaxed and opened his eyes. The wavering stopped, and his form settled. 

He was completely dry.

“A useful trick.” Eadelmarr chuckled.

Vren grinned and pressed the amulet into Eadelmarr’s hand. “My new favorite toy. Aside from being wildly useful after a good two thirds of my hunts, there was an incident a couple years back where someone I rescued could’ve been lost to exposure. He was fine, but a trick like this would’ve come in handy. Hold it tight in your fist, and close your eyes. It’ll feed off of what little chaos we have, a little like when you use igni , but without actually lighting something. So you’ll feel a little warmth, but nothing else. Your signs will be a little weaker afterwards until you’ve had a good sleep. But we’ll give ourselves away if we drip sea water all over the fort.”

“Fair enough.” 

A minute later, the amulet was pressed into his hands, and Mikolaj gave it a squeeze.

Ordinarily, witchers weren’t aware of their own innate chaos. They couldn’t feel it the way that a sorcerer would. It was too miniscule. Just enough to cast their signs, and not much else. 

At least, that was what Mikolaj had always thought.

And yet… Somewhere within himself, as heat washed over his skin he felt something he hadn’t even realized he could sense shrink. Just a touch. The water disappeared from his skin, his clothes and leathers growing appreciably lighter with the loss. He sighed, more appreciative for the lack of soggy boots than he could rightly describe.

He opened his eyes and passed it back to Vren.

“It’s an odd feeling, isn’t it?” Vren tucked it away again, smile rueful. “I didn’t even know I could feel it, not until I triggered the amulet for the first time. Given that the mage who sold it to me told me we had so little chaos we shouldn’t have felt it at all, I think we have a bit more than what the mages of old would’ve had us believe.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters. But it’s interesting to think about.”

It was rare that Eadelmarr got to experience new things. 

When one was a witcher as old and well travelled as he was, experience was often the one thing that you were rich in. He had seen and done a great many things over the course of his long life. Things beyond the scope of imagination to the average person. So it was something of a surprise to get to experience something new as he seemed to be repeatedly doing tonight. 

From learning to breathe underwater, and swimming with mermaids and giant fish big enough to ride, to climbing up the walls of a fort like a spider with nothing to support him but ropes and pulleys rigged up by a Crane; tonight had been a learning experience all around. 

And it was fascinating to see the other two at work. 

To watch Vren use hooks, pulleys, and rope from his bag to rig up something that could lift a man up the entire length of the wall, and have it ready in mere minutes. It was a clever bit of work Eadelmarr never would’ve pulled off so quickly and adroitly. With Vren drawing the rope in hand over hand below, first Mikolaj and then Eadelmarr had been able to walk up the wall one at a time. Once at the top, Mikolaj had set to work with the contents of his oilcloth bag while Eadelmarr returned the favor and helped haul Vren up. Vren had been appreciative of the help, but had needed it far less than they had.

Eadelmarr wasn’t entirely sure what Mikolaj was doing, but it involved a great many seemingly identical stoppered vials. Each one was wrapped in a rag. Presumably to keep them from clinking against each other in the bag. They contained different substances though, the Manticore was meticulous as he measured out different amounts of each powder and fluid into one of four larger empty vials. He stoppered each one with a piece of string sticking out… On second thought, Eadelmarr was actually fairly certain he did know what that was.

Manticors were well known for many things, not least of which was their proclivity for explosives .

Gryphons were known for their honor. For their dedication to their education, and for the strength and variety of signs they could call on at will. Their school had always had a bit more chaos to call on than the other schools tended to, and they prided themselves on that. But there was just something about watching proteges from other schools showcasing abilities that their schools were known for. Skills that were the result of practice and dedication and nothing more. No unnatural advantage to fall back on, like the stronger signs of the Gryphons. Just something anyone could learn, but honed to an art… it was deeply impressive, and left him in awe. 

Content to watch, Eadelmarr stood watch while his companions finished their tasks. Mikolaj working feverishly with his vials while Vren retrieved his gear and stowed it all back into the oilcloth sack he’d brought with him. 

“You could not have made those in advance?” Eadelmarr wondered.

Mikolaj shot him a dirty look before going right back to what he was doing. He gave the larger vial he’d been adding things to a violent shake, a flicker of igni playing across his fingers so he could better see the contents. Bubbles raced along the glass. 

“Always a chance the bag could’ve leaked. Seawater would’ve ruined them.” Mikolaj huffed. The color in the vial changed from clear to a deep red, the bubbles fading out. Satisfied, he picked up the next one. “Better to take a minute and make them here. You wanted a distraction. Bomb’s are always a good distraction. ‘Specially incendiaries like these.”

“ Incendiary ?!”

Mikolaj popped the cork in the last vial and tossed him a shit eating grin. “Oh yeah. Light a couple ‘a these and it’d put even a Gryphon’s igni to shame. Figure if I set these off somewhere inside, or maybe outside toward the back, they’ll be too busy trying to put it out to pay any attention to what’s going on at the docks.” He gave that vial a violent shake too, more sparks flickering over his fingers to check whatever reaction was happening within.

Privately, Eadelmarr couldn’t help but wonder after the wisdom of using igni so close to something that supposedly volatile, even if they didn’t exactly have any better options. 

The sparks were uncomfortably close to the wick, in his opinion.

Vren shouldered his oil cloth bag. “Why not both? Inside and outside. Inside first, then we’ll meet you outside? Divide their forces so it takes them longer to put out the fires and make it harder for them to determine where the attack is coming from.” 

Glass vials disappeared back into Mikolaj’s bag, the four larger ones given one last shake and tucked into pouches on his belt with the rest of his potions. The Manticor traced his fingers over the potions, counting them compulsively. “Sounds like a plan to me. I’ll make us a distraction, you two get the kids. Try not to scare ‘’em. Kind as the professor is, I can’t imagine the Viscount ‘as ever let a witcher near them before. Let alone let them set eyes on one.”

Eadelmarr winced, motioning the two to follow him as he led them down off the wall. “I cannot say as I have ever interacted with children outside of a contract.” 

He held up a hand. His companions stilled, all three watching as the guard slowly made his rounds. They waited patiently for him to pass by, then slipped across the courtyard to a small side door. 

“In my experience, children are actually quite tolerant. So long as their parents haven’t  prejudiced them against us. And sometimes even then they’ll be surprisingly accepting.” Vren continued the conversation, as if there had never been a pause. He tried the handle, scowling when he found it locked. “Are either of you good at picking locks?”

Eadelmarr sagged a little. “That is not a skill I ever cultivated, no.”

“I got this.” 

Eadelmarr moved aside, the Manticore sliding past him and Vren. Mikolaj dug into his bag, rummaging around for a moment, the cloth wrapped jars giving muffled clicks as they were jostled. Curious. Eadelmarr would’ve thought they would be the type of thing one would keep on their person for quicker access. Except, instead of pulling out a set of lock picks as Eadelmarr had been expecting, Mikolaj pulled out one of the little rag wrapped vials. He uncorked it, pressing it to the lock and tilting it so that whatever was in it trickled into the keyhole. 

“Aaaand…. boom .”

Eadelmarr looked over his shoulder just in time to see Mikolaj cast igni . There was a flash of light inside the lock, a quiet pop , and a puff of smoke billowed up. The manticore smirked at them and pushed the door open. “Can’t be locked if the mechanism’s annihilated.”

“...and if you broke the lock and it was stuck in the closed position?” Edelmarr whispered, incredulous.

Mikolaj huffed and marched through the door, hissing over his shoulder at Eadelmarr. “Well, I didn’t see you coming up with any better ideas! Now come on! Time’s wasting!” 

Vren closed the door behind them. “Valid points to you both. I choose to be more amused that between the three of us, none of us had lock picks. Mikolaj, I think you’ll need to go that way. Eadelmarr? I’ll go this way, if you want to take the stairs.” He tossed them a jaunty two finger salute. “Happy hunting.” 

Eadelmarr crept up the spiral stairs without a backwards glance. “You as well.”

Vren crept through the halls, careful where he placed his feet.

He wasn’t designed for stealth. By all the gods, he was seven foot one! What did they expect of him? Even by witcher standards, he was tall. The only other witcher he’d ever encountered that was even remotely close to his height was a viper named Letho, who’d still been almost a full foot shorter and built broader. How someone built like a brick shit house could blend in as an assassin instead of sticking out like a sore thumb, Vren couldn’t imagine. He’d heard somewhere that one of the wolves was a tall bastard, but he’d never met any of them. 

Point being, he was designed for monster hunting on the open sea, not creeping around some Redanian fort like some sort of sneak thief. That was cat work. Or vipers, perhaps. 

It wasn’t for Cranes.

His braid slipped over his shoulder, the soft familiar jingling that he usually took comfort in far too loud in the quiet that enshrouded the hall. He hurriedly tucked it into the collar of his shirt to try and quiet them somewhat. Usually when he went out on a hunt he gathered his hair up under a scarf. Both to muffle the quiet tinkling of the beads and charms and to keep them from catching the light. But tonight he’d forgotten it in Tempest’s saddle bags. 

Mer style hair trinkets had become a part of witcher culture amongst the Cranes, and he loved each and every piece dearly. They were even useful! Some of the charms were pure silver, others pure iron. All were charmed against rust and tarnish from the elements, lest the salt water he routinely worked in destroy them. They kept him safe. More than one monster had tried to grab him by his hair, only to be repelled by the silver or iron woven there. They were gifts from his friends, his brothers, and in some cases even his mentors. 

…But they could be a pain in the ass during times like this when stealth was of the utmost importance.

The tramp of heavy boots sounded from further down the hall.

Vren ducked through the closest door, applying far more strength than was strictly human to twist the handle until the lock’s mechanisms snapped. He closed the door behind him, twisting the broken handle back into the correct position. It wouldn’t stand up to close inspection, which was why he hadn’t done that with the outer door. If someone cared to pay attention, it would be obvious that something was wrong. If he’d known that Mikolaj was going to pop the lock with one of his explosives, he would’ve just twisted it open and been done. 

The witcher scuttled across the room, diving behind the large desk. Hissing curses to himself, he folded his body as compactly as he could manage and pressed against the back of it. 

Outside, the boots marched closer, and closer… and passed by.

“Ye gods and little fishes…” Vren breathed, whole body sagging. “That was far too close for comfort.” 

He climbed back to his feet, surveying his temporary hideaway. It was an office. And one for someone very important, if the decorations were anything to go by. Thick rugs coated the stone floors, the intricate, woven designs more expensive than a great many of the contracts he’d taken over the course of his life. The lavish tapestries on the walls, and paintings rife with gold leaf didn’t even bear contemplation. 

… but the desk might.

Too much wasn’t adding up. The massive scope and power of the wards. The excessive number of soldiers the sailors had described. The way they told it, the Nilfgaardian Empire had acquired the fort, and then packed as many soldiers into the fort as physically possible in short order. And Natazatz and his pod had warned him about two dozen mages moving in to support them. 

That many sorcerers not only working together, but agreeing to cohabitate should make anyone with half a brain sit up and take notice. Not to mention the amount of effort the Nilfgaardians had gone to to take control of Cormorant Island Fort in the first place. A small, mostly decommissioned fortification that hadn’t seen any serious use in decades .

But it also gave the Nilfgaardians a foothold into Redania and Temeria.

No, if Vren had to guess, the war was going to be coming to the northlands far sooner than any of those countries were prepared for. The burning of Cintra was just the start . And they were going to take the rest by storm . 

It’d be such a shame if he were to come in and put a hitch their plans.

Vren pulled one of his silver daggers, the slim blade perfect for jimmying open the simple locks on the drawers. Spring loaded as they were, it was laughably easy to slide the blade over the tongue of the lock and press it down until he could pull the drawer open. There were dozens of leather folios full of papers inside, and what looked to be ledgers. He laid them all out on the desk, where the moonlight from the slim window would hit it best, skimming through the pages at breakneck speed. 

Most were the basic minutia of keeping the fort running. Supply lists, and the like. But, the folio listing the various positions staffed within the fort, and how many… Now that was invaluable. Particularly seeing as it listed off the names of the mages. They meant nothing to Vren. But anyone who knew a thing or two about Ban Ard and Aretuza, or simply moved in court circles, would likely know their habits and proficiencies. Or would be able to find out. 

The ledgers had lists of various nobles in the area who were sympathizers. Or at least were too cowed to resist if Nilfgaard made demands, preferring to preemptively bend a knee rather than suffer Nilfgaard’s boot on their neck. The ledger’s identified which was which, and made note of ‘donations’ made by each party. Vren had no doubt such ‘donations’ would be of great interest to the kings those nobles supposedly swore allegiance to. 

A few maps showing key muster points in bold red ink also caught his eye. 

He jotted those down too.

While Vren hadn’t even the first clue about what to do with such information, he knew it was invaluable in certain circles. And he also knew a viper who would know precisely how to get into said circles. Vren would send the information to him, and sleep soundly knowing he had fucked up the empire’s day even a little bit.

Copying the salient bits onto spare sheets of paper (and taking great care to ensure they were as legible as possible), he set them aside to let the ink dry. 

Now. What else looked interesting?

Leafing through a journal, Vren could admit his reasons weren’t the most altruistic. Even without the kidnapping of the Pankratz children and capture and probable death of Nata’s podmates driving his actions, he still would’ve done it, for one pure and simple fact.

He and his fellow witchers were running out of places to go . 

The only keeps left standing were the wolves’ keep Kaer Morhen, somewhere in Kaedwen. The Bears’ keep, Haern Caduch somewhere in the Amel Mountains. And the Manticore's western keep Behelt Nar in the Korath desert of Zerrikania. 

And who knew how long that one would last. 

The Manticors were on thin ice, too close to Nilfgaard and allowed in Zerrikania only because their current queen hadn’t bothered to have them run out yet. They hadn’t been in favor with the Zerrikanian nobility since they had failed to defend the royal families of both Zerrikania and Metinna from a fire elemental erupting out onto their path when the two were traveling by caravan. It was a freak occurrence they had been in no way prepared for, but the queen at that time had never forgiven them the loss of her family. Some part of her must have recognized that they had tried , and had lost the vast majority of their school in the attempt, as she had never run them out. 

But they had been falling further and further out of favor ever since, and everyone knew it was only a matter of time until the Manticores were homeless too.

He didn’t know what state Haern Caduch or Kaer Morhen were in, but the locations weren’t exactly common knowledge for the other schools. And the less said about the Cat school caravan of Dyn Marv, the better. 

More and more of them were wintering in the north to escape persecution, their neutrality meaning less and less to the powers that be with each passing year. Not that they weren’t treated like shit there in the north too. Though with the advent of Professor Pankratze and his students, and Jaskier the Bard, that had been slowly improving. Even if they didn’t have a keep to shelter in, it was better than down south. So north they came. Finding caves or abandoned houses to squat in till the spring thaw woke the monsters anew. 

While Vren could care less about what the humans got up to, he cared deeply for his brothers. And for their fellow surviving witchers amongst the other schools. He couldn’t do much to slow the Nilfgaardian war machine, or provide them with safe winter retreats, but he could at least do this.

His fingers paused on one of the last used pages of the journal, and a grin twisted his lips. This fool… Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid…

Oh, he was going to ruin someone’s day for a certainty!

Muffling his laughter under a hand, Vren dug back into the desk. There was a locked cabinet in the right hand side of the desk. A good lock… but shitty fucking hinges. It didn’t take much to wedge the edge of his third best knife under the heads of the hinge pins and weasel them up and out. From there, it was easy to pry it open, the tongue of the lock slipping out with barely a rasp. 

A heavy strong box stared back at him.

He hauled it out and set it on the desk with the papers. The same dagger made an excellent pry bar to twist off the small padlock on the front. It came loose with a snap , clattering across the desk and off the edge. It hit the floor and skittered across the stones to disappear into the shadows. Vren darted a worried glance at the door, but no sound came from the corridor. 

He turned his attention back to the strongbox. 

The lid at least didn’t creak when he opened it. Vren tilted the box toward the light, the contents shifting and slithering against itself as it tipped. Metal gleamed up at him, the moonlight reflected in silver white glints off the various points and rounded edges. 

So so many little glints of light. 

The night was really starting to look up!

Bonus Memes!

Chapter Text

The upper floors were quiet, but not devoid of sound. 

Making his way carefully down the upper hall, he could hear the susurrus of life behind the various doors. Not a lot, it was late. But he could hear the muffled laughter of someone having… a rather good time, to put it delicately. A part of him wondered whether the man had managed to smuggle his companion over on one of the barges, or if he and his compatriots had somehow managed to talk their superiors into hiring the local working girls to service the fort. Not that it mattered. He could hear the one alone, probably someone of higher rank, and several more at a distance sharing rooms as they serviced their customers. The girls were providing quite the distraction, and he was grateful for it.

He couldn’t catch any scent of the children.

The Gryphon moved up the stairs to the next floor, casting around for the scents they’d been so careful to learn. He and Mikolaj had been cautious not to handle the spare clothes the Pankratz servants had packed for the children any more than they absolutely had to, specifically for that reason. The scents had to hold for as long as possible. Eadelmarr and Mikolaj had all taken the time to familiarize themselves and Vren with those scents before meeting the mer pod at the beach. They had to ensure that they all would recognize those scents if they caught them. 

Up here, the sounds of life were quieter still.

From behind this door, the chamber shaking snores of someone sleeping exceedingly deeply. Someone who’d probably had their nose broken once or twice to produce that sort of racket. Or perhaps someone exceptionally corpulent. 

Behind another door, the quiet hum and flip of pages of a reader having a quiet night in. 

Further down the hall, he could hear the voices of several men. 

Eadelmarr paused outside the door, head tilted to listen. A fair few in this room. Perhaps as many as fifteen or twenty, all told. And having a grand time of it. But, not the type of entertainment he had heard downstairs. He sorted through his senses carefully. Laughing. Cursing. Accusing each other of cheating. He could hear the screech of benches against the floor. The slap of cards against the table, or hands thudding against backs. Tankards clattering against wood, the smell of cheap ale threading through sweat and cheap candle wax. 

A gwent tournament, then. 

Probably to keep themselves occupied, either while waiting for their own turn with the working girls downstairs, or because they were stationed here. It could be the working girls that they were waiting for… but if they were stationed here… then what were they there to guard ? 

The witcher slipped past the door, drawing deeper breaths. 

There ! The older sister, Zofia. 

Her scent was stronger than the boys. To be expected, really. She was a teenager. One only just crossing the cusp from child to teen. Not to be lewd, but the shift in hormones made for a stronger scent than either of her younger brothers. It would settle as she continued to grow, and settled into adulthood. But while the body was in flux, the scent would be strong and distinct to sharper noses. Easy to trace. Hers was the one he would follow.

He checked each door that he passed. 

Most smelled dusty, disused. According to Vren, the fort had been largely disused for the better part of three decades. Manned by the smallest skeleton crew of soldiers possible to keep it up. Just in case it should ever be needed again to uphold its old purpose. He wondered how the Nilfgaardians had come to get their claws in it. And why the Redanians hadn’t made any effort to reclaim it. The fools. Even he could have told them it was dangerous to leave the monster sitting at your door.

Six doors down, the scent pooled. The girl spent a lot of time here. If she wasn’t in that room then she undoubtedly spent every other waking minute of the day in there. 

Now… how to get in without alerting the guards? 

He was no good at lock picking, and he didn’t have the tools besides. As shown by their lackluster entry into the main building of the keep. And kicking the door down would attract too much unwanted attention. He squatted down to get a better look at the lock. It was a small one, the body not big enough to conceal the myriad bits and bobs that would make a more complicated lock. Small as it was, what mechanisms it did have wouldn’t hold up to a witcher’s strength. If he was careful, and timed it right…

He rose again, glancing up and down the hall.

The ruckus in the guard room was rising, the voices climbing to a frenetic pitch as the slap of the cards on the table came faster and faster. The gwent tournament was reaching its peak. Any moment now, someone was going to lay the winning card. And if the heckling and encouragement being tossed around in equal measure was any indication, no matter who won it was going to result in pandemonium when that last card was laid down. 

Any moment now…

The final slap of a card was almost drowned out by the roars of the soldiers that had been spectating. Their cheers for their chosen champion, victorious, or groans of defeat over the loss. Fists pounding on the table, or tankards clattering as they celebrated. The crack of the door splintering under his heel was nothing in comparison. 

The startled screams of the children could be a problem though.

Eadelmarr ducked through the door and closed it behind him, his back pressed to the hardwood. Across the room, three pairs of bright blue eyes stared back, so wide he half feared they’d fall out of their heads. He held up a hand, praying they’d listen.

“Hush, children. Be still.”

Outside, there was no sound of a chase. No shouts of alarm. Nothing but the celebrations of a gwent tournament hard fought, and even harder won. Gradually, the racing of his heart calmed. Far slower than any human heartbeat, and getting slower by the second as he settled. Eadelmarr sagged against the wood. Gods above, but he wasn’t meant for these sorts of jobs. Give him a monster hunt any day. He’d take a pack of chorts over this. He couldn’t imagine how the Cats and Vipers could specialize in these sorts of contracts.

“Is… Is that a witcher?”

The whisper drew his attention back to his new charges. The three Pankratz children were piled up under the covers of the only bed in the room, shoved back into the far back corner of the room. It was too small for them. Rickety and cockeyed, the narrow wooden frame and lumpy straw mattress would’ve been rough fair for one noble child, let alone three. The blankets were thin and moth-eaten, and he couldn’t see any sign of any pillows. 

Their faces were pale, and a little sallow. The weeks they had spent with the Nilfgaardians had been somewhat less than kind. They were hostages, but apparently not so important as to rate a proper feeding schedule.

He wrinkled his nose. 

Not important enough to rate a proper wash schedule either. Eadelmarr would bet a fair portion of his meager purse that their skin was a shade or three darker than they ought to be with the accumulated dirt and sweat of travel and captivity. Their hair too, hanging in too long strings around their pale faces. 

“I… I, I think it is, Jakub.” Zofia’s hoarse whisper broke the stillness of the room like the ragged tear of a blunt knife, quiet and uneven but trying. The teen raised her chin, blue eyes defiant as she pushed Dawid and Jacub behind her skinny body. “What do you want? Did those monsters out there finally follow through on their promises and hire you to hurt us?”

“ What ?!”

It was pure luck the word strangled itself with its own force on the way out of his throat, because it surely would have been a shout had it not. 

“They said they were gonna hire a witcher if we didn't behave. Said he would hunt us around the island until we were too tired to run anymore, and punish us when he caught us.” Jakub piped up from behind his brother and sister, a gap toothed smile flashing in the guttering light of their single candle. “But that can’t be right. Julek writes us letters and sings songs telling all about witchers. They wouldn’t do that. He says they’re good! So we don’t gotta be scared of that.”

Oh to be that young and naive.

There were witchers who absolutely would inflict such cruelties on innocent children. Precious few, to be fair, but they existed. There were usually two strains of such witchers. 

First: those whose mutations or circumstances had driven them to madness, or desperation. 

Desperation could be remedied, should the circumstances present them the ability to. And madness, true madness, was often granted mercy in whatever form was most expedient by whoever was available. A quick death by blade or poison was much preferable to the sort of wanton slaughter that raised the humans against them all. Frightened humans were rarely so kind as to make the death quick or painless.

The second, were those who cared only for the amount of coin involved.

Those who had had something fundamental to their very being broken beyond repair, and had become cold and unfeeling in the wake of such a savage cruelty. So they visited that savagery on others and reveled in the pain they caused. Such witchers survived on talent, cunning, or pure spite. Or some combination of the three. Because that sort of disposition couldn’t remain hidden forever. And their brothers in arms would not abide something so reminiscent of the mages who had tormented them in their youths. They would instinctively distance themselves. And in the wake of their brothers’ withdrawal, the witcher would find themselves with fewer constraints to moderate their behavior. And there was always a market for those unafraid to do the bidding of a monster, and become monsters in their own right.

Though the warm scent of their hope was welling up stronger and stronger, Zofia and Dawid were right to be wary of a strange witcher in their room.

 “Your captors did not hire me. Your elder brother, and Madame Merna sent my friends and I after you. I apologize for not reaching you sooner.” He stayed by the door, cautious of getting too close too fast and scaring them. Jacub’s childish trust and naivety aside, Eadelmarr knew from long experience that most people found witchers very intimidating. “If there is aught you wish to bring with you, gather it swiftly. We need to leave as soon as possible. Do the guards check on you at all throughout the night?”

“No. Once they collect our supper dishes, we don’t see them again until morning.” Dawid edged out from behind Zofia. “And we don’t have anything to bring. We’re still wearing the same clothes they took us in.”

“Then hurry please. We do not have much time.”

“... Melitelle preserve us, but you can’t be any worse than the men who kidnapped us. And Jakub’s right, Julian always speaks highly of witchers. Our odds are better with you.” Zofia slipped from the bed, turning to pick Jakub up and set him on her hip. Dawid tumbled gracelessly out after her, in the clumsy manner all boys that age seemed to possess. He hissed, feet shuffling on the cold floors.

Eadelmarr tensed. “Where are your shoes?”

Dawid scowled. “Took them from us the first night after they kidnapped us.”

“They said it would discourage any attempts to run.” Zofia added, hugging her youngest brother tighter. The boy, seven or eight perhaps, made a playful choking noise in protest. His sister rolled her eyes, but lightened her hold. Looking far calmer than her scent claimed her to feel, Zofia led her brothers right up to him. Brave kids, he would have to remember to tell their brother as much. 

Eadelmarr pressed his ear to the door again, mind only half on the guards this time.

Here within the fort, it didn’t much matter if they were barefoot. There was nothing they might step on that would hurt them. Not so, with the outside world. They had lived their entire lives protected and well cared for, they never would have had to go without shoes. Their feet wouldn’t have developed the lifetime’s worth of calluses that a peasant child would have. Soft as they were, they needed something … even if it was a moth-eaten blanket.

It would have to do. 

Eadelmarr pointed to the bed. “Dawid. Hand me one of those blankets please. We’re going to need it.” 

Zofia watched her brother dart back for it, nose wrinkling. “It’s more holes than not. Whatever would you want that ratty old thing for? I’ve owned handkerchiefs made of thicker material.”

“I’m sure you have.” It wasn’t even in his hands yet, and Eadelmarr could already smell how musty it was. It was a wonder the children hadn’t fallen ill, sleeping under the ratty thing. He and the others would have to keep a close eye on them going forward, just in case. Using one of the smaller daggers he owned to get it started, Eadelmarr started tearing the blanket into strips. 

Once he had enough, he crouched at their feet.

“Here, lift up your foot Zofia. We will find shoes for you all later, once we are well away from this place. But in the meantime, these will help protect your feet at least somewhat.” 

The long strips allowed him to layer, creating better protection for their soft feet. Once wrapped, Eadelmarr tied off the ends in a knot just above their ankles and tucked the ends in for safe keeping. The last thing they needed was for one of the children to have to run and end up tripping on loose ends. He had their feet wrapped in less than five minutes, Jakub giggling when his fingers brushed over seemingly ticklish soles.

A small push of aard saw the guttering candle finally extinguished.  

Into the dark, Eadelmarr whispered. “Now, I want you to take hold of my clothes, and stay close. The halls are poorly lit, but my eyes are much better in the dark than yours, I’ll not let you run into anything. Should we encounter any soldiers, I will protect you. But if there is a fight, you must let go immediately so I can move. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Any questions?”

A small hand tugged on his sleeve, too high to be Dawid’s, but too small to be Zofia’s.

“My name’s Jakub. What’s yours?”

Eadelmarr smothered his chuckle under a hand and eased open the door. “It’s good to meet you, Jakub. I’m Eadelmarr. And I think it is time we had best be going.”

Mikolaj trailed a scent through the subterranean depths of the fort.

He had already set one of his bombs in a storehouse at the back of the fort, a smoldering piece of rope acting as a long time delay fuse while he looked for more targets. 

Vren had mentioned mages, and mages always set up labs to keep themselves occupied when they settled in a new area for any length of time. Mikolaj detested mages on principle. But one of the few things he liked about them was how flammable their labs were. If he set off one of his own incendiaries in their labs, it would make one hell of a fireball. Plus, it would destroy any research they kept in there, which was always a plus. 

To that end, he had been looking for the mages' labs or their store rooms. His own vindictive streak egged him on to create as much damage and havoc as possible in the time that was given to him. After all, when else was he going to get a chance like this? The invitation to be a bur under the Nilfgaardian saddle had practically been engraved . And the chance to fuck around with mages that were undoubtedly bastards too? Well. 

Mikolaj, for one, was not one to waste an opportunity.

The store rooms for their various potion and experiment ingredients had been easy enough to find. Just up the hall from the dried food stores, funnily enough. Which was very good news for Mikolaj, and piss poor planning on their part. After all, didn’t they know that some of the best bomb components could often be found in the kitchens ?

The Manticore had had a field day!

Given the sheer amount of explosive powders and fluids stored in that one storeroom, only someone truly suicidal would toss a bomb in there. They would never make it to the end of the hall, much less up and out of the fort before it blew. And he didn’t have near enough string to make a long enough fuse. Especially when he didn’t know if Vren and Eadelmarr had found the children yet. 

No, no. He needed something with a time delay .

And luckily for him, the dry foods storage room down the hall had plenty of cornmeal to spare for his little party trick. It had been the work of moments to do a few mental calculations and carefully measure out the correct amount of cornmeal into a bowl and take it and a scrap of leather he’d found back to the storeroom. 

Now he just needed water… 

He could smell fresh water nearby. They wouldn’t leave barrels open, for fear of the water attracting vermin and becoming poisoned when they inevitably fell in and drowned themselves. So if he could smell it, odds were good that the men that had built Cormorant Island Fort had been very clever indeed and built it over a freshwater spring or well. No chance of running out of drinkable water while under siege, and equally impossible for the enemy to poison the water supply if it was hidden securely away in your basement.

And he had been right ! 

Down a hall and another short flight of stairs, he’d found a side room that boasted a freshwater spring. The occupants of the fort had been very helpful, having left plenty of buckets stacked against the wall and ready for use. For the kitchens or for some stuck up mage’s bath no doubt. All the easier for Mikolaj. He had drawn a bucket and stepped back out into the hall when he caught the smell .

It had been a long time since Mikolaj had caught the scent of such misery .

The Manticore shifted back and forth, logic and practicality at war with empathy. He had precious little time to get all of this set up and meet the others upstairs, and what he had was trickling through his fingers with the hiss of grains of sand. But at the same time, he knew the scent of pain and fear and hopelessness mixed with herbs and chemicals intimately . Remembered it with a crystal clarity from year after year of helping to care for the suffering trainees who had endeavored to undergo the trial of the grasses and were realizing that they probably weren’t going to make it. 

Decades old rage festered to the surface, and empathy won out over practicality. 

The scents were too close to what he remembered for him to ignore. There was a special place in hell for the mages that had put them through that torture. Oftentimes without any thought nor care for how much more painful each new experiment would be for the boys they were putting through them. And if one of the mages here had somehow managed to recreate the old processes by which the witchers had been made, he would be damned if he left their victims to die. 

He hurried down the hall to the very last door. 

The wood splintered under the heel of his boot and he strode in, sword at the ready. Terror , agony , chemicals , and the rancid smell of death and rot . All of it struck him in the face with the force of a mule kick and left him stumbling. 

The laboratory was spacious. A dozen tables, desks, and chairs were scattered about the rough-cut room, the walls and ceiling left natural stone and only the floor smoothed over. Enchanted lanterns dangled from the ceiling, needing neither fuel nor tending. The unnatural light cast a pale, sickly pallor over everything below. 

Mers were strapped to the tables, in various states of death and dissection.

Having seen the beauty and grace of such creatures not even an hour before, the contrast between them and the horror he was witnessing now was all the more stark. Scales were dull against pale, dirty skin. Or missing entirely, leaving nothing but raw flesh in their wake. Frills had been clipped, webbing cut. Harvested, likely as ingredients for other spells and experiments. Metal implements were set against flesh, holding it in place for further scrutiny. Or holding it out of the way so that the monsters could delve deeper. Melittelle wept , how many of them were there?

A tiny splash drew his attention from the horror.

Against the far wall, a mer sat in what looked to be the rustiest tub Mikolaj had ever set eyes upon. He leaned against the rough hewn stone behind him, pale and listless. The mer’s flesh was sunken in, and clung tight to his bones. The frills along the sides of his head sagging. A steel collar was fastened around his slim throat. Behind him, a heavy chain connected it to the wall above his head. The skin beneath the collar was red and raw and dark with bruises. The closer Mikolaj got, the more injuries he could pick out amongst the dirt and grime the mer was coated in. The bastard mages hadn’t left him more than a scant few inches of water to sit in, and it was pure filth.

“A witcher?”

The voice was hoarse and gravelly, grating in a way that told of too much and too strenuous use. Probably recently . It set the witcher’s teeth on edge. He crouched beside the tub, hands going to the collar and turning it this way and that. A heavy padlock held the two sides of the collar closed. The shank of the lock had been passed through the final link in the chain. Hopefully his little black powder trick would work as well on this padlock as it had on the door upstairs. 

“The others…”

Mikolaj winced and shook his head, hating how the hopeful light in those bloodshot eyes dimmed. But there were no other heart beats in this room. With the exception of him and the mer, the lab might as well have been a tomb.

“I’m sorry.”

The mer weakly waved the sentiment off. His chest rose and fell in weak little pants as he tried to force words. “No. No… It’s not your fault, witcher… But, why…?”

“Soldiers upstairs kidnapped some kids. My friends and I came to get them out.” Mikolaj fished through his bomb components, grateful he hadn’t used all of his black powder yet. He tipped the lock upside down and poured the last of it in the keyhole. “Turn your head away and close your eyes.”

The mer complied, and a quick igni set the powder alight with a brief flash and a puff of smoke. The chain clattered against the tub when he pulled the lock free of the collar’s hasp, the collar following seconds behind and twice as loud.

“Only reason I came down here was to fuck up whatever lab the mages kept here as a distraction for when we escape. Can’t just leave you though. The local mer pod helped us get in. I’m gonna assume you’re one of theirs?”

“Yes!” The gills along the mer’s ribs flared with his gasp, and he broke down into heavy, body wracking coughs. His tail thrashed weakly in the small confines of the rusty tub, filthy water splashing up the side.

“Easy. Easy…” 

Not sure what else to do, Mikolaj ran his hand up and down a cold, grimy, shoulder while the mer folded almost double with the force of his coughing. Unbidden, images of Eadelmarr bent over and hacking up what surely looked like half the ocean came to mind. Was it similar for mers? Except perhaps they had this reaction when they pulled air or water in the wrong way? He had flared his gills just before he’d started coughing… And as filthy as that water was, Mikolaj couldn’t imagine that it was breathable. The mer was just as likely to drown in that slop as anyone else. Maybe his gills were drying out and the sudden burst of air irritated them?

The coughing died down into shallow gasps. “Witcher… Your name?”

“Mikolaj. You?” 

“...Andrej…”

“Andrej. Okay, Andrej, I’m going to rig this lab to blow sky- fucking -high and then we’re getting the fuck out of here. We’ll grab my friends and the kids on the way out, and I’ll take you back to the ocean. You with me?” 

Not that Mikolaj was going to be giving him much choice in the matter, like hell was he leaving him here to rot. 

He hooked his arms under Andrej and hoisted him out of the tub. Andrej whined, clinging weakly to his front. The scent of filth and rot redoubled as he pulled him out. Kreve’s crooked cock , that was absolutely nasty. And he was a witcher , a good ninety percent of his jobs ended with him coated in something disgusting, but that water was just foul . Mikolaj shuddered to think how long Andrej had been sitting in it, starving do death while he and the others underwent torture. 

The mer’s tail dragged over the edge of the tub, and Andrej whimpered at the jostling. 

Mikolaj couldn’t blame him. Some of those injuries were definitely infected, and he could see at least two that were exceedingly swollen and probably needed lancing to let the infection drain. Andrej’s pod was going to have their work cut out for them. He just hoped there was a mer equivalent of a healer out there.

Andrej’s fingers curled around the leather of his armor. “Wait… The others…”

The Manticore's heart plummeted down into his boots. Fuck. Maybe the mer hadn’t understood him before. “Andrej… They’re already gone. I can’t save them. You’re… You’re all that’s left…”

Andrej shook his head, brow rocking against Mikolaj’s shoulder. The motion set the various bits of shell and beads woven into his hair clicking against each other. The mer tugged at his armor weakly. “I know. I know , witcher. But I can’t…” He trailed off, panting for breath. Tears trickled down his cheeks, dripping off his chin. “I need to take their… their plaits, back to the, the sea. If I can…”

Their plates?

Mikolaj scanned the laboratory again, searching near the corpses for anything that even vaguely looked like a plate. He dismissed the wood and tin ones, those didn’t look like something that had come from the sea. And what would a mer even need with a plate anyway…?

Andrej’s filthy braid flopped off his shoulder in a waterfall of clicks.

… oh, Mikolaj was an idiot . Plait, not plate . Andrej was talking about their braids . Which made sense, in all honesty. The mers he’d seen out in the bay had all had gorgeous hair, long, well maintained and lovingly decorated. Even the little ones with hair barely to their shoulders had had at least a few trinkets  in their  hair. Even the babies had at least one, he was sure of it. So clearly their braids were culturally important to  them. It made sense that they would have customs pertaining to them.

A part of him wondered if Vren observed the same customs, or if the trinkets in his hair meant something different to him.

He cleared his throat. “Just to clarify, you mean their braids? You want to take those with you?”

Andrej sagged against his chest. “ Yes ! Yes, please , witcher… please.”

Yeah. Yeah, okay. This was something Mikolaj could do. He carried Andrej out of the lab and back to the room with the spring. Settling the mer down beside it, he pressed a dipper into his hand. “I’m going back to get their plaits and set the bombs so those monsters can never lay their disgusting hands on their bodies again. You try and wash some of that shit off you. Even a nose-blind human could find you blind folded right now. I’ll be back for you as quick as I can.”

Andrej obediently started rinsing his gills, teeth dug into his lower lip.

Mer seen to for the moment, Mikolaj detoured back to the food storage for another bowl and more cornmeal, then hustled back to the lab. Knowing what he was walking into did exactly fuck all to lessen the horror of it. If anything, it almost made it worse . Swallowing back the worst of his emotions and locking them down tight the way he'd been trained, Mikolaj set to work. 

Just like any other job, he started by laying out his tools. The bowl full of cornmeal, the scrap of leather, and a pitcher of water. And a knife. The leather he put in the pitcher to soak. 

The knife he kept. 

Slowly, he made his way around the room, collecting pieces of one grisly corpse after another. Eyes milky with death stared up at him, unblinking. He turned their heads away, tying a cord at the top of the braids to keep them from unraveling and cutting as close to the skull as possible. It wasn’t much, but he was determined to bring back as much of the braid as he could manage for the friends and family they had been stolen from. It was probably less respectful than one of their own would’ve been, but he was short on time and knew next to nothing about the culture besides. 

He closed their eyes when he was done. He wasn’t sure whether that was a thing mers did, but it seemed only right. So far as Mikolaj knew, mer spirits didn’t linger the way human spirits sometimes did. Not that he knew fuck all about mer, he'd been born and bred for the desert and all it's horrors. For all he knew, they might linger. But for their sakes, he hoped they had moved on and were well away from this place.

Seven filthy braids later, he closed the last pair of eyes and went back to the table. 

Now to set his timer. 

Mikolaj poured the water into the bowl over the cornmeal, careful to pour it in along the side to disturb the meal as little as possible. The less floating, the better. Once that was done, he carefully put the heavy scrap of leather in the water on top of the corn meal. He waited, making sure it wouldn’t float before moving on. 

Now for the tricky part. 

From his bag, Mikolaj pulled one of the only metal vials he owned. Of all the explosives ingredients he carried, this one was the most volatile. Only three of his ingredients necessitated being stored in fluid to keep it away from the air, this one and two cousins who were almost as bad. Wouldn't want them to burst into flames prematurely if exposed to air.

White phosphorus and its cousins were touchy like that…

Dipping the vial into the water, he unscrewed the lid and tipped out the smallest amount suitable onto the leather. Then he screwed the cap back on and carefully lifted it back out. When there were no sparks from escaped phosphorous, and the vial didn’t explode from an air bubble, he slipped it back in his bag. He set one of the bombs he’d made up on the fort wall while waiting for Vren and Eadelmarr on top of one of the vats of chemicals the mages had sitting on the table. Then he arranged the bomb fuse to dangle just over the surface of the water.

It was a simple setup really. 

The leather kept the phosphorus from sinking into the cornmeal. The cornmeal would absorb the water, which would cause it to swell. That would lower the water level and lift the phosphorus at the same time, until it was exposed to the air. As soon as it hit the air, the phosphorus would ignite. It would probably burn through the leather in record time, and possibly sink back into the corn meal. But not before lighting the wick.

And then?

Boom.

Grinning, Mikolaj snatched up the filthy braids and raced out of the lab. He just had to grab Andrej and set up the second bomb in the mages’ store room. And then they had to grab the others and run like hell.

No pressure or anything.

…Melitelle, he loved his job!

Getting the children out was going better than planned.

Eadelmarr didn’t trust it. In his experience, if it felt too easy, there was probably a reason for it. And you would do well to pay attention. Especially as a witcher. You were often dead if you didn’t. Eadelmarr had lived a very long life. He had no intentions of being one of the fools that died for lack of observation. 

The Gryphon put a hand back, pausing Zofia’s steps. Dawid stopped with her, his hand fisted tight in the back of her dress. It hadn’t been what he’d told the boy to do, but it was probably for the best. If they did run into trouble, having to get one child to let go would be easier than two. And he trusted that Zofia would let go immediately if the situation called for it. And that she would keep her brothers from trying to do something foolish. Like jumping into a fight between armed soldiers and a pissed off witcher, for example. He’d seen enough trainees pull hair brained shenanigans to know they absolutely would . Girls he wasn’t certain of, his school didn’t train girls so he had no idea what they got up to at that age. 

He had a hard time imagining an entire cohort of girls stuffing their pants full to bursting with grasshoppers and dive shrieking into the ponds on a dare though.

The hand gripping his sleeve tightening further. It had to be white knuckled by now, and probably sore from the grip. They'd made it down to the second floor alright, but Zofia's grip hadn't relented once. Jakub pushed himself higher, neck craning to see over Eadelmarr’s shoulder. Zofia and Dawid might be feeling the stress, but little Jakub seemed to think sneaking around under the guards' noses was the height of adventure. It was cute.

The soldiers loudly bidding goodbye to the ladies in the rooms ahead, decidedly less so.

Eadelmarr was likely less gentle than he should’ve been, pushing them into a side room. He yanked the door shut behind them, remembering to soften the closing at the last second so as not to give them away. Gods, that would be embarrassing, to get caught because he slammed the door in his haste. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jakub open his mouth, and Dawid clapped a hand over it.

Eadelmarr put a finger to his lips.

Out in the hall, the soldiers they were trying to avoid left the whores' rooms and drew steadily closer. Even through the door, he could smell them. Sweat and ale, the perfume from the ladies whose services they’d just enjoyed, and all the biological remnants such trysts left behind. 

The witcher wrinkled his nose. 

He was hardly a prude, but it was times such as these that he regretted his enhanced sense of smell. He could’ve done without those particular scents clogging his nose. Better than Kaer Seren when a fresh cohort of boys started discovering what all their bodies were capable of, but only just. The instructors usually upped their training at that point to settle them down. If they had the energy for that then clearly they weren’t training hard enough. Eadelmarr didn’t miss that.

Nor did he enjoy the sort of boasting currently passing between the soldiers.

He could tell when they were close enough for the children to hear their boisterous bragging. Jakub cocked his head, a tiny little furrow in his brow. Dawid went such a brilliant shade of scarlet that Eadelmarr was almost certain he could’ve seen it even without enhanced vision. The boy smelled of nothing but pure embarrassment. He couldn’t have been more than ten at a guess, girls were still infinitely gross at that age. And Zofia… well, she was old enough to understand exactly how lewd and derogatory the conversation in the hall was. 

The girl clenched her jaw and tried to pull Jakub’s head against her shoulder so she could muffle the conversation with her hand. Surprisingly, the boy let her. 

Outside, the three men continued to loudly boast of their prowess (lies, and bad ones at that), and extol the skills and assets of the women they’d just finished bedding (those were mildly more accurate, surprisingly) as they stomped along the hall like a herd of cattle. 

Eadelmarr waited just long enough to hear their boots on the stairs to the third floor. “Time to go. They will be sending the next group down soon. We need to be on the stairs down before then. Come, we must hurry.” Hesitantly, he added “I am sorry you had to hear that filth.”

Zofia shrugged, following the witcher back out and hurried down the hall. “Bold of you to assume this is the first time I’ve heard them.” She sniffed, shuffling Jakub around to get him resettled comfortably. “At least this time they’re not directing that lewdness at me . They’ve been… very vocal, about what they would do once they caught Julian and didn’t need us in one piece anymore. Especially once the mages and commanders had had their fill and got tired of my company.”

“Not gonna happen.” Dawid hissed. 

“We won’t let ‘em hurt you.” Jakub agreed, far too brightly to’ve entirely cottoned on to what they were talking about. 

Eadelmarr had to suppress a growl. “ Definitely not. My friends and I will keep you safe. All of you.”

“Julian too?”

His lip twitched. “Yes, Jakub. Julian too. We…” A sound cut him off. The clicking of a door handle. Behind them. But who…?

The whores !

Eadelmarr snatched Dawid and Zofia and spun them around the corner into the stairwell, slapping a hand over Zofia’s mouth to muffle her startled squeak. Barely seconds behind them, the door opened. 

A woman’s muffled voice called out, “Wait. Where are you going?”

The lady in the hall laughed. “Oh, don’t fret, Honey. I won’t leave you alone with them. I just need to borrow a little more oil off of Lav, we’re almost out. Be right back!” Her footsteps padded closer, then ducked into one of the other rooms.

Eadelmarr eased his hand off Zofia’s mouth, a finger to his lips. Wide eyed, she gave a mute nod. Muttering apologies for the rough handling, and hoping he hadn’t hurt them in his haste, Eadelmarr picked Jakub up from where the boy had slipped down her hip in the scuffle. He set the boy on a lower stair, Jakub could walk for a while and let his sister have a break. Unless Edelmarr missed his guess, Zofia carrying Jakub was less about practicality and more about comfort for his older sister. Between her and Dawid, he should be fine. Except… wait, where was…? 

“Dawid, wait!”

Almost at the bottom of the stairwell already, Dawid slowed, glancing back over his shoulder at the hissed call. 

Behind him, the dim light caught movement, and Eadelmarr’s heart stuttered. 

Vren materialized out of the shadows with nary a sound. The Crane made a dramatic sight, though, strangely he had his braid crammed down into the neck of his shirt… Ah, so that was how he kept what small noises it made from giving him away during a hunt. Clever, but surely there was a better way to go about it. Ridiculous braid tucking aside, he cut an imposing figure. Looming three times as tall as Dawid, the torchlight in the lower hall set his gold eyes glowing. Like the mythical demons that the church of eternal fire liked to harp on about. 

Personally, as a professional monster hunter who made a living decoding the panicked ramblings of humans to determine what monster was after them and then going to kill it, Eadelmarr had doubts. He had fought monsters for lifetimes, and had never encountered these so-called 'demons', nor spoken to any other witcher who had. He would believe in those demons when he saw them. Until then, he would continue to make his own determinations on what actually needed slaying. The church had a bad habit of labeling everything they didn’t like as monstrous or heresy , and immediately trying to destroy it if they could. The first applied to anything not human , and the second generally applied to any humans they didn’t particularly like.

Witchers, unfortunately, fit both categories quite well.

To have such a large being appear out of nowhere without so much as a hint of warning prior… Well. It was no wonder the boy yelped and all but leaped straight up to the ceiling. It was a wonder the working girls upstairs didn’t hear them.

Vren stepped back, hands held up. “Easy, lad. I’m here to help, I swear.”

Doubtful, Dawid edged up the stairs. “...Eadelmarr?”

Vren glanced up, and visibly relaxed at the sight of Eadelmarr and the other children. The Crane offered up a little wave. “Mar. Your hunt was successful, I see.”

“Very.” Coming down the last few steps, Eadelmarr smoothed a hand over Dawid’s back as he passed. “All is well. Vren is one of the friends I mentioned. The other is Mikolaj, once we meet up again. Dawid, stay closer to us please. If Vren had been a soldier you would have been in dire straits.”

Zofia snatched up her brother’s hand and tugged him close, fear cloaking her scent.

Vren averted his eyes, adjusted the strap of his bag. It looked heavier than it had before, and Eadelmarr thought he could hear the sound of something metallic inside clinking and sliding against itself. He dismissed it for the moment, more pressing matters needing their attention. 

“Speaking of our favorite Manticore, have you seen him yet?” Vren whispered.

That was problematic.

“No. I have been upstairs this whole time…”

Zofia edged closer to them, gaze bouncing back and forth between the two witchers. “Should… Should we go look for him…?”

Eadelmarr didn’t get the chance to answer, he and Vren both spinning at the same time. Footsteps slapped the stone floor at a breakneck speed, drawing closer and closer. There was no time to hide…!

As if summoned by the mere mention of his name, Mikolaj bolted around a corner at the far end of the hall at top speed. He had a tarp wrapped bundle slung over one shoulder, and jingled merrily with every step he took. 

Hardly slowing for more than an instant, he blew past them all, a hissed “Time to go!” hanging in the air behind him as he scooped up Jakub under an arm and kept running. 

Wordlessly, Eadelmarr and Vren grabbed Dawid and Zofia and followed suit.

Bonus Memes!

Chapter Text

A dull boom shuddered through the air.

Vren paused, glancing back towards the noise. But only for a moment. The Crane kept running. Ahead, Mikolaj didn’t so much as falter, so presumably that was one of his bombs going off. Behind him, Vren could hear Eadelmarr muttering reassurances to the older boy. Dawid, he thought it was. If the excited questions being hissed back at Eadelmarr were any indication, Mikolaj was about to become someone’s new favorite person.Vren couldn’t wait to see Mikolaj’s face when the boy inevitably asked for lessons. 

He wondered if Mikolaj would say yes.

All around them, men were shouting. Roused from their beds, or rushing back from their posts to find out what was happening. An alarm bell was tolling, frantic and brazen as it clanged over the uproar. Mikolaj swore and picked up the pace. 

Evidently they were swiftly running out of time.

The need for subtlety spent, Mikolaj kicked open the outer door and led them out into the courtyard. 

Smoke was rising from behind the fort, and every man was racing for it at breakneck speed, buckets in hand. There was no one to pay attention to three witchers and a scant handful of children pelting across the yard in the opposite direction. Nor was there anyone to take note when said witchers unbarred the gate.

Children in hand, the three made for the docks. 

The path was winding, gravelled thickly with crushed shell and small pebbles collected from the beach. It dog legged back and forth again and again, weaving through the massive boulders on this side of the island. Finally, finally it let out into a straightaway and made a straight shot for the docks.

“Vren! Over here, quickly!”

Vren didn’t even question the call, swerving away from the path and picking his way down the steep, rocky incline to the shore. Pebbles, harsh breaths, and racing hearts trailed after him. 

Goodness, but he would never grow used to children’s heartbeats. Like bird wings, small and light and so very fragile. So fast and delicate compared to the slower, stronger beats of an adult. 

Doubly so when compared to a witcher.

In his arms, the teenager’s heart jumped and picked up speed as he hit the shallows, wading out further so Natazatz didn’t have to beach himself to talk to them.

“Nata? Nata, what’s going on? Why are you here? We were supposed to meet further down the beach at the point.”

The mer grabbed Vren’s arm as soon as he was close enough. Cool fingers dug in, and Vren could feel the brush of a tail as Natazatz frantically tried to draw him further out into the water. He followed, pausing only to make sure the others were too.

“We managed to scuttle the boats, but someone noticed. We didn’t realize there was a guard posted down at the docks. Usually the soldiers leave it to the patrols to check on the boats, I don’t know why it was different this time. But someone was there, and they noticed when we tried to draw a boat away. They came to investigate, and saw one of us.”

Fear lanced through Vren. “Was anyone hurt?!”

Nata was already waving Vren’s sharp demand away. “No, no we were able to avoid their crossbows. But we weren’t able to get the boat for you.”

“Fuck.” Mikolaj hissed, summing up Vren’s own train of thought quite succinctly. He hoisted the younger child higher on his hip, the boy dangling from the arm looped around his waist like a particularly laid back kitten, arms and legs trailing in the water. Child settled, he then shifted the tarp covered bundle on his shoulder to rebalance it. He was well back from the rest of them, standing barely knee deep in the water in deference to his burdens. “Are there enough of you to carry the children too? Or are we going to have to send them ahead? We could probably hole up somewhere until you come back. But, shit, would we have to teach them how to breathe…?”

Natazatz finally stopped pulling, the water lapping at them with each soft swell of the tide. He shook damp hair out of his face, scanning the horizon. “No. No, there is no time for multiple trips. The ward is expanding, presumably to try and sense their attackers if they attempt to leave. Don’t worry though, we found another means of getting you back. The pod should be back any minute with… There!” 

A surge of his tail pushed him up out of the water, a trick similar to when the dolphins danced. He waved furiously, a shrill, sharp whistle cutting across his lips.

Further offshore, other mers responded. Answering whistles echoed back. Vren could just make them out. Them and the dolphins that leapt from the water alongside them. The whole pod darted back under the water, the tail of the silvered elder flashing stark against the dark water. Headed their way, or so Vren assumed. 

Vren looked at the teen in his arms. “Can you swim, little lass?” 

“In a dress?!”

Vren blanched. Right, that was probably fair. She didn’t have overly full skirts, thankfully, the dress appropriate for a girl of her age and station. It could’ve been worse, Vren shuddered to think how much fabric went into the heavy, layered skirts of an adult noble.  The girl was going to struggle with what she had, let alone with the heavier adult skirts. Even in the low light the girl looked thin and tired. Not ready for a long swim with the weight of her skirts dragging her down into the depths. Wet fabric weighed a ton once soaking wet. 

She was definitely going to need help. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll help.” Natazatz assured her. He reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. The girl cringed away from the damp, unexpected touch from a stranger. Natazatz froze, brow furrowing. Slowly, he drew his hand back. The mer edged away, meeting eyes with Vren.

Vren suppressed a wince. 

Mers were a very tactile species, it didn’t even occur to them that other species might not like to be touched. They might learn the tolerances of individuals they met frequently, but that an entire race might not appreciate casual touch wasn’t a thought that had ever crossed their minds. 

Much like many other things with mer culture, Cranes were inured to the oddity. Vren didn’t so much as blink at such casual touch from a mer, hadn’t since he was a child first starting training. Actually, no, he hadn’t blinked at it back then either. As a child recently taken from everything he’d ever known, he’d only been delighted and grateful to be offered physical affection from anyone. His brothers amongst the Cranes had been much the same. He hadn’t considered for so much as a second that it might bother his current companions. Not the casual touch nor the kisses that allowed them to breathe while they swam. But, those were things that would be odd to humans and other witchers, weren’t they? He hadn’t realized.

Not until he saw her pull away.

“It’s okay.” He murmured. He wasn’t sure which one he was addressing, the mer or the teen. The girl looked doubtful, but the mer relaxed and sank back into the water. 

Behind them, Eadelmarr piped up. “Mikolaj? What is in the tarp? It must have been important to haul something that large all the way out here during an escape.” 

Mikolaj's voice sounded grim. “Found a mer…” 

Natazatz spun, water splashing around him in a glittering arc. “You found a mer?! Where?! Which one?! Are they all right?!”

The manticore shrugged helplessly. “He was down in the labs. I couldn't leave him like that. ‘Specially when I was setting bombs. Figured the tarp’d hold in the damp and protect him if I had to set him down fast. He said his name was Andrej.”

Nata darted further into the shallows, surging up beside Mikolaj and stretching out his arms. The witcher let his bundle slide down his front and into Nata's hold with a barely there sigh of relief. Vren felt his gut clench. It didn’t bode well for the mer if Mikolaj was that worried for them. 

The tarp fell open, and Andrej's head lolled to one side. His face was pale and slack. The body completely limp, almost boneless in appearance. For a horrible second, Vren feared the mer had passed before he could be returned to the sea.

Relieved of one of his burdens, Mikolaj resituated Jacub from the rag doll carry under his arm into a proper hold higher on his hip, further up out of the cool water. He slogged deeper into the water, no longer having to worry about half drowning the child. 

“He's been unconscious for a short while now. No major injuries that I saw, but there’s lots of minor ones. And several that are definitely infected. They'll need to be drained and cleaned out before they'll heal properly, I expect. I hope you’ve someone in your pod that’s skilled with healing, he’s going to need it. More than anything, his biggest problem is hunger. You'll need to feed him back up to a proper weight slowly.”

Natazatz keened . 

The rest of the pod swirled around them, scales glittering in the starlight as they crowded around their pod leader. As they drew him and the mer cradled against his chest back from the shallows. Beads and shells and trinkets clicked and jingled softly as they jostled each other in the slow rise and fall of the soft waves. Webbed hands traced his injuries, infinitely gentle as they reaffirmed that he was there. That he lived, and breathed, and had been returned to them.

Mikolaj cleared his throat, blanching when dozens of too large eyes snapped up to him. “I couldn't bring the others. They were already gone. But, Andrej said you would want their plaits…?”

“You have them?!” A younger mer demanded.

“Here.” Mikolaj drew out a piece of torn burlap cloth tied up in a bundle, the bottom dripping where it had been brushing the water. A corner had been tied, or at least tucked under his belt, and it came free in his hand with a firm tug.

The silvered elder took it, wrinkled, liver spotted hands tender as they cradled the coarse fabric. “Thank you. Our plaits are the physical representation of all that we are. All that we hold dear, and the promise that we are held dear in return. Their love and joy will live on in our own plaits, and we will lay them to rest as they deserve. Thank you, for taking the time to gather them close, and ferry them back to the pod and the sea.”

Mikolaj shifted, shuffling in place. Not quite able to meet her gaze. “We'd want the same with our medallions, if something happened to us. Not, not the ocean bit, we cremate our dead. But… well, it's only right to do the same by you.”

The elder chuckled. She smoothed a hand along his cheek, grinning when the touch startled him. “It was a kindness , witcher. Nothing less. Do not diminish yourself by denying that which makes you good .” She patted his cheek fondly, much like Vren imagined a grandmother would, then turned her attention back to Andrej. “Natazatz. For this, the pod must split. Andrej is in no condition to dart about like minnows in the dark.”

The pod leader hissed, fins flaring. 

She tutted at him. “Guppy, I am old, not defenseless. I and those who come with me will survive for a short time until your return. Nor will the dolphins allow us to come to harm if they can help it.”

With the look of a man who had only just discovered what a lemon was, and found that he decidedly did not enjoy the taste, Natazatz visibly swallowed the argument he clearly wanted to make. Instead, he took a deep breath, and reached out to clutch at her arm. 

“Tata-ah, to lose any of our number would be a tragedy. But to lose you , I fear it would be more than our hearts could bear.”

She chortled. “Flatterer. Just as smooth tongued as your father. But you needn’t worry about us. Take the best fighters. Leave the elders, the children, and Andrej to me and the dolphins. We’ll meet you in the cove when all is said and done.”

BOOM .

Even at such a distance, Vren could feel the ground shake beneath his feet with the force of the blast. It buckled and rolled, and he had to set his feet wider to keep his footing. The teen in his arms screamed, clutching tighter to his neck. He hunched over her protectively, cradling her head against his chest. 

“Fuck! Yeah, no, we really gotta go !” Mikolaj yelled.

Vren peeked over his shoulder. The mers had all but formed a wall of bodies hunched over their more vulnerable members. Elders cradled whimpering children, heads tucked over their charges and barely visible under the cover of younger bodies. The younger mers glared back towards the beach, fins flared wide and teeth bared against the threat. Both of the other two witchers were also half hunched over their charges, backs turned to the fort to take the brunt of any attack. 

But there was none forthcoming. 

Not surprising, given just how deformed the fort now seemed to be on the southern side. The wall on that side had a great hole punched out of it, great troughs of stone and earth thrown out across the surrounding land. The guard tower on the western corner of the southern wall, closest to the front and consequently them , appeared to be completely obliterated. The tower on the eastern side could still be seen, but even in the moonless night, he was fairly certain it was decidedly misshapen . The central keep looked to have taken damage too, but was still standing. One of the walls clearly had a hole in it, firelight gleaming out through the gaps in the stone. Whether that was from a fireplace or a fallen lamp or torch that had found something flammable was impossible to tell from that distance. The keeps main tower had a suspicious lean to it, and anyone who laid money on there being an intact window in the entire keep was a fool of the highest order.

Vren swallowed hard. “Mikolaj, what did you do ?”

The Manticore bared his teeth in a nasty grin. “Told you. Found the labs. And the store rooms that supply them. Mages always have lots and lots of volatile chemicals. Couldn’t save the other mers, but I figure they’d have appreciated knowing that those bastards couldn’t gain anything more from their bodies. Two birds, one stone.” He eyed his handiwork critically. “Was hoping it’d take out more of the keep, but looks like the lab was offset more than I thought. Shame. Even deep as it was, there was more than enough explosive power down there to level the place. Still, at least they’ll have a nice little project to keep them busy and out of our hair fixing that pile of rocks. And inconvenienced to boot. The spring they got their freshwater from was in the basement.

“ Good .” Eadelmarr grunted.

Natazatz pulled the Tata-ah into a quick hug, then started divvying up the pod. In a matter of moments, Tata-ah had the children and elders grouped up. With a final trill, she darted into the depths, leading her half of the pod south along the coast. Natazatz had dispatched two of the younger mers with them, to help carry Andrej. He had yet to regain consciousness. But given all the open cuts and sores and raw skin he had, Vren was inclined to think it was probably a mercy that he wasn’t awake to feel the sting of the sea salt in them.

Their families safe, the other young mers wasted no time pushing the witchers deeper into the swell where several more waited for them. 

“Um… someone wanna explain?” Mikolaj called, voice tight.

Vren opened his mouth, intending to reassure, though he had no idea what Natazatz’s plan was… only to freeze.

In the dark water out ahead of them, something surfaced. Several somethings, in point of fact. Several somethings that were much larger than a dolphin. 

Tall, slim black fins cut the water. Wide, slick backs could scarcely be distinguished from the dark water that lapped at their flanks. Plumes of mist shot into the night sky with short, sharp bursts of air. Massive heads broke the surface, white markings standing out starkly in inky black faces. Their dark eyes were almost impossible to see in the gloom, but he could feel their regard. Oh, but Vren knew what these were. 

He just couldn’t believe it.

“Nata?! Since when did your kind make friends with orcas ?! Don’t they usually hunt mers?!”

Nata’s aunt Tifona snorted. “Dolphins too. But it’s only the migratory pods of orcas that tend to hunt red meat predominantly. Pods like this one, that live in the same waters year round, tend to stick to fish for the most part. They’re safe enough to be around generally. We don’t interact with them a lot, but occasionally they can be convinced to help when the need is dire enough.” She tugged on something looped around the orca. “Now hurry. Unless your friend has more explosions planned, the mages will look to the water soon enough. We would do well to be outside the wards by then.”

Natazatz slipped his arms under the teen Vren was carrying. “Here, give her to me. I’ll swim her out. Get up on top of the orca, and we’ll pass her up to you. You’ll need to wrap your arms around her and grab the kelp rope to ensure neither of you come off.” 

“They look so smooth, won’t the rope just slide off?” The teen asked.

Vren really needed to learn her name.

Nata shook his head, tail pumping harder to keep them both afloat as he carried her the last twenty feet to the nearest orca. “It’s in their mouths. The rope’s not going anywhere. My main concern is that they might tear through it, those teeth are no joke. Now hurry, Vren.”

Well, he didn’t need to be asked twice.

Trusting that the mers knew what they were doing, enlisting the help of such a large and dangerous predator, Vren kicked off from the sea bed and swam right up to it. 

The skin, when he touched it, was slick and somewhat blubbery. He couldn’t get a grip on it to lift himself up. Tifona chittered something at the beast, and it obligingly sank a bit lower in the waves. Good enough. The next swell lifted him higher, and he scrambled aboard, hands boosting him from behind. The orca’s back was broad and rounded, and he almost slipped headfirst right off the other side. Would have, if one of the mers hadn’t grabbed his ankle and tugged him back upright. Oddly enough, once he found his seat he was surprised to find it easy to keep, his long legs making for a better center of balance.

As soon as he was securely aboard, Nata shoved the teen up after him. She had an easier time of it, settling in front of him and using his body as a banister to safeguard her own balance. Vren looped his arms around her and grabbed the kelp rope. She followed his lead, her slim hands barely a fraction the size of his. 

She craned her neck to see around him, squinting into the dark. “Wait, what about the others?”

It took a second to realize that she couldn’t see.

It was one thing, to know that witchers’ eyes were stronger than a human. Another thing entirely, to realise that he could see just fine without the moon, but the starlight wasn’t enough for his companions. The sea surely looked pitch black to her. Or close to it. 

He patted her hand. “They’re alright. Eadelmarr is on the orca to our left. He has the older boy. Dawid, right?” She nodded. “Right. And Mikolaj is being helped up onto the orca ahead of us. Your younger brother is with him. I didn’t catch his name, I’m afraid. Or yours either for that matter, lass.”

“Zofia.” She murmured back. She shivered. “My littlest brother’s name is Jakub. Are you sure they’re okay?”

Vren snickered as he watched Eadelmarr almost slide off his orca yet again. “They’re fine. They’re holding on far better than Eadelmarr is.” Another tremor racked through her slender frame, and he leaned closer to try and block the breeze to combat the cold. “Lean in against me. The cold won’t hurt me the way it will you.”

She leaned back gingerly, then all but melted into his warmth. 

With hearts as slow as theirs, witchers tended to run cooler than the average human. But they were out in the ocean in the middle of the night, she was soaking wet, and there was a north wind blowing. Any amount of warmth was better than none. Vren had no qualms sharing with her until they got back to shore and could dry them off. 

He only hoped they wouldn’t end up catching colds from this.

The Gryphon finally seated securely, the mers took off for shore and the orcas burst into motion, swiftly overtaking them. Water crested on either side of the beasts. Thick frothy white rollers trailing away into the dark. Mers darted through the water on either side, but never in front. Occasionally, one would break the surface to check on them before diving back down. They were faster underwater, and they needed every iota of speed they could muster to keep up with the orcas. Dolphins could match an orca for top speeds, and some species could even outrun them. But not mers. 

In a flat out race, orcas would always win. 

It was what made pods of orcas so dangerous for mers. They were faster, stronger, and horrifyingly clever hunters. The only advantage the mers had was agility and hands. If they wanted to survive an attack, they had to leverage both by getting right in close to the animal and clinging on to one of the orca’s fins until it tired itself out or they saw a larger species of whale they could go hide behind. Orcas tended to turn other species of whale calves into meals, which naturally did nothing to endear them to their larger cousins. The bigger species couldn’t move as fast, but were stalwart defenders of smaller prey animals seemingly out of vengeance and pure spite.

Honestly, that seemed fair, all things considered.

“We’re almost to the wards!” Natazatz called up from the water. The mer was clinging to one of the orca’s fins, the better to talk to them without slowing them down or dipping back below the waves. “As soon as you feel your orca dive, you need to hold your breaths. They’ll carry you under, then surface on the other side.”

“But didn’t you say the ward had widened?!” Mikolaj bellowed.

“Do you have a better idea?!”

Vren could hear the Manticore muttering curses to himself, and had to suppress a laugh. The professor’s little brother was certainly going to learn a lot of fun new words over the course of this rescue. He hoped the man didn’t mind overmuch. They’d have to remind Mikolaj that it was generally frowned upon to teach swear words to kids that young.

His medallion started to vibrate.

“Now!”

Vren took a deep breath, and the water closed over their heads.

Not even Eadelmarr would have a word for this insanity!

Mikolaj was sure of it. He’d thought before that surely the more well read Gryphon would know a word or two that would fully encapsulate the wildness of the night. But no, there was no way in hell even the Gryphon had the words to explain why Mikolaj was once again in the water with mers and giant fish. And as if it weren’t enough, the mers had somehow inexplicably produced even bigger fish ! How? Just, how ?! If yet another, larger fish swam up out of the deep, Mikolaj was going to wash his hands of the whole business and ride straight back home to the desert. The ocean was fucking terrifying!

Well, he wouldn’t , but it would be a very close thing !

Natazatz gave the signal, and Mikolaj sucked in a breath. Cuddled up against his chest, clinging to his neck like one of those exotic monkeys sometimes sold at bazaars, he felt Jakub’s skinny chest expand in kind. The beast dove beneath the waves, tail beating faster as it somehow piled on even more speed. 

Just how fast could these things move? 

The medallion at his throat went from a low vibration to a hard and constant buzz. They were directly under the wards. Gods above, but the mages had poured enough power into those wards to actually form a solid barrier that would prevent people from crossing. With the amount of raw power pouring off the spell, it was actually raising the temperature of the water by a few degrees! See, this was why people should pay more attention when a bunch of sorcerers got together and agreed to work on something together. Spells got too damn powerful when they all pooled their resources. Fucking terrifying. If the mages hadn’t been so foolish as to set it at the water’s surface, they would’ve been fucked ! 

Long, interminable seconds passed.

Against his chest, the boy began to struggle. Mikolaj’s heart lurched and fell down straight into his boots. How much longer would it take them to get out from under the ward?! More importantly, how much longer could the boy hold his breath?! Because even if he let go of the child and the little one rushed to the sky, the ward was all but a solid presence on the surface of the water. The boy wouldn’t be able to breach that barrier to get the air he needed. There was no way out but through. 

Mikolaj tightened his hold. Come on, come on…!

The orca suddenly surged upwards, leaping from the water in what was probably a very picturesque arch before splashing back down. An indent he hadn’t noticed before opened in the top of the beast’s head, jettisoning air and water in a fine spray. What in the nine hells? 

Did this thing breathe air too ?!

In his arms, the kid gasped for breath. 

He started to cough, and Mikolaj gingerly thumped at his back, hoping he hadn’t swallowed too much of the sea water. “You’re alright little one. You did so well.The worst is over now. You can rest until we get to shore.” 

The boy nodded against his chest, thin little shoulders still heaving for breath. 

Unsure what else to do, Mikolaj smoothed a hand up and down the child’s spine. That was what you did, right? Aside from tending to the suffering teenagers while they attempted the grasses, Mikolaj hadn’t ever helped with the children back in Behelt Nar. Certainly never one so young as this. It might have seemed cold, but he made a point of avoiding the boys until the grasses. He couldn’t get attached to them that way. 

His heart was much safer that way.

The giant fish (were they still fish if they breathed air?) hadn’t stopped moving, unaware or uncaring that their passengers had struggled a bit with that dive. If they were horses he would’ve said they were in a flat out gallop, but what even was the equivalent for a fucking fish (maybe)?! 

Now outside the wards, their course curved more to the right, aiming for the rocky beach north of the town where they had met the mers at the start of the night. There were tall, rocky outcrops over there that jutted well out into the water and would hide them from the town’s sight. And (according to Vren while he’d been rigging up ropes to get them over the wall) would’ve worked well as makeshift docks for the boat they’d intended to borrow. They could have paddled right up to the rocks, unloaded, and allowed the mers to take the boat away to a beach to the south to mislead pursuers. No need to beach the boat, and no chance of leaving any tracks or drag marks on the beach to mark their passing. 

In a way, the evening’s hiccups would probably work in their favor. 

Less work for the mers, with no boat to dispose of, at any rate. And with no boat missing, the Nilfgaardians would have no clue how they got to the island and would probably default to the assumption that some mage had figured out how to make portals that could bypass wards. Which would send them all into a whirlwind of jealousy and mild panic. Because that was one hell of an accomplishment, and being able to open portals behind wards without alerting anyone would be an invaluable skill to have at one’s disposal for war or espionage. No one in their right mind would ever even consider that they had swam under the wards with the help of mers and two flavors of giant fish .

Idley, Mikolaj wondered if these giant fish (possibly?) could be convinced to sidle up to the rocks, or if they were too big.

Another one of the giant fish(?) swam up alongside. Eadelmarr was perched on the back of it, young Dawid seated in front of him and clinging tight to the rope. Mikolaj frowned, studying the Gryphon. It wasn’t a brag to say that Manticores had the best eyesight of any witcher school, a quirk of their mutations that served them well in the Korath desserts of Zerrikania. Eadelmarr was fully upright. Wasn’t favoring one side over the other. But something looked off with Eadelmarr. Something in the set of the man’s jaw, the tightness around his eyes. Mikolaj just couldn’t put his finger on what.

He kicked a bit of water at the Gryphon when the beast (good enough) dipped low with the next surge of its tail. “Hey. Gryphon. You doing alright?”

“I am well.” Eadelmarr assured, voice tighter than a bowstring. Not very convincing, to Mikolaj’s ear. He undoubtedly knew it, hurriedly pressing on. “That was a much longer dive than I was expecting. Dawid here had some difficulty there near the end. What of Jakub? How did he fair?” 

Mikolaj grimaced, cuddling the boy closer when he felt him shiver. “He struggled too. That was cutting it far too close for comfort. From now on we’re talking this shit through if we got the time, none of this ‘I got a plan, follow me’ horse shit!” 

Somewhere behind them he heard Vren laugh.

Mikolaj brandished a middle finger back over his shoulder, confident that the Crane would see it clearly even without the moon’s guiding light. Manticores had the best eyesight, but even by normal witcher standards the starlight would’ve been enough, no potions required. Not unless they were fighting something who’s night vision was better . 

The laughter got louder at the rude gesture. 

Somewhere back there, he could also hear the pealing trills of one of the mers. It sounded far too close to laughter to be anything else, and he could hear the rest of the pod making all manner of clicks, whistles, trills, and shrieks beneath the water’s surface. Distorted, but there. 

It was a toss up whether they were talking to each other or the giant fish (fuck it, he was calling them fish until told otherwise). Did the fish speak their language? Or did they speak fish? The smaller giant fish (gods was that a contradiction in terms) had made similar noises to the mers, so maybe? The mers had to direct the fish somehow, so that was Mikolaj’s working theory. 

Though, if fish were smart enough to have a spoken language, didn’t that make it unethical for humans to net and eat them? Or was it only the bigger fish that could talk, so eating the smaller ones was fine?

So many questions.

At least he could get the most pressing ones answered. Mikolaj twisted in his seat. “Hey you crazy seagull, we still headed for the cove we left from? Otherwise we’re gonna have a long walk back to the horses.”

There was a splash, and seconds later Natazatz surfaced clinging to the fish’s fin below Mikolaj’s boot. The mer flicked his hair out of his face. “That part of the plan is unchanged. The water there is more than deep enough for the orcas to bring you directly to the rocks.”

Okay, so the bigger giant fish were apparently called ‘orcas’. Good to know. Come to think of it, hadn’t the pod elder called the smaller fish dolf-somethings? Dolf-ans? Dolf-ids? Whatever, more questions to shelve for later.

“...Will Andrej be able to heal out here? To put it bluntly, I know next to nothing of the sea, this was my first time seeing it. But given all that I have heard, in many ways it seems a harsh place to call home. Comparable to my own perhaps.”

“It can be.” Natazatz agreed. “But Andrej will have the entirety of the pod to look out for him while he relearns how to swim. We won’t let him sink. He’ll have to stay in one of the coves while he rebuilds his strength, but it’s nothing we haven’t done before. He’ll be alright.” The mer’s eyes were almost luminous in the dark. “Where is your home, witcher?”

Mikolaj shrugged. “Long way south and east of here. It’s landlocked. You’re used to seeing green beyond the shores of the ocean. Imagine instead, massive stretches of land that is nothing but sand. Vegetation is sparse or nonexistent. It’s hot enough to boil you alive during the day, cold enough to kill you at night, and protecting yourself from the sun is paramount. And no water. Not to the naked eye. You have to find it.”

The mer’s nose wrinkled, fins flattening against his skull. “No water? How does anyone survive there? Why would you call such a place home?”

Mikolaj barked a laugh, careful not to draw attention to the curious eyes peeking up from his chest, lest attention chase the child’s courage away once more. 

“I might say the same of the ocean. There is water as far as the eye can see. Something I could scarcely have imagined before a few days ago. And yet not a drop of it is drinkable. If left to my own devices on a boat in the middle of the sea, I wouldn’t survive. Or if I did, it would only be by luck and witcher constitution. The dessert is much the same. The resources are there, but you have to know how to find them. There are ways to collect water. Places where water wells up and plants carve out a living. Animals that have adapted to the extremes and thrive where all else fails. It’s my home because what remains of my family is there. And there is a beauty in its harshness. I imagine it’s much the same for you.”

“True.” The mer perked up, a shrill whistle cracking the air. 

Other mers leapt from the sea, chittering back to him before their bodies hit water again. Natazatz pointed ahead of them. “We’re almost there. The outcrops are just around that bend up ahead. Don’t try to get off the orcas until we tell you to, we’re going to try and maneuver them as close to the rocks as we can. You might still have to swim, they might not want to butt up against the rocks if they’re too rough.”

That was fair, Mikolaj supposed. The skin under his hands didn’t feel particularly tough, rubbing up against rough rock probably had to suck complete camel ass.

“Almost there, Zofia.” Vren whispered. “It looks like they’re going to let Mikolaj and Jakub off first, then Eadelmarr and Dawid , then us.” 

“Okay.”

Vren frowned, studying his fellow witchers. Mikolaj had already pushed Jakub up onto the rocks, and was pulling himself up after him, the orca they’d been riding getting out of the way for the next one. He hadn’t been able to tell from behind, but now that they were closer he could see that something was wrong with Eadelmarr. The witcher’s back was ramrod straight, his movements stiff and slightly jerky as he pushed Dawid up into Mikolaj’s waiting hands. Expression strained and paler than Vren thought it should be.

“Take him, quickly.”

As soon as the boy was safely in the Manticore’s hold, Eadelmarr scrambled up off the whale, strode across the rock shelf… and promptly emptied his stomach into a crevasse between the outcrop and the shelf they stood on.

Vren cringed at the loud retching, and the wet splashing that followed. 

He’d always hated emptying his stomach, and all of the unpleasantness that came with it. He didn’t envy Eadelmarr the experience. He’d thought they’d avoided it, when Eadelmarr had shown no signs of discomfort during the swim over. Apparently, he’d counted his chicks long before they’d hatched.

The orca he rode sidled up to the rocks and Vren wrapped his hands around Zofia’s waist. It was a little startling when his fingers and thumbs touched, the teen was so petite compared to his own massive frame. That was always the most unsettling part of interacting with kids, realizing how small and fragile they were in comparison to himself. It had been disquieting enough back when he was only an overlarge teenager. Once he’d taken the grasses and gained his witcher strength, everything had become an exercise in control.

“Here, Miss. Give me your hand.” Mikolaj called. 

As soon as the Manticore had her hands, Vren hoisted her up. She found her feet quickly, and Mikolaj ushered her over to her two shivering siblings. 

“Mikolaj, stay with the children.” Vren ordered. He scrambled up after her and went to check on Eadelmarr. The Gryphon was still hunched over, hands braced against the wall. Vren laid his hand on the witcher’s back. “You still got your toenails, ‘Mar? I think you hocked up everything in between.”

Eadelmarr gave a choked little chuckle, then retched again. 

Vren made a mental note to be more careful in future to keep Eadelmarr as far away from any form of ocean travel as he could. The Gryphon had handled the actual swimming well, but the repetitive up and down of the orca’s movements had apparently been beyond poor Eadelmarr’s ability to handle. 

Still, at least he’d been polite enough not to vomit into the water where the mers would encounter it. The stomach acid would’ve been pure hell on their sensitive gills if it didn’t dissipate into the water fast enough. Instead, the disgusting mass of bile would stay contained in that crevasse until the next high tide. Plenty of time for the mers to leave, and avoid the whole mess.

It took a few more rounds of dry heaving before he finally settled. 

The humans probably couldn’t see it, but to the witchers (and the mers propped up on their elbows along the edge of the rock shelf) his face was pale and waxy, a thin sheen of cold sweat along his hairline. His cheeks flushed under the scrutiny of his audience. 

“Are you okay?” Jakub asked in a small voice.

Eadelmarr gave a weak chuckle. “I am alright. My stomach becomes upset when I travel by boat. It seems traveling by orca is close enough that it cannot tell the difference. Do not worry, I will recover quickly now that the worst of it is over. Now, we would do well to leave swiftly. Unless there is aught else our new allies require?”

The last he directed at the mers.

Natazatz shook his head, pushing himself up on his arms to raise himself higher. “No, nothing else. Safe travels, witcher. May the tides favor you, and your pod receive you with open arms at journey’s end.”

Eadelmarr dipped into a deep, courtly bow. “Thank you, for your aid this night. You and your pod. We owe you.” He rose, and added to Vren, “Take your time. I will fetch the horses.”

Vren hummed in acknowledgment, waving him off.

Eadelmarr disappeared into the dark without a backwards glance. 

It was a point of pride amongst witchers, to have survived for any length of time. The first year on the path. Five years. A decade. More. The longer they survived, the longer they walked the path amongst people and monsters who wanted them dead, the prouder they were of their continued existence. 

Vren wasn’t sure how old Eadelmarr was, but he knew the man was much older than himself or Mikolaj. For a witcher who had walked the path as long as Vren suspected Eadelmarr had, that was a long time to build up pride and self sufficiency. Especially for a witcher that was very nearly the only remnant left of an extinct school. The older witcher was likely embarrassed, and needed a few moments to collect himself after such a vulnerable display. 

Locking eyes with Mikolaj, the two shared a nod of understanding. 

They could give him the time he needed.

Stop this foolishness, Eadelmarr. You kept your weakness in check until it was safe. They will not judge you for this.

The sea breeze cut through his wet clothes, and the Gryphon shivered.

Eyes and ears sharp for any sign of intruders that might come their way, Eadelmarr fiddled fitfully with the horses’ reins. Dove and the unnamed stallion in his left, and Vren and Mikolaj’s mares waiting patiently on his right. 

The stallion had learned quickly that while Dove would give him a good nip if he bothered her overmuch, Sweet Rose had yet to put him in his place and he abused her patience at every opportunity. One of these days she was going to snap and kick him. It would probably be deserved, but they couldn’t afford to have a horse lame at the moment.  

So as soon as he’d ascertained that Vren’s Tempest was calm and easygoing, Eadelmarr had made a point to pair Sweet Rose with her for the sake of the stallion’s continued health and the mare’s continued patience and sanity.

He’d been surprised, and mildly concerned, the first time he set eyes on Vren’s mountain of a mare and learned her name. 

The dappled gray was easily twenty hands at the shoulder (possibly more , it was hard to judge from the ground, and wasn’t that a terrifying thought?), the biggest he’d ever seen. She towered over even her master and sported more muscle than really seemed fair on a horse. If she ever decided she wanted to go elsewhere, even with witcher strength Eadelmarr wasn’t sure he could stop her. And he shuddered to think of the expense and hassle it must have been getting a custom saddle made for her. 

But, she carried Vren comfortably, both in regards to comparative size and in her ability to bear his weight. Which was more than most horses would have been able to boast when it came to the abnormally tall Crane. And she would have no trouble carrying an extra rider now, which was a bonus. She was sweet and exceedingly well behaved from what Eadelmarr could tell, despite the connotations of her name.

He would have to inquire as to the origin of such a seemingly violent name at some point. And why it had been assigned to such a gentle giant.

Footsteps alerted him to the approach of the others across the rocks. Eadelmarr drew himself up with all the dignity he could muster in his bedraggled state, and turned away from the coastal path to greet them. 

They were all dry, and Vren was carrying Jakub up on his shoulders, much to the child’s delight. Tempest swung her massive head around to look and Zofia and Dawid froze.

“Is that a horse ?!” Dawid squeaked.

Vren kept right on walking, a cheerful “Yep!” tossed over his shoulder as if a horse taller than he was was a normal everyday occurrence for the rest of the world. “Her name’s Tempest, and she’s a sweetheart. She’s also the strongest, so one of you will always be riding pillion with me because it won’t wear her out nearly as fast as it will the others. Zofia, do you know how to ride?”

The girl nodded, eyes still locked on Tempest, as if the mare would eat her if she took her eyes off of her. 

Vren glanced back. “Zofia?”

She snapped to attention. “R-Right. Yes! I can ride. I was taught to ride side saddle. Mother insisted sitting astride wasn’t lady-like. That it was immodest and encouraged immoral behavior.” Zofia hunched in on herself. “She said no man would want me as a wife because sitting astride would damage me.” 

Eadelmarr took a deep breath. The idea that sitting astride a horse would cause intimate harm was utter tripe so far as he was aware. Gods save him from small minded bastards who knew nothing of female bodies and yet sought to control them at every turn. He was almost scared to hear what other folderol they might come up with next to make lives difficult. Still, he reigned in the ire he felt, as the child would surely take it to heart and certainly didn’t deserve it.

“Milady. Having lived for centuries now, I can confidently inform you that riding astride is only considered ‘immodest’ because the skirts hike up above the knees when you do so. And because men in power decided for some asinine reason that the act of a woman spreading her legs for any reason was immoral. If revealing your lower legs does not concern you, then there is no issue. If you desire a blanket to lay across your lap to cover your legs, that is perfectly acceptable. Or perhaps a long cloak to keep you warm and preserve your modesty at the same time.” 

Zofia chewed at her lip, fingers fidgeting with the ends of her sleeves.

“As for causing you harm…” Exhaustion snuffed out the embers of his wrath and Eadelmarr huffed a bone weary sigh. “I will not claim to be an expert on the female body. But I have never heard of a woman coming to harm in that manner from sitting astride. The muscles of your inner legs will likely be sore, as you are unused to holding such a position for long periods of time. But you should not come to harm. If it truly causes you concern, you may wrap some fabric about the pommel of the saddle and hook your knee over it. It is not a particularly comfortable position to ride in, but it will allow you to ride side saddle.”

“Either way, you’ll be riding one of Eadelmarr’s mounts. They’re the closest to your size.” Mikolaj added. He motioned Dawid towards Vren. “You’ll be with Vren, boy. And Jakub will ride with me or Eadelmarr to keep the weight even.”

Vren swung Jakub down off his shoulders and plopped him down onto Mikolaj’s mare. “There you are, lad. Sit tight with Sweet Rose for a moment. Here, Eadelmarr, catch!” The Crane tossed something over the mare’s shoulders. “Just make sure you let go of the reins before you use it. It works on whatever you’re holding on to.

Eadelmarr caught it without a thought.

The same amulet he’d used on the island to dry them gleamed up at him in the starlight. The Gryphon cast Vren a grateful look and dropped the reins. It was heavenly to be dry and warm again. Eadelmarr was used to cold and damp weather, he grew up in Poviss. But cold breezes and damp clothes were singularly unpleasant, and once this madness was over he was strongly tempted to commission a warming amulet for himself. It would make the aftermath of drowner contracts in the spring so much less unpleasant.

Zofia tapped his arm. “Which horse am I to ride?”

Eadelmarr regathered the reins for his two and flicked his fingers at the mare. “You will ride Dove. She is steady and dependable, and does not easily take fright at strange noises or sudden movement. The stallion I’ve had for only a short while, and he has much yet to learn. Have you decided how you will ride?”

The teen blushed. “I’ll ride astride. I’m just… not sure how to mount with skirts and no mounting block.”

Mikolaj leaned down from his seat on Sweet Rose. “Do you have a belt on?” 

“Yes?”

“Then grab the back hem of your skirt, pull it up between your legs, and tuck the end into your belt. You’ll end up with something that looks like a baggy pair of breeches.” The Manticore shrugged. “Plus, extra padding to protect your inner thighs so the saddle has a harder time giving you sores during long rides. We’re gonna be in the saddle a lot.”

It worked surprisingly well.

Zofia did end up draping a blanket across her lap, not that any of them blamed her. It was hard trying something new when you’d spent your entire life being taught the ‘right’ way. But, after a couple false starts they got her in the saddle and took to the roads. 

As he had the best eyes, Mikolaj took the lead.

Eadelmarr followed, ready to move forward and take up the fight if something happened. Zofia followed behind, safe in the middle of the group. The girl was less guiding Dove and more letting the mare follow the herd. Which was fine, given that the humans could barely see in the dark. Vren brought up the rear. Tall as he and Tempest were, Dawid was well out of reach of anything that might approach from the ground, and shielded from behind by the bulk of Vren’s body. The boy would be safe enough up there.

They didn’t stop until dawn.

“White Wolf! Is your bard with you?”

Geralt eyed the innkeeper warily. He’d known her since she was a child, back when her father ran the inn, and she had never treated him poorly. The lintel of her door was one of the first lute marks he had placed that first year after finding Aiden alive. 

But the path had been harder than he’d ever known it before this year, and Nilfgaard had set their sights on Jaskier. They had come close to catching him twice, and the last time he and Geralt had split up, they’d actually managed it. 

Geralt swallowed hard, resolutely shoving away images of what might have been. He had noticed Jaskier was missing. He had noticed and he had done something about it. 

It hadn’t taken long for Geralt and Yen to track him down and rescue him before he could come to any grievous harm. But there had been harm. Scrapes and bruises from his capture and subsequent beatings. Gruesome welts across his back from the leather strap they’d used, with more on the tender soles of his feet and the backs of his hands. Clever fingers renowned the continent over for the joy their dancing brought had trembled and shook incessantly, scarcely able to bend and move . 

And there had been no time to tend his injuries. 

The mage and the cohort of Nilfgaardian soldiers who followed him had been gaining. Yen had volunteered to open a portal to get them closer to their goal, and to lead their pursuers on a wild goose chase while Geralt pushed on ahead with Ciri and Jaskier. Yen would meet up with them at Kaer Morhen later. Much as the idea of leaving any member of his little family behind galled him, Geralt had been forced to admit that it was the most effective plan they had.

So Yen had opened a portal.

With his daughter on his back, and his lover perched safely atop Roach, Geralt had run. And he hadn’t looked back. The portal had deposited them in Kaedwen, in the middle of nowhere. As Yen had explained, portals could be tracked, and she didn’t want to risk bringing the whole of Nilfgaard down on Kaer Morhen if the mage somehow got by her. So once the three were through the portal, they kept running. 

And it seemed to work. 

Whatever it was that Yennefer had done, they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of any Nilgaardian in two days. Geralt had eased up after the first day, keen on saving their strength in case they were found. And if not for that, then for the rugged climb they would have to make to reach the journey's end. 

Jaskier rode on Roach exclusively in deference to his injuries, and Geralt carried Ciri each day. And each evening, it was up to Geralt’s knowledge of salves and poultices and the natural world around them to put food in their bellies and put his best friend back together. The welts on his back were already showing signs of improvement, even without Yen’s help. Geralt was just grateful the mage hadn’t jumped straight to burning Jaskier, rather than starting with beatings and the strap. 

According to Yen, fire magic was a specialty of his.

“He’ll be in in a moment. But if you’re hoping for a performance, you’ll be disappointed. He ran afoul of some soldiers and is still recovering.”

The innkeeper clapped a hand over her mouth. “Melittel preserve us, what on earth would the brutes want with picking on a bard?!” She threw her hands up in disgust and bustled away, calling over her shoulder. “No matter, you’re here now, safe and sound. Wait right there, I’ve a letter for your bard from Oxenfurt! Someone named Priscilla!”

The tension eased out of Geralt’s shoulders.

He’d never met Priscilla personally, but he’d heard novels’ worth of stories about her over the years. Stories about their days as students, their meetings on the path, or their shenanigans when a court had the great error in judgement to hire the both of them for the same events. The music was ‘sublime’, to quote Jaskier. But the mischief was the stuff of legend , and while the two had never been caught by anyone important , Geralt had no doubt the servants still passed around stories of their antics to this day.

Speaking of Jaskier…

The bard finally tottered in, Ciri tucked under his arm and doing her best to keep him upright. Much as Geralt would be better suited to helping the man, he was also their best fighter. If shit went wrong, he needed his hands free and room to move. 

Jaskier tried to muster up a smile for the evening’s patrons, but the virulent bruise darkening his left eye and swelling a good portion of his cheek rendered the attempt moot. The blue eye that wasn’t half swollen shut found Geralt.

The witcher gestured them over.

“Geralt? Is everything alright?”

He pulled the both of them into a hug before they could start to worry and guided Jaskier to sit on one of the bar stools to spare his feet, mindful of the welts hidden under Jaskier’s clothes. “Everything’s fine. We’ve a room for the night. If we leave early, we’ll be home by this time the day after tomorrow. We’ll be early, but Vesemir won’t fault us for it.”

Jaskier clung back, brow resting on Geralt’s shoulder. “That’s good. But don’t try to distract me dear, something has you concerned.”

A slim pair of arms snuck around his waist. 

Geralt slipped an arm around Ciri’s shoulders, hugging the twelve year old closer. He was trying to be better about initiating and reciprocating physical contact, for Ciri’s sake. It was something he’d already been learning, Jaskier being the tactile gremlin that he was. 

But Ciri needed it more, and in a way Jaskier didn’t. His child surprise’s whole world had gone up in smoke almost overnight from her point of view. She’d lost her parents, then her grandparents and her home in one fell swoop over a comparatively short period of time. And now she had no one to rely on but a bard that played for her birthday now and again and a witcher she’d only ever met once before but had been promised to practically since conception . And they were being hunted like fucking animals across the continent. 

The world was a very terrifying place at the moment, and she needed all the comfort he could give. He needed to learn how to give her everything she needed, and he needed to figure it out fast . 

“There’s a letter for you.” He admitted. 

Jaskier tensed. “For me? But… no one should’ve known I would be coming through here.” 

The witcher tucked him back under his chin. “Lena says it’s from Priscilla. Which is the only reason I didn’t turn around and march back out the door. She’s getting it now.”

Jaskier sagged, Geralt easily taking his weight. “Oh… I suppose I did tell Priscilla to send letters here if something important happened overwinter. That I would pick them up at the end of the winter when I left Kaer Morhen. I know the keep is warded against spies and intruders, and I wasn’t sure if letters counted as intruders, you know how odd magic can be. And you all forward your mail here, so I thought that might be it. But that was years ago, that first year I ended up staying with you, before we found Aiden in Oxenfurt. I’m surprised she remembered.” 

Geralt scoffed. “Given the stories you’ve told me, I’d be more surprised if she forgot.”

“That’s… probably fair, yeah.”

“And it’s not that the wards prevent letters from arriving. It’s that most couriers don’t deliver to Kaer Morhen, and few people who would correspond with a witcher have the coin to spare to send a mage letter. So Lena holds on to them, and passes them all along to whoever comes through first to be ferried up to Kaer Morhen.”

The kitchen door swung open and Lena bustled through, tray of food in one hand and sealed envelope in the other. “Here we are dear, the letter came in a couple weeks ago. I was so surprised to get one so early, usually I don’t start seeing letters till the end of winter or close to it. And I thought, well that’s a bit of an odd thing, mayhaps… oh good gracious! What on earth did those bastards do to your face ?!”

The bard’s smile aborted into a wince. “Merely a difference of professional opinion, darling. They very much disliked my work and decided to take personal offense. Fret not, Geralt was quick to bail my perfect posterior out of the fire!”

Lena handed over the letter, eyes still fixed on his bruises. “Quick he might’ve been, but seems to me they got a bit of a head start. You look after yourself Jaskier, and for the love of the gods do try to stay out of trouble.”

Jaskier clutched his chest in faux offense, calling after her retreating back as the brunette went to serve her patrons. “Me? Trouble? Perish the thought!” 

Geralt made a dubious noise and the bard smacked his chest with the letter. 

In between them, Ciri giggled. Jaskier tweaked her nose in retaliation. Rambling along as he always did, he cracked the seal and fished out the letter. “Oh hush, you! I am perfectly capable of staying out of trouble! Unfortunately, trouble seems quite addicted to my delightful presence. Which is why you so often find yourself rescuing me from all manner of ill gotten consequences. Really, Geralt. It’s hardly my fault that…”

Geralt could hear it, when his lover’s heart skipped a beat. “Jaskier?”

“...Geralt…” The bard’s heart and breathing picked up. Abruptly, he spun the page around and shoved it against Geralt’s chest. 

Geralt caught it before it could flutter to the floor, the paper crinkling in his grip. “Jask, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Mutely, Jaskier pulled Ciri into a hug, hiding his face in her ash blond hair.

Answers not forthcoming, Geralt looked to the letter for explanations.

Jaskier,

I know that you likely won’t see this letter until spring, but I’m honestly not sure how else to reach you. I’m not sure what you’ve done, but it’s stirred up a hornets nest here. I’ve had at least four different people try to ferret out if I knew where you were in the past two months. 

And I’m almost certain I’m being watched ! 

And I suspect the mages have been bribed to send any letters I pay them to deliver directly to whoever’s after you. Several missives to various friends have gone astray entirely, or arrived damaged, so subterfuge it is. I’m giving this letter to a friend of mine who’s a courier. He’ll take it along with the rest of his letters about six towns over and forward via mage to Lena. I’d have him send it to you directly, but I’m not sure if someone could track the letter and at this point I’m taking no chances. And I don’t want to risk him getting in trouble if a mage digs around in his head. So far as he’s aware, the letter is to an old friend who’s hiding from her sorcerer ex. The lengths I go to for you, you’d best have a good explanation when next we meet!

My griping to the side, there’s things you need to know.

Your mother (Merna, not the step-monster) sent a letter to Oxenfurt. It seems Nilfgaardian soldiers attacked the estate at Lettenhove. There were several injuries, and at least one death among the staff. But the worst of it is that they took Zofia, Dawid, and Jakub! Your parents seem to think the soldiers were taking all the local noble children hostage against the parents’ good behavior. But so far as any of the servants can tell, no one else’s children were taken. 

They have their suspicions where, but no proof.

I’ve told Merna that you’re not here, and likely in trouble yourself. She’s agreed to continue sending updates to me. I’ll forward more information once I have it. 

Please Jaskier, if it’s safe to reach out to you directly by mage letter, please write and let me know. And if you need anything…

The letter went on, but Geralt had seen all that was needful.

Geralt pulled Jaskier and Ciri back into a hug. Jaskier was shaking, soft little hiccups hitching his breath. Geralt could smell the acrid bite of fear, the bitter distress, and the salt of tears winding through the human’s scent. 

Heart breaking, he took a deep breath. In an undertone that only Jaskier and Ciri would be able to hear, he whispered, “We leave for Kaer Morhen in the morning.”

Jaskier’s head snapped up. “Geralt, my family… ”

“No. Jaskier, we can’t rescue them if we don’t know where they are.” He gave the bard’s shoulders a squeeze. “We will find them, Jask. But we’re not going to be stupid about it. Jaskier, you can barely walk . I’m doing the best I can to speed your healing, but you’re in no condition to go racing across the continent on a rescue mission. They shouldn’t be able to track you or Ciri but you’ll be safe regardless once we reach the keep. And Yen promised to meet us up there. We’ll go to the keep and wait for her. Once she arrives, we’ll send letters to Eskel, Lambert, Coen, and Aiden. See if they can track your siblings down. Nilfgaard is looking for the White Wolf and Jaskier the bard. Not the Dragon of Kaer Morhen, or our younger brother and his lover. We’ll rest and recover while we wait for news. And once we have a location, we’ll go and get them… Alright?”

Jaskier sniffled and produced a handkerchief to try and stem the tears. “Alright, dearheart. I trust you. But you’d best believe that I’m coming with you, once we know where those monsters took my family.”

Geralt had half a mind to argue the point but… it would waste time and be useless in the long run anyway. Jaskier rarely did what he was told, especially where Geralt and danger were concerned. It was one of his most endearing and frustrating traits all rolled into one. 

Besides, Geralt didn’t exactly have a leg to stand on. He’d react much the same if it was his siblings on the line.

Bonus Memes!

Chapter Text

Kiyan scowled, sipping at his mead.

He’d been having a marvelous time, enjoying his food and riding the high of a contract well done. Sure, it was the assassination of the local lord, but work was work. Contracts had been in short supply as of late, and assassination contracts always paid well. And even if he disliked the work, the Cat felt he was allowed to be proud of himself for the cleverness that had gone into the hit. 

After all, it was a very clever little setup, if he did say so himself. 

The lord was very fond of horseback riding, and went out every day. For Kiyan, disguising himself as a stablehand and readying the man’s horse had been child’s play. Embedding a small, fine tipped needle in the saddle, even easier. The poisoned needle would bury itself in the man’s inner thigh as soon as he mounted up and become lodged in the flesh there. With a poison as fast acting as that, and that close to a major artery, the fucker had been dead in less than a minute. His horse had barely taken three paces before he was swooning out of the saddle and cracking his head on the cobblestones. Kiyan had slipped away in the commotion, confident that the needle would go unnoticed and that the cause of death would be ruled as apoplexy or some other such nonsense.

The pig’s much battered and beleaguered wife and the three mistresses he kept on the side had all been extremely relieved to hear the job was done, and had paid him handsomely. Kiyan had bid them luck and gone to get the first meal in ages that he hadn’t had to cook for himself over a campfire. And everything had been fine! Until the Nilfgaardian soldiers had walked in. The rowdy lot had all ordered food and ale and proceeded to get uproariously drunk. Kiyan had been doing his best to ignore the obnoxious fuckwits for the better part of an hour or so. He could leave, but gods only knew when he’d next find work. 

And drunks were so easy to pickpocket…

“I’m telling you, that witch portaled the wolf an’ ‘is bard afore we caught up!”

Kiyan pricked up his ears. The wolf and his bard, was it? Kiyan would lay very good odds that they were talking about Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier. The Cat couldn’t give less of a fig about  Geralt of Rivia, the twice grassed golden boy of the Wolf School. 

But the bard was another matter. 

Over the course of the bard’s career traveling with the White Wolf, the entire witcher community (such as it was) had seen a shift in the way they were treated. It was gradual, especially in rural areas where superstition was stronger. But, slowly but surely, the instances where they were refused a bed or a meal purely for being a witcher began to decline. Aldermen had become more likely to pay a fair rate for their services. Melitell’s bountiful bosom, Kiyan couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard tell of a witcher being stoned out of a town. 

For that alone, he would’ve been inclined to think kindly of the bard.

But then had come Professor Pankratz’s students, kind, and fearless, and bold as brass. And after that, the advent of the lute marks. 

Kiyan had seen and heard more from his brothers in the past two years than in the prior decade! Gaetan, Schrodinger, Dragonfly, and more! All of them seeking out the lute marks and finding each other in the process. 

...It had broken his heart when Gaetan had whispered the news of Aiden’s death in a rowdy tavern, and he shuddered to think of how long it would’ve taken him to learn of it if he hadn’t run into his little brother in that lute marked tavern. He’d done better about keeping in touch with them in more recent years, either by leaving messages at Lutes they frequented, or mage letter when he had the coin and a lot to say.

And the messages lately all said that the bard and professor were one in the same, and squarely in trouble with Nilfgaard.

Kiyan wandered over to the bar and ordered another round. If the bar was coincidentally closer to the soldiers’ table, well, that was just a nice happenstance now wasn’t it? Said drunkards were still bickering with each other, heedless of the sharp witcher ears barely paces away.

“The fuck she did! Our mage would’a noticed if’n a portal ‘ad popped open!” A red faced soldier bellowed at the general table at large.

One of his compatriots slammed his tankard down, ale sloshing over the rim and staining the wood of the table. He jabbed a finger at the red faced fellow. “Fuck else would the whores’ sons ‘ave gotten off to? They on’y ‘ad the two horses atween ‘em! The wolf ‘as on foot, an’ the fucking bard couldn’t even stand by th’ time we was done with ‘im!”

Heat prickled through Kiyan like a flash fire, swift and deadly. It took everything he had to keep his posture loose and a little slouched, the very picture of a man halfway crawled into his cups. 

Keep up the disguise, Kiyan. Don’t let it slip.

The conversation meandered, as drunkards tended to do. But Kiyan got the gist. The soldiers had apparently ‘been assigned to assist a mage. A fucker by the name of Rience. If the soldiers were to be believed, the mage had run afoul of Queen Calanthe, and his sentence to the dungeons had been upheld even after the queen’s suicide and the burning of Cintra. To Kiyan’s understanding, there were a fair few who’s sentences had been overturned with the passing of the queen, so whatever Rience had done must’ve been something for them to uphold the sentence. 

Which begged the question of who had let him out. And why.

Fresh mead in hand, the Cat wandered to a new table, this one much closer to his targets. He threw a little bit of a weave into his walk, to better sell the idea that he was half soused already and working on the other half. Nose buried in his tankard, he couldn’t help but snicker. Soldiers gossiped like old washerwomen, and whined like toddlers.

Which was to say, every chance they got and exceedingly loudly, particularly when they were convinced they’d been wronged.

They pissed and moaned about the ‘fire fucker’ (a mage with a talent for flames, good to know), and how insufferable he was. Which wasn’t particularly helpful or enlightening, but was entertaining. The one old soldier was surprisingly inventive in his insults. But then the conversation had turned towards the bard again. There was no mention of where or how they’d caught him, talk revolved almost exclusively around the interrogation that had followed. They’d been ordered to beat the ever loving shit out of the bard, which they had, and when the bard failed to divulge what Rience wanted they’d been ordered to take up the straps instead.

“I’m… I’m not sure I could do that.” 

In a rare show of empathy, the red faced one patted the younger soldier roughly on the back. “Not ever’one’s cut out f’r that shit. Figure out who is, stand back an’ let ‘em at it. Bad enough, jus’ watchin’.”

The younger man tossed back another swallow of his ale. “I get why it had to be done, but just… I don’t know. The sounds he made when you started in on his feet. And his hands… ”

His hands?!

The fuck had these sorry sods done to the bard’s hands ?!

Kiyan stayed a little longer, but there weren’t many more details to be had. They moved on from the interrogation with muttered thanks that Rience hadn’t gotten around to burning the bard. Not that most of them had seemed to have had a problem with the idea, they just didn’t like the smell . Gods forbid that torture should smell unpleasant , and offend their delicate sensibilities . 

The man they were torturing probably wouldn’t have been wild about the smell either.

They pissed and moaned about the bard’s rescue by the White Wolf and a witch, and the mad chase across the landscape that had followed. And then abruptly the wolf and the two humans (the bard and a princess?! Fuck, what was the missing Cintran princess doing there?) had just disappeared at some point. And none of them were sure precisely when . There had been an illusion running ahead of the witch’s mount, and no one had realized it was an illusion until Rience had hit it with a fireball and dispelled it. After that, the witch had given up all subtleties and rode like a bat out of hell. They'd eventually lost her when dusk had fallen, and she had somehow slipped away in the moonlit shadows.

More power to her.

Kiyan tossed back the last of his mead and made his way out of the tavern, stumbling 'drunkenly' into as many of the soldiers as he could manage and picking their pockets while he was at it. They deserved it for all the hurt and trouble they'd caused the bard, and you never knew when a few extra coins might come in handy. He tucked the various stolen bits and bobs into a hidden pocket for later sorting (first rule of pickpocketing, Kiyan. Never look down at your hands). He would learn nothing more from listening in on them .

And besides, there was still Rience.

There wasn’t a witcher alive or dead who wouldn’t have agreed that it was a rare mage indeed that wasn’t a monster. And Rience certainly fit the bill. He wouldn’t be getting paid for it, but so far as Kiyan was concerned the fire fucker had put his own name on the contract when he’d tortured the bard. And like pretty much every other witcher on the continent, Kiyan owed the bard a debt. 

Already mentally shuffling through his supplies and planning how to get at Rience, Kiyan spun a small silver dagger on his fingertips. Slit pupils widened to take in more of the early evening moonlight, and a giddy sort of joy tingled through his veins.

Time to go hunting.

After all, it was a witcher’s job to kill monsters.

The Killer was once again living up to its name.

Despite the steepness of the trail. The sheer drops into deep ravines, and the bitter cold. Despite the narrowness of the trail, the warning scent of icy rain in the air, and the monsters and predators that lived and hunted on the mountain’s slopes. Despite all of that , the mountain had yet to make any real, concerted effort to try and kill them yet. Hopefully that forbearance would continue.

Geralt huffed, glancing over his shoulder to check on his charges. 

Both were huddled up in their cloaks. Winter was still a ways away, but up in the mountains the air was already turning brisk, and the wind was strong over the exposed stone of the path. 

Roach grumbled, nosing at Ciri in hopes of treats or affection.

The princess smiled, switching the reigns to her other hand to reach up and stroke the mare’s neck. The mare whuffled at her pockets, soft lips nibbling. Ciri giggled, pushing her nose away. Much to Roach’s indignation. But there was no sign of the aggression his bad tempered mare was famous for. Ciri had wasted no time in wrapping Roach around her little finger. Much to Jaskier’s chagrin and Geralt’s continuing amusement.

Jaskier, on the other hand, was miserable.

With his injuries, Jaskier had no choice but to ride. Much to his consternation. The man’s face had been a mask of guilt near constantly throughout the entire climb whenever he looked at Geralt and Ciri slowly stumping up the trail. Normally Geralt wouldn’t allow riders, with as narrow as the trail was in some places it was safer for everyone to go on foot and hug the wall. If she carried anything, Roach would carry additional supplies. With Jaskier unable to walk any distance on his own, carrying the additional supplies was relegated to Geralt. 

On the other side of the coin, Ciri had been a trooper. 

His child surprise hadn’t once complained or held them back. And Geralt was so proud of her. She’d done so very well climbing the Killer. Instead of constantly having to stop for rest breaks, Geralt found himself with the opposite problem, having to watch her to ensure she wasn’t pushing herself beyond her limits. And even then, breaks were ‘for Roach’ and so Jaskier could ‘stretch his legs’. Despite having been a pampered princess not even a few months back, Ciri had tackled the Killer with all the determination Geralt would’ve expected from the trainees decades prior. There was so much of her parents and grandparents in her, and it showed.

Once he got over the shock of having a child in the keep again, Vesemir would love her. Geralt wondered how long it would take for Ciri to call him grandpa. Or if Jaskier or one of the other wolves would put it out there first. And what the old wolf’s reaction would be. He regarded all the surviving wolves as his sons, but he’d never had a ‘grandchild’ before. Geralt couldn’t wait to see how his brothers, Aiden, and Coen reacted to being called ‘Uncle’. Whatever their reactions, they wouldn’t be nearly so composed as Vesimer. Which would make them all the more entertaining.

Ciri caught his gaze, and the smile turned up a notch. “Are we there yet?”

Jaskier burst into laughter, and Geralt sighed. His daughter and bard got on a little bit too well. They fed each other’s energy and egged on their shenanigans. And, he was quickly coming to learn, their puppy eyes were almost impossible to say no to. Something both were aware of and abused at key opportune moments to talk him into sweets, extra cuddles, or whatever else they wanted. Geralt was dreading the chaos the pair would cause over the winter once they’d found allies in his brothers. Lambert and Eskel would shamelessly encourage them. As would Aiden… and Coen too, most likely. Gods, Vesemir was going to be the token sane person in the keep, wasn’t he? Geralt almost felt bad for the man.

Future mischief aside, he shook his head at the pair. “Almost. Kaer Morhen is beyond that rise up there. A little less than an hour and…” 

The vibration of his medallion cut through his words and Geralt spun back towards the path ahead. A loud crack heralded a bright flash of light and the arrival of a sealed letter on the trail ten feet ahead of Roach’s hooves.  The breeze carried the scent of chaos tinged with cloves. Not a scent he knew. Yen’s magic smelled of lavender and gooseberries. And Triss’ always carried the scent of rosemary and green apple. It was possible that one of Jaskeir’s friends or Geralt’s brothers had coughed up the coin for a mage letter. But with Nilfgaard dogging their steps all the way from Cintra, they were all feeling wary. 

Geralt eyed the unassuming letter. “Ciri, stay close to Roach. Jaskier, back Roach away and stay close to the wall. I can’t see anything suspicious, but I don’t know the scent.”

“Entirely fair, darling. Frankly my own trust in strange mages is rather at an all time low… Do be careful, Geralt.” Jaskier muttered. 

Humming in acknowledgement, Geralt cautiously approached the letter. 

Despite the initial flair from his medallion, the letter didn’t appear to have any other active magic attached to it. Not that Geralt could sense. His medallion was still, and the scent of cloves was already fading in the fresh mountain breeze. Nor could he see anything that might hint at more. Just Jaskier’s name on the front of the envelope in a bold hand. His full name. ‘Professor Julian Alfred Pankratze’. Not ‘Jaskier the bard’. So not from Priscilla then. It could’ve been from Henrik, but Geralt was almost certain that the rotund little professor would’ve addressed it to ‘Professor Pankratz’ and left it at that. Or perhaps just ‘Julek’ and have done. Geralt couldn’t think of any of Jaskier’s other friends that would full name him… But in all honesty, with as much of a social butterfly as he was, the letter really could be from anyone. 

Casting a glance back, the witcher scooped it off the ground and cracked the seal. Not so much as a squeak of protest sounded behind him. Unfolding the letter offered up new scents. Male. Some sort of perfume that, frankly, did not compliment the man. A tinge of oil, the type used to care for armor. And a splash of a red wine, the evidence of a spill sprinkled across the bottom corner of the page. Not one of the decadently expensive wines, but nowhere near the bottom of the barrel. So either higher on the food chain, or living above his means. The paper was heavier, so likely someone moderately important.

Unable to deduce more, he set to read the contents.

Professor Julian Alfred Pankratze, Viscount de Lettenhove, and renowned bard,

You are hereby informed that your younger siblings have been taken into Nilfgaardian custody. No harm has come to them as of yet. However, I strongly advise you to caution in your future actions. The empire is hardly forgiving of spies and traitors, of which we will consider you both should you continue to oppose us. 

Should you care for your siblings’ continued health and safety, you will turn yourself in to the empire at your earliest opportunity. From there you will be ferried to the capital.

In addition, once there you will cooperate with the magistrate and provide any and all information and assistance in our search for the lost Princess Cirilla of Cintra and her current captor, Geralt of Rivia. 

Furthermore, in the interim you are directed to cease any and all performances of the songs in your repertoire which make mention of said witcher. The bloody Butcher of Blaviken is beneath contempt, and spreading songs that extol his dubious virtues is vulgar and distasteful…

Geralt took a deep breath. 

Wordlessly, he offered it to Jaskier. The bard plucked it from his fingers. Cornflower eyes scanned the page, face growing paler with each passing second. When he had finished, he bowed his head, the letter crumpling in his grip as he  clutched tight to the saddle. 

“We need to find them, Geralt. And quickly.” He nibbled on his lip, eyes skimming over the landscape yet taking in none of it, before snapping back to Geralt once more. “They won’t take kindly to delay. And if I don’t appear by winter, they’ll likely start hurting my siblings just to prove a point.”

Geralt set a hand on his knee. “We’ll find them, Jask. But not tonight.”

“Not tonight.” The bard blew out a shaky breath. Drawing strength from some inner well, he sat upright in the saddle and clumsily stuffed the letter into the gap between the buttons of his doublet. It didn’t go smoothly, crumpling further and making an awkward bump under the fabric. Jaskier patted it, as if that would flatten it out, and forced a grin. “Right! I believe you were saying we were almost there, Geralt? I have to say, I didn’t miss the dreary rigors of the Killer in our year away. I’ll be glad to ignore it as soon as possible in favor of those delectable hot springs you wolves keep squirrelled away beneath the keep. And Vesemir’s cooking ! I love you, dearheart, but you are an abysmal cook in comparison…”

The cheerful patter could have fooled anyone who didn’t know him well, but for Geralt it was clear as day that it was forced. Heart aching for his friend, he squeezed the man’s knee, tweaked Ciri’s nose playfully, and set off up the Killer again. 

Plans consumed the entirety of his thoughts as he climbed. 

And they continued to do so. He roused himself at the gates, introducing Ciri to Vesemir, and explaining that Jaskier was injured and would need assistance moving about. But then he was right back to it, contemplating how they might determine the childrens’ location without tipping their hand or risking Jaskier’s safety while he tended to Roach and hauled their belongings and spare supplies inside. Jaskier and Ciri had already gone in with Vesemir, no doubt headed for the hot springs to warm up and put on clean clothes after their grueling hike.

The old wolf was waiting for him once he got inside.

Vesemir gestured him gruffly to a seat the second he set foot in the kitchen. Geralt didn’t argue. He slumped down on the bench at the table with a heavy sigh. It only seemed to worry Vesemir more. The old witcher puttered about the kitchen, adding a few things to the stew pot to account for the extra mouths he hadn’t been expecting to feed. Once that was squared away to his satisfaction, he took the lid off a smaller pot. A plume of steam rose into the air, and Geralt hummed in appreciation when the scent of apples and spices curled through his lungs. 

Vesemir flashed him a smile and fetched a ladle. 

Kitchen in order, his mentor thumped one of the cups of mulled cider down in front of him and took a seat across the way. He sipped at his own for a moment, then heaved a bone weary sigh. 

“Alright. Out with it. What’s happened to chase you up here with a battered bard and a girl child in tow?”

Vren huffed in amusement as he watched his fellow witchers stir.

Mikolaj had taken the first watch, and Eadelmarr the second, with Vren to take the final watch until noon. It was risky, staying in one place so long while the Nilfgaardians were surely hunting for their missing prisoners. He glanced at the oilcloth sack he’d carried the night before and amusement curled through him.

Well, not just their prisoners. 

Taking the children and Andrej had been a good first strike. Blowing the holy hells out of their fort had been a resounding second volley. And the information he’d copied down had the potential to really fuck up the Nilfgaardians’ day. Vren’s little bit of petty thievery wasn’t much more than a parting shot in comparison.

He wondered if they’d even noticed it was gone yet.

Mikolaj flopped out of his bedroll with a groan and somehow laboriously dragged himself upright. There was a lot of incoherent grumbling involved, and Vren was tempted to toss a pebble at the man to see if he would even notice. That would probably be mean though. Scrubbing at his face, Mikolaj stumbled away from camp. He was back several minutes later, slightly more aware.

Vren tossed him a cheeky wave from his spot by the fire.

The Manticore fetched something from his packs, then came back to drop down beside Vren. Breathing in the scent of breakfast, he made an approving hum, and set about his self appointed task. The items he’d gone to fetch turned out to be some sort of kettle with an odd lid and a tin cup, a dark glass jar with a stopper, and a cylindrical wooden device with a crank handle on top that Vren was unfamiliar with. 

The kettle immediately went on the fire to warm, presumably already filled. The tin cup was set aside. Then Mikolaj opened up the wooden device. The inside was metal and fluted, designed to funnel something deeper into the mechanism. But for what purpose? 

Vren leaned closer, curiosity piqued.

Mikolaj huffed in amusement and held it where he could see it better. “ ‘s a grinder.” He mumbled. 

Fetching the glass jar closer, he popped the cork out and shook a small amount of dark little beans into the grinder. The scent was strong and bitter, but not displeasing. Vren had never caught the like of it before. Mikolaj cast about himself, then heaved a world weary sigh when he evidently didn’t find whatever he’d misplaced. 

“Here, hold this.”

Bemused, Vren took the grinder.

Mikolaj went back to his bags, grumbling curses to himself. When he came back, it was with another darkly colored jar. Instead of the quiet rattle of beans, this one didn’t make a sound. He popped the cork out of that one too, spooned a little of a coarse black and brown powder into the grinder over the beans, then set it aside as well. The powder at least, Vren somewhat recognized. It was made up of spices. He could pick up clove, and a good waft of ginger. There was something else in there, and Vren was sure he’d scented it before. But for the life of him he couldn’t think of what to call it. 

The Manticore snapped the lid on the grinder and set to vigorously winding the handle. From within the wooden hull, a crunching noise sounded. It quieted quickly, and Mikolaj made a satisfied noise. He passed it back to Vren to hold, then put the corks back in the jars and checked his weird kettle. Finding it to his satisfaction, he pulled it out of the fire and removed the lid. It had a long metal rod with layers of perforated metal circles on the end. They probably rested on the bottom, or close to it, while inside the kettle. 

“Here, trade me.”

The contents of the grinder were unceremoniously dumped into the water, and the cap (with the rod pulled all the way up so the discs were right up against the underside of the lid) was snapped back on. Mikolaj pressed his palm to the top of the rod and slowly pushed it down again. 

“Do I dare ask what that is?” Vren teased, when the Manticore set it aside. “Because I’ve heard of people eating strange things, but whatever that bean sludge is, it’s not food. If that’s your breakfast it’s a paltry one. I made porridge, and I’ll even promise to share …” He nudged the Manticore playfully.

“Coffee.” Mikolaj huffed. 

Vren gestured helplessly. “And that is…?”

“A drink. But it needs to steep… Are you going to keep scrutinizing my beverage, or are you going to stir that pot before the porridge burns?”

Vren hissed a curse and went back to stirring their breakfast. Across the fire, Dawid rolled over and bumped into Eadelmarr. The diminutive witcher startled awake, hand instinctively going for the dagger at his belt. He blinked owlishly at them, then looked down at the boy that was still attempting to fathom why he was on the ground.

Dawid peeked over his shoulder. “Um… hi?”

“Good morning.” Eadelmarr ruffled Dawid’s hair. “Wake your siblings. Unless my nose deceives me, Vren has made us breakfast. It would be a shame to let it fall cold.” 

“Oh!” Dawid rolled back to the bedroll he’d shared with Zofia and Jakub and gave his sister a shake. “Zofia! Zofia! Breakfast!”

With a groan, the teenager stirred. It took several minutes to unearth herself from the blankets, her efforts hampered by Jakub’s half-asleep attempts to bundle himself further into them. With such large blankets, the boy had a lot of material to wind himself in. They would have to get a bedroll or two for the children as soon as possible, Vren would very much like his back. He’d paid good money for a bedroll that was actually big enough for his large frame, and while he didn’t begrudge the children the use of it, no one liked sleeping on the hard ground.

“Jakub come on … Dawid, help me.”

Giggling, the older boy peeled back the oil cloth that made up the outer layer of the roll (the better to ward off rain or sea spray or whatever else have you). The layers of wool blankets inside were somewhat trickier, as Jakub had well and  truly cocooned himself in them. But eventually, after a colossal effort, they managed to unearth Jakub and coax him out. 

Uncovered, the hair of the thick bear pelt in the bottom of the roll ruffled with the early morning breeze. The thick fur acted as both padding and insulation against the hard ground and its cold. Normally Vren would situate it in between the wool and oilcloth, but the children had put it fur side up inside the wool. Not that it mattered much. So long as the oilcloth was on the outside, the order you wrapped yourself up in didn’t bear much consequence.

Vren pulled the porridge pot off the fire and started spooning out portions into the bowls. They only had the three bowls between them, traveling alone as they did an extra bowl was just useless added weight for their horses to carry. They were definitely going to have to rethink that approach now that they had three more mouths to feed. For now though, they were just going to have to take turns with the bowls and spoons. 

Eadelmarr sniffed at the air, gold eyes zeroing in on the kettle. “Coffee?” 

“Yeah. Want any?” Mikolaj’s eyebrows raised, curious.

The Gryphon was already waving the offer away. “No, thank you. I had the opportunity to try the beverage while filling a contract for a southern lord. Such a bitter brew was not to my preferences.” 

Dawid looked up from his bowl. “Father drinks coffee. But he doesn’t like the bitter taste either. He puts milk and some honey in his.”

Mikolaj wrinkled his nose. “That just sounds like the ruination of a good coffee. Adding spices is one thing, but milk ? I would’ve thought the coffee would curdle it.”

“It doesn’t.” Zofia confirmed. “I would have thought so too, as bitter as it is. Mother prefers a thick sweet cream with hers. Honey too.” She furrowed her brows thoughtfully. “When we visited the capitol, father made mention that one of the mages would conjure ice and drink it chilled during the heat of summer. But I couldn’t say for certain, I never saw it.”

Mikolaj balked. “Iced?! Now that’s just heresy.” 

Grumbling to himself about the insanity of northerners, he pulled the kettle out of the fire and poured himself a cup. He sat back, breathing in the steam before settling in to enjoy the beverage while he waited his turn with the bowls. When he’d drained it, he poured another and offered it to Eadelmarr. 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try? Mine’s spiced to take some of the bitter edge off.”

Eadelmarr considered, then shrugged. “Very well.” 

Much as Mikolaj had, Eadelmarr took a moment to sniff at the steam. His eyebrows rose, and he tentatively took a small sip. Blinking, he gave the scuffed up tin cup a startled look. “That is… substantially more palatable than what I tried before.” He handed it back.

Mikolaj chuffed out a laugh. “You likely had it without additives of any kind. It’s most potent in that form, but the taste leaves a lot to be desired. Particularly if brewed strongly. I carry a blend of spices with me that I add in while grinding the beans. Much better taste. Vren? You want a try?”

Humming in assent, Vren took the offered cup and sucked down some of the brew. It beat out the taste of the witcher potions, but given that most of those tasted like week old gull ass (or worse, in some cases), that was a pretty low bar. There was the bitterness that Eadelmarr had mentioned. But there was a hint of spice from the ginger, and the touch of clove paired well. But there was a sweetness, and a subtle earthy taste that he hadn’t been expecting. It was probably the mystery spices, whatever they were. The scent was delightful, he was definitely asking after the other spices later.

“Not bad.” He passed the cup back.

Zofia handed over her empty bowl, and Vren refilled it and passed it over to Eadelmarr. The teenager wrapped her arms around her knees, watching them thoughtfully. 

“So what happens to us now? You said you were friends with Julek?”

As Eadelmarr was busy with breakfast, and Mikolaj was communing with his coffee, Vren answered. “Not friends exactly, none of us have met him. But he did something very kind for us, and we all decided that we would return the favor. If we take you back to your parents’ estate, odds are good that the Nilfgaardians will just sweep through and snatch you away again. You won’t be safe there. So instead, we’ll be taking you to your brother.”

Dawid shoved the last bite of porridge in his mouth and passed over his bowl and spoon. “Where is he? Even before the soldiers took us, we hadn’t heard from him in a while.”

Eadelmarr hummed. “The soldiers are after him too. But several years back, he made the acquaintance of a Wolf witcher. Unless I miss my guess, he will most likely have sought sanctuary with the Wolves.”

Dawid turned to better face the Gryphon. “Wolves?”

“Our schools.” Mikolaj clarified. He accepted the bowl Vren handed him with a nod of thanks. “There were once seven schools of witchers, scattered all across the continent. Each named for some form of beast. The Wolves have a stronghold called Kaer Morhen in the mountains of Kaedwen. If your brother has any sense, he will have gone there.”

“What are the names of the schools?” Dawid pressed.

Eadelmarr chuckled. “There are Gryphons, Wolves, Bears, Cranes, Manticores, Cats, and Vipers.”

“What school are you all from?” Jacob eagerly piped up.

Vren gently took the empty bowl from him and thumbed a bit of porridge off his cheek. “Well, I am of the Cranes. Our stronghold was very originally named Monte Crane, and was located in Toussaint.” He pointed the ladle at Eadelmarr. “Eadelmarr is a Gryphon. Their stronghold, Kaer Seren, was located in Poviss.” He tipped his head towards Mikolaj. “Miko here is a Manticore. He’s from the deserts of Zerrikania, and their school had two strongholds on either side of the desert… I’m sorry Miko, I can’t recall the names.”

“They were called Behelt Nar and Bialsuf Alsarea. Only Behelt Nar remains standing, and that only barely.” He arched an eyebrow at Vren. “Miko?”

Vren smirked around a mouthful of breakfast. “You and Eadelmarr’s names are mouthfuls. Marr didn’t object when I gave him a nickname.”

The Manticore rolled his eyes, but didn’t fuss.

“Either way.” Eadelmarr cut in, pulling the conversation back on track. “We will be taking you and your brothers to Kaer Morhen. If your brother is not there, I dare say he will be soon. You will be safe there. Which reminds me, your mother Merna entrusted letters to us. A moment please.” 

He set aside his bowl and went to fetch his saddlebags.

“We will need to send word to Madame Merna as well. We did promise to inform her as soon as possible once we had rescued the children.” Eadelmarr commented quietly, watching Zofia lead her brothers behind the nearby bushes with the changes of clothes the servants had sent with them. 

Mikolaj was grateful Eadelmarr had thought to ask for those, given the state of their current clothes. The filthy things would be better off on a burn pile, they weren’t worth the laundering. The look of sheer relief on Zofia’s face at the sight of clean clothes was heartbreaking. They’d have to find a place to stop and let the children take a proper bath sooner rather than later. That dip they took in the ocean had no doubt helped, but they needed actual soap.

“You promised. I said no such thing.” Mikolaj teased. “But yeah, I suppose we could do that. We’ll need to take a contract soon, though. Unless Vren has a full purse to chip into the cause, we will be short of funds when we reach the next town. The children need shoes, a bath, and their own bowls.”

Eadelmarr tossed his bedroll onto the back of Dove’s saddle and tied it down. “They will require bedrolls of their own as well. I cannot imagine Vren would prefer the hard ground indefinitely.”

Vren swung his own oversized saddle up onto Tempest’s back with a grunt. “Not particularly. Funny you should mention a heavy purse though. Mikolaj, mind grabbing that oilcloth bag and having a peek?” 

What was that supposed to mean?

Curious, the Manticore pushed off the tree he’d been leaning on and meandered over to the pile of gear waiting to be secured on Tempest’s back. It was always interesting to see what sort of kit other witchers carried, and Mikolaj wasn’t afraid to admit that the short spears with the odd wooden handles had him curious. There were four of them, and they were half the size they should be for a man Vren’s size. All four fit snugly in a pair of leather sheaths that hung off the front of Tempest’s saddle, hanging down across her shoulders and fastening to her breast band to keep them from bouncing when she moved. 

He’d ask later, for now he had a task.

The oilcloth bag was the same one he’d carried on their little adventure the night before. Having seen him pull rope, pulleys, and steel hooks out of it, Mikolaj had assumed that was all it was for. And indeed, those were at the top of the bag. But underneath… Mikolaj set them aside, brow furrowed. 

Was that fucking velvet ?

It certainly appeared to be. A big wad of dark blue velvet with some sort of fancy gold trim along the edge, and a heavy black linen lining. Whatever it was, it would’ve been expensive for the velvet alone, and would fetch a pretty penny in the right market. The Manticore tried to tug it out. It was far heavier than it should be. 

“Vren…?”

The Crane didn’t even pause in tacking up his mare. “Open it. The velvet’ll fetch a good price, but what’s important is what it’s cushioning.”

Finished with his own mare and the stallion, Eadelmarr came over to watch.

Intrigued now, Mikolaj hurried to lift the heavy bundle out and get it unwrapped. Flipping the final layer back, Mikolaj froze. Over his shoulder, he could hear Eadelmarr suck in a shocked breath. Which was entirely fair, seeing as how his own mouth was hanging open so wide someone could’ve pranced a goat through it. But by all the gods, goddesses, and everything in between, what other reaction were they supposed to have?!

It wasn’t every day you found out a witcher was carrying a veritable fortune around in a short, fancy velvet curtain! 

Gold and silver ingots gleamed against the black linen lining. Several pouches lay beside them, and Mikolaj scrambled to open them. One pouch contained gemstones in various sizes and varieties. All of them were of good quality from what little Mikolaj’s scant knowledge could tell. The other pouches contained coins, each pouch holding a different denomination. All of them of high value. Such an embarrassment of riches was far more than Mikolaj could ever remember making in a year. Probably several years if Mikolaj were honest.

His head snapped up. “Vren, what in the nine hells is this ?!”

Finished with his mount, the Crane folded his arms across his chest and leaned against her hip. A grin slowly crept across his face. He nodded at the expensive pile. 

“ That is the entirety of the purse of Cormorant Island Fort. The ingots sent from the Nilfgaardian capital to fund their supplies. The gemstones intended to pay for upkeep and repairs to the fort, and to secure the services of the sorcerers and sorceresses. And every single coin intended for the wages of the soldiers employed therein.”

Holy hells, he’d robbed the Nilfgaardians fucking blind. 

Vren shrugged, seeming to find amusement in their (surely gobsmacked ) expressions. “Seemed to me, we had greater need of it, and could put it to far better use caring for the children they traumatized than they ever would. Besides, we’ll travel faster if we don’t have to stop to earn coin as often.”

The hilarity of what he’d done washed over Mikolaj in a wave, and the Manticore threw his head back and laughed , body shaking with the force of it. The loss of their funds would’ve been a hell of a blow no matter what the witchers had done to the bastards. But piled on top of the crippling of the fort, the sinking of every single boat they owned, the loss of the mages experiments and their expensive ingredients and equipment, coupled with the escape of their hostages… Well, in those circumstances, the total loss of their funds was devastating . 

Oh to be a fly on the wall of that conversation when whoever was in command had to explain that shitshow to their superiors.

“Well,” He managed to gasp out, “that certainly solves our money problems.”

“It truly could not have happened to more deserving individuals.” Eadelmarr chortled in agreement, which only set the other two off cackling again. You knew you were scummy human beings when even the honorable Gryphons agreed that the theft of your entire livelihood was completely and wholly deserved . 

Still choking on his merriment, Mikolaj set to wrapping their nest egg back up in the curtain.

“What’s so funny?”

Completely oblivious of the international incident committed on his and his siblings’ behalf, Jakub skipped up to the three of them, looking much better in his clean clothes. Nothing fancy, Mikolaj was relieved to note. Good quality to be sure, but the estate servants had erred on the side of practicality. They were going to stand out enough as it was without visibly belonging to the noble classes. His older siblings trailed behind him, equally curious, though making a meagre attempt to hide it. 

Mikolaj shoved the bundle back into the oilcloth. “Vren played a little prank on the soldiers, is all. You ready to get back on the road, kits?” 

“Yeah! But first, I gotcha something!”

The Manticore paused. “For me?” Jakub nodded excitedly, hands behind his back and bouncing on his toes. Slowly, Mikolaj set the oilcloth sack aside. “Whatever for, kit? You don’t need to gift me anything.”

Gleefully ignoring the statement, Jakub grinned and shoved out one little fist to reveal his treasure. Clutched in his hand was a white fan shaped shell the size of the child’s fist, ridges running from the soft rounded point out to the scalloped edges. Gingerly taking it from the boy, Mikolaj flipped it over. The bowl of the shell was a bright creamy orange, fading out into a soft delicate pink at the edges. 

“It’s… It’s beautiful, Jakub. But why?” 

“You’d never seen the the sea before.” Jakub chattered cheerfully, as if it really was that simple. “And Julek always says that first times deserve souvenirs! The first time I ever got to see it, Julek told us all to pick out special shells to keep as reminders of our trip. Dawid found a big one the size of my head! And Julek found a really neat one that looked like a star! And he gave it to me to keep, on account of it was red, and red’s my favorite color. It was my favorite. And I wanted to make sure you got a souvenir too. But we didn’t have a lotta time, and it was awful dark. So I couldn’t see colors very well. But I picked out a big one for you! I got some for Marr an’ Vren too, but you got the biggest one ‘cause it was your first time to the beach.”

The Manticore swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. “Thank you, Jakub. You didn’t have to do that, and I appreciate it.” He ruffled the boy’s hair and gently nudged him towards Eadelmarr. Let the kid dredge up feelings in the Gryphon for a bit, Mikolaj wasn’t repressed but he needed a minute. “We need to get moving soon, so you’d best hurry up and give them theirs so they can pack them away.”

Jakub darted in to steal a hug, then skipped away to present Eadelmarr with his seashell. 

Mikolaj ran his thumb over the creamy ridges, watching as Jakub graced Eadelmarr with a dark brown shell with creamy spots. The spots were pretty, he explained, and he thought that Eadelmarr would like it. And that he deserved something nice to make him feel better after getting sick like he had. Then he bounced along to Vren and presented him with a small cream colored shell, proudly announcing he’d picked a small one so Vren could wear it in his hair.

Mikolaj could barely recall the last time he had received a gift. Let alone from a human. If he had to guess, the last time he had received a gift might have been from one of his younger brothers. A sweet bread he’d made over a winter, if Mikolaj remembered right. 

When they set out that afternoon, the sea shell was tucked away in his saddlebags. Safely wrapped up in several clothing items to assure that it came to no harm.

Jaskier’s hands trembled.

Yet another mage letter had arrived, addressed to him. It had only been four days since the last letter from Nilfgaard, informing him of their demands for his siblings’ safety. And Eskel, Coen, Lambert, and Aiden barely had their boots on the ground. They hadn’t had time yet to start tracking down his siblings' whereabouts. 

So who was sending him a mage letter? 

Could it be Pricilla, with an update? Or perhaps Merna? Had one of Geralt’s brothers stumbled across something? Was it the Nilfgaardians, with further threats and demands? Had… had something happened to his siblings? 

Geralt wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Whatever happens, we will face it together.” He reminded him firmly.

Jaskier leaned into the hold. “I know, dearheart. Thank you.” He swallowed hard, and cracked the wax seal. The paper he pulled out of the envelope was lightweight and slightly discolored. A faulty batch, probably. Cheaply made and inexpensive for the common folk. Not the costly paper the Nilfgaardians’ missive had been penned on. That was promising. Better for Jaskier’s anxiety ridden mind at the moment, certainly.

Familiar penmanship flowed across the paper.

The bard sagged in relief. “Oh gods be kind. It’s from Merna. My, um, my mother. The one who raised me, just to be clear, not either of the women who married my father. Priscilla must have told her it was okay to write to me here.”

The witcher hummed acknowledgment. “What does she say?”

“Right! Right, reading it would probably be helpful. Let’s see, uh… Dear Julek, I’ve missed you… I really should make an effort to write to her more often, even if I can’t visit. Too risky. If I ever set foot back in Lettenhove I’m almost sure my parents would lock the doors behind me in an attempt to force me into taking my ‘proper place’ on the estate. Which, I’d rather die, frankly. They’d have me married off to some spoiled little thing with a perfect pedigree and about the same amount of sense the gods saw fit to bestow upon a particularly dull witted ornamental fish. Pretty to look at, but they wouldn’t survive without someone to see to it…”

“ Jaskier ,” Geralt cut in, doing his best not to laugh. “The letter?”

The bard flushed and hurriedly scanned the letter. “Right, of course… Let’s see, I missed you, etcetera… Priscilla has already informed you of your brothers’ and sister’s kidnapping, and I shan’t belabor a grim point you are already well aware of. However, I felt I must inform you of a curious pair that passed through Lettenhove. Two witchers. One dark haired and clearly of one of the southern countries. Mettina maybe, or perhaps somewhere thereabouts. The other was quite short, with copper hair and a short beard. I would have thought him a tall dwarf, but he was proportioned as a human, rather than the broad stocky build all delvers seem to possess. They had somehow heard of the plans to kidnap the children, and had come to prevent it. They were too late, as I’m sure you’ve surmised, but they did not let that deter them. They asked for a few items of clothing for your siblings and then were on their way, promising to rescue them…”

Jaskier’s voice trailed off.

“Jaskier?”

The bard just shook his head, bewildered. “I don’t… Geralt, despite my love of witchers, I can count on my hands the number I have met over the years. The vast majority of which number amongst your family and friends. I haven’t the faintest idea who these two are! Why would they…?”

Geralt bumped his forehead against Jaskier’s temple. “Jaskier. Think back to when you taught your students to treat us with kindness. Did you specify which witchers deserved that treatment?”

Jaskier made an offended noise. He lightly smacked Geralt’s shoulder in admonishment, he’d worked damn hard to raise the man’s self esteem. “Of course not! Everyone deserves to be treated like a person, no one has the right to pick and choose who is a person and who isn’t! I wanted them to choose kindness, always , I couldn’t say ‘except for these boils upon the asscheeks of humanity over here’...!”

“Jaskier!” Geralt choked on a laugh, the startled, throaty one that was one of Jaskier’s favorites. 

“What! You know there are people like that! The headmaster of Oxenfurt for one. A great many empty-headed nobility for another.”

The witcher laid a hand across his mouth. 

Not as entertaining a method of shutting him up, but other methods often didn’t leave much room for conversation afterwards. 

The look Geralt gave him was sharp but fond. “You would help the witchers of the world, out of the kindness of your heart. And because it was the right thing to do.” He paused, visibly choosing his words. “Dozens upon dozens of witchers saw that kindness. They responded to it. They wrote you letters and traveled to Oxenfurt in hopes of thanking you in person. And yet you’re surprised that they would try to help? What does it matter, that they’ve never set eyes on you and your family? You never set eyes upon any of them .” He smiled. “You were kind to them. And it is the right thing to do.”

“Geralt, I…” Jaskier sniffled, heart full to bursting. He dragged a handkerchief out of a pocket and dabbed at his eyes. Then he swatted at Geralt with it. “Oh, you! I can spend days trying to coax more than ten words out of you, and then you go and do this ! Notify me at least three days in advance, Geralt! I need to brace myself when the mood to be voluble strikes you! You can’t just drop it in my lap without a word of warning!” 

His scapegoat of a best friend snickered. “I’ll bear it in mind.” He jerked his chin at the letter. “Did your mother happen to mention the names of the witchers that came through? You might not know who they are, but I might. The Mettina one at any rate, I’ve never met a witcher short enough to pass for a tall dwarf.”

“That is an odd one, I’ll grant you. Though, fair warning, Mother really is terrible with names. She’ll pick them up quick if it’s someone she sees frequently, but if it’s someone she’s only met once in passing, we might be fresh out of luck, Geralt.”

“I’ll bear it in mind. If she mentioned the schools, I can tell you exactly which country they came from at any rate.”

Jaskier hummed an acknowledgement, an unfortunate habit he had picked up from Geralt. Much to the bastard’s amusement. He scanned back through the letter for his place, then kept reading. Not that there was much more, his mother wasn’t a prolific writer. Having been sold into slavery as a child, she hadn’t learned until she was an adult, a young twenty something listening in on his lessons when he learned to read and write. Her performance as his nursemaid was what had eventually led to his freedom. One of the few genuinely good things his birth mother had ever done, so far as Jaskier was concerned. 

The other was make Merna his nursemaid in the first place.

He’d been overjoyed when she’d agreed to stay on and help in the kitchens when his parents to old to require her services. And then overjoyed again when his stepmother had become pregnant with Zofia and Merna had agreed to act as nursemaid again for the new baby. Zofia, Dawid, and Jakub had been truly blessed to have her, their own birth mother had been even less attentive than Jaskier’s had been.

“... She doesn’t mention names, Dearheart. Though she does mention that they were named for monsters?”

Geralt stared into the fireplace for several moments, gold eyes shining in the dancing light of the fire. “Members of the Gryphon or Manticore schools perhaps. The rest of the schools were all named for naturally occurring beasts.”

That piqued Jaskier’s interest. “Manticores? Where are they from? I know from Coen that the Gryphons were from up in Povis, but I’ve never met a Manticore. And you’ve only ever mentioned them in passing. What sort of fighters are they? Do they have a reputation like the Gryphons for being honorable or the Cats for being a little mad?”

His lover chuckled. With a quick push, he spun the bard around and hefted him up over his shoulder with less effort than one might spend to accomplish the same maneuver with a lamb. He turned and strode out of the library, squawks of faux anger and indignation ringing off the walls as he carried his songbird down for supper. He swatted at his lover’s thigh playfully. 

“It’s time for supper, Jaskier. You can ask your questions when we’re not keeping Vesemir and Ciri waiting at the table.”

Jaskier settled somewhat, bracing his hands against Geralt’s ass. “Fair enough. This position is entirely undignified, Geralt, but if nothing else the view is nice.”

Geralt goosed him for that.

It shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise as it did when the bard goosed him back.

Bonus Memes!

Chapter Text

“Why is Miko’s hair short on one side and longer on the other?”

Eadelmarr ducked his head to hide a smile. Behind him, he could hear Vren stifling laughter, probably behind a hand. Traveling with children in tow was… certainly an experience . 

For one thing, they had taken to Vren’s nicknames with aplomb.

For another… Well. While the witchers were fine riding for as long of a  stretch as the horses could go to get where they needed to be in a reasonable time, the children weren’t used to it. Not in the slightest. He’d never expected, though he wasn’t sure why , that they would need to stop so often. For food, for rest, for the call of nature, the list was endless.

Children had tiny bladders, who knew?

Nor had he expected to have to teach them how to go in the woods. But that was another life experience he could now claim. Oh sure, pissing against a tree was pretty intuitive for the boys. But digging a small hole as a common courtesy for anyone else that passed through, and then filling it back in when you were done , had to be explained . Growing up on an estate, there had been outhouses and chamber pots aplenty, and no reason for them not to use them. He was just thankful Zofia had known (or had figured it out on her own), because frankly he wasn’t entirely sure what he would’ve told her to do with those skirts and whatever else girls that young wore under there these days. 

Mikolaj sagged under the child’s attention. “I got something sticky in it and couldn’t get it out, so I had to cut it.” He sighed, cheeks coloring slightly.

Jakub cocked his head, undeterred in the slightest. “What was it that you got stuck?” He pressed, leaning forward from his spot on Eadelmarr’s lap. As if closer proximity would allow him to peer into the past and see the disastrous mess for himself.

“Jakub, have you ever gotten pine sap on your fingers?” 

The Lettenhove estate had had a stand of pine trees somewhere, Eadelmarr had been able to smell the pine sap on some of the servants' clothes. There was no way an adventurous boy could resist that kind of mess. 

Jakub peered up at him curiously. 

When the boy nodded, Eadelmarr gestured at Mikolaj. “It wasn’t pine sap, but it was thick and sticky like that. And Mikolaj did not have anyone to help him get it out, so he had to cut it.”

Jakub considered that, then twisted back around to face Mikolaj. “Don’t worry, it’ll grow back fast.”

“I’m sure it will.” The Manticore agreed easily, a little relieved to be off the hook of the child’s curiosity. He relaxed too soon.

Dawid piped up from the back. “Eadelmarr said you made the bombs that blew up the fort! Is that true?”

“... Yes?”

“Could you teach me?!”

The Manticore actually twisted around in the saddle to stare at the boy. “Teach you…?” His voice was flat, face completely blank. Eadelmarr honestly couldn’t tell what was going through the other man’s mind, but he could tell Dawid had caught him by surprise.

The boy was practically vibrating, waiting for the answer.

Finally, that blank facade cracked. “I… Maybe? We’ll see where we end up.”

Dawid cheered, almost drowning out Jakub asking if he could learn too.

Mikolaj shot a wide eyed look to them, the clearest ‘Help, I don’t know what I’m doing’ Eadelmarr had ever seen without words.

Zofia seemed to’ve picked up on it too. “Why don’t we play a game?” She suggested, easily derailing her brothers’ excitement into a knew avenue and sparing Mikolaj any further interaction for the moment.

Dawid gave a cheer from up on Tempest with Vren. “Two truths and a lie?” He asked eagerly. When his siblings acquiesced without any argument he tipped his head back to peer up at the Crane. “Do you know how to play? Or will we have to teach you witchers the rules?”

“I think you’ll need to teach us.” Vren hedged, eyes crinkled with his smile.

Eadelmarr tightened his grip when Jakub bounced a little with his excitement. “It’s a game from Oxenfurt! Julek taught us! You go around the circle, and take turns telling two truths and a lie. And everyone else tries to guess which one’s the lie. If you guess right, you get a point. And whoever has the most points at the end of three rounds wins.”

“It sounds simple enough.” Eadelmarr agreed slowly. “But perhaps it would be unfair of us to play…”

Zofia drew her mare closer to the still unnamed stallion. “Oh? How so?”

“Because witchers are adept at detecting lies. The three of you will not be able to lie to us. It would defeat the purpose of the game and give us an unfair advantage.” Eadelmarr explained.

“I bet I could fool you!” Dawid boasted, nothing but pure ego and overconfidence.

Mikolaj, apparently ready to brave the children’s attention again, drew his horse back to ride closer to the rest of them. “Oh? Do you really? Well, with a prodigy among us, clearly we’ve no choice but to let him prove himself. It’d be only fair. What do the rest of you think?”

Eadelmarr sighed. 

It seemed the children weren’t the only ones who were bored. Mikolaj was most definitely looking to poke a hole in a childish ego, and Vren had an expression of pure devilment behind the easy amusement he let the rest of them see. There would be no getting out of this.

“Very well. Why don’t you start?”

Jakub beamed. “Okay! Ah, my father has a cane but he doesn’t really need it, it just makes him feel important . I broke my arm falling out of a tree. And my favorite color is yellow!”

It was the second one, and Eadelmarr said as much. 

It wasn’t even really a question. The boy’s heartbeat gave him away loudly and definitively. Sharing a saddle with Jakub, it was impossible for the Gryphon to miss. Riding on their own horses and having to sort through the heartbeats of the children and all of their mounts, the others might make a mistake, but Eadelmarr wouldn’t. 

Whether they made the distinction themselves, or just followed his lead, the others agreed. As did Zofia.

Atop Tempest, Dawid scoffed. “You broke your arm sliding down the banister, not falling out of a tree.” Blithely ignoring his little brother’s pout, he added a cheerful “My turn!”. 

Dawid actually took a few moments to consider what tales to tell. “Okay, I’ve got it! Julek taught mother to read. I found a dagger along the lane and I decided to keep it and hide it under a loose floorboard in my room. And I once got to ride Father’s stallion all by myself.”

He looked very proud of himself for someone who was about to lose.

“Tis the third one, lad.” Vren chuckled, ruffling the boy’s hair. 

“Definitely the third one.” Mikolaj agreed.

Dawid’s face fell as everyone else chimed in with the same answer. If he was upset to have failed his first attempt, he bounced back quickly. “Yeah… Zofia, your turn.”

The teenager rolled her eyes, but apparently settled in to think. At least she wasn’t going to throw the game. It wasn’t exactly the hardest or most stimulating game for the witchers, but it was keeping her brothers entertained, so it was worth the effort just for that. 

Finally, she lifted her chin and rattled off “I like the taste of red currants. I once had a puppy named Apple. And I slipped frogs into the washbasin of a clergyman from the Church of Eternal Fire because he was a beast to Mother.”

The boys made indignant noises, devolving into an argument over whether she was lying about the puppy or the frogs. Apparently she actually did quite like red currants, so that was a nonissue. 

The lie was the puppy of course. Though whether that was that she had never had a puppy or it’s name hadn’t been Apple was up for debate. 

It said something for her though, that she’d been willing to mildly terrorize a clergyman for the sake of a servant . The Church of Eternal Fire wasn't to be crossed lightly. If the man had ever found out it was her, noble or not the consequences could have been dire. From what little Eadelmarr and the others had seen, there was no love lost between the children and their biological parents. They were too distant to form any real connection. And, he suspected, any affection she might have born them would have cooled under the reality of who they had betrothed her to. She never would have taken the risk for the woman who’d born her, so it was likely the serving woman they’d spoken to in Lettenhove.

Interesting.

The game continued on to the witchers, and became considerably harder. Unlike the children, witchers were taught to control their bodies. Breathing, heartrate, they controlled it all. Through physical conditioning, meditation, and more. Humans struggled to lie to witchers, it was damn near impossible. But other witchers could do it. They, by their very nature, forced their brothers to pay attention lest they miss the minute tells that gave away the lie. It was a surprisingly fun challenge. 

Eadelmarr wanted to play a round or two out of earshot of the children.

Because while some things were a constant across all schools (such as the agonies of the grasses), the training also varied wildly . So something that sounded completely reasonable to outsiders, like daily classes in poetry (Eadelmaar) were complete and utter lies. Strange experiences, such as eating seaweed for breakfast with mers (Vren), were true and commonplace for that school. And the utterly unhinged, such as digging a burrow under a monster’s nest and living there for three weeks to avoid arrest (Mikolaj), sounded like lies and were far from it. 

The hardest part of the game for the witchers was choosing truths and lies that wouldn’t traumatize the children or give them bad ideas. 

As they played round after round, Eadelmarr honestly wasn’t sure how successful they were in that regard.

“Town in the next four miles. Who are we sending ahead?”

Vren hummed, listening to Mikolaj and Eadelmarr debating the pros and cons, but not weighing in directly. He didn’t much have a preference, and was fine letting them hash out the details. That it would be one of them seemed to’ve been already decided. And he was perfectly fine with that. His tall stature was rather memorable, and intimidating at the best of times. But on the other hand, while far less intimidating, Eadelmarr’s short frame was equally memorable. 

Frankly, Mikolaj’s darker coloring and odd haircut would pass unremarked far easier. 

Taking the lead, the Crane turned Tempest off the road and let her pick her way through the underbrush. The rest of the horses needed little urging to follow her, nose to tail. He gave her her head and let her choose the way. If Tempest could make her way through, the others would fit just fine. And it left him free to look back at the others.

Following the conversation closely, Zofia had twisted about in the saddle to look back at the two witchers as well, face scrunched up. “We can’t all go?”

Eadelmarr was already shaking his head. “No, Miss. It is not safe. For you, or for us.” 

A snort of warning drew Vren’s attention back to the front. Giving a little hop step to get over a large fallen branch, Tempest suddenly surged forward. With a final clatter of snapping twigs and the rush of a bird taking flight, the mare broke through into a vaguely oblong clearing. 

Vren drew her to a halt. It was as good a place as any for them to wait. And a good camping spot. Depending on how friendly the town was, their envoy could be back immediately, within a couple hours, or even not until nightfall.

Dawid tugged at Vren’s sleeve.“But why wouldn’t it be safe? You’re witchers , you’re the best fighters there are. Why would it be dangerous for you?”

“Good fighters we might be, but even we fall short now and again.” Vren huffed, grabbing Dawid by the back of his shirt and lifting him out of the saddle. “Here, Miko, catch!” He called as Mikolaj’s mare came along side. The Manticore didn’t even blink, just obligingly held out an arm and Vren easily dropped the giggling boy into it. 

Mikolaj, in turn, swung down out of the saddle and set Dawid on his feet. “It’s because humans don’t like us, Dawid, that’s why. It’s just the way it is. Now be off with you. Start gathering firewood.” He muttered with a fond smirk. He nudged the boy aside, and Dawid scrambled off, moving around the edges of the clearing to gather what was closest before venturing further afield. 

Satisfied, Mikolaj set to pulling his saddle bags off the back of his saddle. 

“But we like you! And Julek likes witchers too! He writes all sorts of songs about you!” Jakub argued, not to be deterred by vague answers and camp chores. The little lad looked genuinely offended at the idea that anyone might not like witchers. 

It was cute. 

Eadelmarr’s tone was gentle as he placed his hands on the child’s thin shoulders. “You and your siblings are the rare exemption, Jakub. Most humans truly do not appreciate our existence, and they only tolerate our presence when there is something they cannot kill for themselves. We are too different. Our eyes do not match yours. Our potions would be the death of you. We routinely seek out creatures that your forefathers have feared for generations, and dispatch them with seeming ease.”  The Gryphon’s shoulders sagged as he pulled away. “We are abhorrent monsters, Jakub. And for most of the continent, the only good monster is a dead one.”

Jakub stomped a foot. “But why ?!” It was less of a demand and more of a whine. He genuinely couldn’t fathom why people didn’t like witchers.

Vren groaned as he slid off Tempest.

He stepped around the mare and bent down to lightly chuck the boy under the chin. “It’s because we scare them, lad. We scare them, and folks kill or chase off what scares them. Years ago, long before your father’s time, people that did not like us very much started spreading rumors. They said that we were liars and thieves. That we stole children. That we ate the children what couldn’t make the change to become witchers. We didn’t. We weren’t any of those things. But the people didn’t know that. They only knew what they were told, by people in authority. And what they were told was that we were nothing but slobbering monsters that craved flesh, took pleasure in causing pain and misery, and who’s services could occasionally be bought.” 

He sank down into a crouch, the better to be on the boy’s level. Even in a full crouch, he towered over the boy, but at least he’d tried. Across the way, Dawid had paused, clearly listening. And he could just see Zofia watching out of the corner of his eye as she slid down off of Dove. 

Eadelmarr and Mikolaj continued on with their tasks, seemingly unbothered, but he could feel the weight of their attention.

This really wasn’t the sort of conversation any of them had wanted to have with the children, but they would likely see the ugly reality of it first hand at some point for themselves. Sooner rather than later, unless he missed his guess. Better that the conversation was had now, before some overzealous hay pitcher saw witchers traveling with children and attempted to ‘rescue’ them. Or worse, that someone decided that the bad luck witchers supposedly brought with them wasn’t worth the coin from their custom, and decided to stir up a whole town to stone them out. It was rarer nowadays than it had been at the height of the anti-witcher hate, but it still happened on occasion, as Vren knew well. 

One such town had cost him a brother who was too hurt and too slow to get away quickly enough.

“Those enemies are long gone. But much like your brother’s songs linger in your head, those aweful stories linger on in human memory. People still make the sign of the evil eye when they see us, and spit on our shadows to ward away the bad luck they think we bring. And mothers still pull their little ones away from us, for fear we’ll snatch up their babies from their very arms and snack on them like a meat pastie. Now, knowing that, what do you think would happen if the villagers saw you with us?”

“They’d get scared?” Jakub asked weakly.

Vren gently thumbed away the tear that trickled down the boy’s cheek. “Aye, lad. And scared people do things they never would’ve dared otherwise.” 

He considered for a moment, then hooked a finger in the neckline of his armor and tugged it down. The stiff, reinforced leather didn’t move far, but it was just enough to show the boy the ropey scar encircling the base of his throat. “I saved the life of a little boy. He was ‘round about your age. There was no danger, and his parents were on their way. I was sick, and hurting, and thought it safe to rest. When they arrived, the boy’s parents only saw a monster, and gave me this scar for my troubles. Were it not for a friend of your brother’s, I would’na made it.” 

Jakub traced his fingers over the scars left by the rope that had garrotted him. Vren shivered under the touch. Jakub immediately pulled his fingers away, blue eyes wide and apologetic. 

As if the boy could hurt him so easily just by touching it.

The healer Vren had stayed with after the incident had done very well by him. And he hadn’t charged Vren for a thing, instead explaining that he would be taking the price of Vren’s care from the townspeople who had hurt him in the first place. Between his skill and Vren’s potions, the raw deep seated rope burns had healed rather well. It was slightly raised, but not so off colored as to be immediately noticeable if he didn’t bring attention to it. 

All told, were it not for the placement, it would be one of his least disconcerting scars.

“It’s alright, lad. The scar doesn’t trouble me at all.” Putting on a warm smile, Vren ruffled Jakub’s hair and gently pushed the boy towards Dawid. “Go help your brother.”

Still chewing their conversation over, Jakub trotted off to where Dawid already had a good pile of sticks and branches going. Having exhausted the stock of fallen branches in the clearing, the two began to venture into the surrounding bushes. 

Vren kept his ears pricked, constantly listening for anything that might hurt the boys. Testing the wind for scents that shouldn’t be there. As were the others, he was certain. Eadelmarr was to old to be stupid, and Mikolaj had far fewer scars than most to be anything less than highly skilled.

“It’s truly so bad as that?” Zofia whispered.

Vren slowly got to his feet, huffing when his knees popped quietly. By human standards, he was well and over the age when his body would start to protest. But by witcher standards? 

He was too damn young for such nonsense!

“It can be.” Mikolaj grunted, emptying his saddle bags of some of the bulkier items and setting them all on his bedroll. Making room for the supplies he would pick up in town. He and Eadelmarr must have come to the same conclusion that Vren had. Excellent.

“Most times, really.” Vren agreed easily. “There’s nothing that really prepares a person for seeing that kind of hatred, but at least you won’t be going in blind.” 

He tossed his braid over his shoulder and set to work pulling his tack off of Tempest and getting her settled. Which was a mistake, because the cheeky shit immediately swung that massive noggin around and lipped the end of it up into her mouth and proceeded to chew on the tail of it. 

“Hey! Here now, Temp, you know better than that, damn it! Let go of that.” 

She jerked her head back from the (very) light bop to her velvet nose, flicked back ears the very picture of affronted dignity. Not that she had much, seeing as how she pulled her entire upper lip back in the biggest horsie grin she could manage immediately after.

“Nothing but trouble.” Vren pushed her head away, grumbling fondly under his breath all the while and trying to squeeze some of the thick horse spit out of the hair with a fold of his shirt.

“I’m sure she doesn’t mean to be.” Zofia defended, smile tremulous but there. “So, you said a friend of Julek saved your life? That explains why you owe him, and why you’re helping us…” She looked to Mikolaj and Eadelmarr. “What about you two? How did you come to owe Julek a debt?”

“Twas not your brother, Miss. At least not directly. Twas his students who aided us. But they did so at his behest.” Eadelmarr’s jaw clenched. “I was injured. Stranded within an inn by a heavy storm. I was short of coin and barely able to afford the bed I recovered in. Certainly nothing more than that. One of your brother’s students divined my difficulty and saw me fed and on the mend. She would later come to explain to me that your brother had integrated his unusual brand of kindness into the curiculum of his classes at Oxenfurt. Now, as his students graduate and embark upon the next stage of their lives, they carry those lessons with them.”

“And you?”

“Much the same.” Mikolaj shrugged under the teen’s assessing look. “Hunt went bad. I bit off more than I could chew, and ended up gutted for my troubles. The townspeople thought to save themselves the coin by putting me out of my misery. I managed to hide. A teen I had protected found me. She got me out, and drove all night in a stolen donkey cart to beg a local sorceress for help. The sorceress was another one of your brother’s students. He had taught her how to manage her magic through music. Not only did she pull me back from the edge of death, she allowed me to winter in her home as a guest, and saw me well supplied and back on the path come spring.” 

The Manticore set aside his case of potions and tied the bags closed again. “Later, when I passed through again, I was able to trade the mount she had given me back to her in exchange for getting Sweet Rose back. She had recovered Sweet Rose and some of my belongings, and had made sure the town knew they were beholden to her for cleaning up their mess until the debt of my care had been paid.” He paused to smirk at them. “They’ll be tithing coin and labor to her for a while yet I think.” 

He turned away and scooped up the much lighter saddle bags to sling them over the back of Sweet Rose’s saddle and fasten them in place with deft hands. That done, he set to checking the rest of her tack. Making sure everything was in place, and that the girth strap was still pulled taut.

“Kindness is such a simple thing really. Most take it for granted. But for people like us? For whom kindness is scarce as water in the dessert? For us, it can change the world. Your brother has a great deal of kindness to spare, and he has blanketed the length and breadth of the continent with it.” 

Zofia didn’t ask anymore questions, but she watched them. Watched Mikolaj finish his inspection and head off towards town. Watched Vren settle the horses, and Eadelmarr teach the boys different ways to start a fire without the use of witcher signs. 

She watched, a little furrow in her brow.

Vren wondered where her thoughts were running off to.

Aiden wove his way easily through the crowd.

The market was busy, stalls packed all along the roadway and tucked up as close to the buildings as possible. People stood shoulder to shoulder, jostling each other as they tried to move from one stall to the next, their purchases held close against theives. Sharp words flew about their heads as toes were stepped on, and elbows and knees ended up in unfortunate places. 

But there was joy too. 

Old friends gossiped as they went about their business. Children squealed with delight over sweets, or the antics of a street magician. On the little stage in the center of the market, musicians played bright, happy tunes. There was laughter, and a little pocket near the stage where a few young people had taken up dancing. It was alive in a visceral way that defied true description.

Aiden revelled in it.

Almost two years since he’d finally managed to escape from that monster Dobrogost in Oxenfurt (four since Jad had betrayed him), and some days he was struck almost violently with a sense of awe and wonder that he should have the ability to be able to move about as he pleased. That he could be surrounded by people other than his jailer and his pet monster. That he was outside after almost two years of hell in the mage’s basement. That he was free .

It boggled the mind.

Back there, Aiden had fought with everything he’d had, but it had been more from sheer stubbornness and a lifetime’s worth of spite rather than any real hope that he would ever actually leave that place alive. The idea that he would someday be warm again had seemed strange and far fetched. The notion that he would someday be here, the sun carressing his skin and the sea breeze teasing the tips of his hair where it peeked out from the scarf that covered it had been pure flights of fancy. 

It didn’t seem real.

It never did, especially in those early days when Lambert and his brother had only just killed Dobrogost, and their witch had drawn the threads of the bastard’s spell from his chest. Back when Aiden was only just beggining to take the first steps in his very long road to recovery. 

There were still times he woke in the dead of the night, convinced that his escape and everything that had happened after was nothing more than a fever dream. A delusion cooked up to ease the death throes of a man who had been dying for years but had never actually ceased to be . A sentiment that was especially hard to disprove if they were sleeping indoors, and there was no source of light to let his surroundings prove otherwise.

Lambert helped.

Aiden smiled as he broke through the last of the packed crowd and finally caught a glimpse of his wolf. With his witcher gold eyes bright in the afternoon sun, his armor, and the two swords slung across his back, there was no hiding what Lambert was. 

And people tended to go quiet and cautious when they knew witchers were near. 

Much as either of them hated being separated for anything these days, they had both agreed that they’d get far more information if Aiden shed his swords and armor and went to scout while Lambert waited at the outskirts. Aiden’s green eyes were exceedingly rare among witchers (and so were often overlooked by humans who expected some shade of gold). And so long as he was careful not to let his pupils shrink down to slits he was almost never recognized as a witcher unless he had his swords or armor to give him away. Between that and the differences in their training, Aiden could pass for human better than most. 

Certainly better than Lamb.

Lambert’s gaze swept him for injuries, and a thread of tension pulled loose when he found none. “Took you long enough.” He grumbled in greeting, lacking any real heat.

Aiden laughed, winking at his Wolf, just to be a little shit.

The Wolf had been a quick study during those early days of Aiden’s recovery, and had only gotten faster in the two years that had followd. Relearning Aiden’s habits. His thought processes. His likes and dislikes. His tells… 

Learning the concerning amount of triggers Aiden now had. 

But Lambert had doggedly taken to the task with all the determination his school’s mascot implied. He’d always had a knack for reading Aiden where even the other Cats struggled, even before Aiden’s supposed ‘death’. And he had only gotten better. 

The Wolf scoffed and pushed off from the wall, a gentle tug at the reins of their horses drawing them forward a few paces to create a pocket between their stalwart bodies and the wall behind them. A perfect hidey hole for a cat that needed a safe place for a quick change back into his armor, and to don the swords he’d left behind. Aiden eeled into the narrow space. His fingers brushed along Lambert’s side as he passed in silent greeting, and reassuring himself that the Wolf was still there. 

Within the narrow, shadow filled space, Aiden took the time to breathe. To let his eyes relax and his pupils narrow down to something more comfortable for a bright afternoon. The world that had been almost painfully bright from too much light softened down to something more manageable. Aiden closed his eyes and massaged gently over the lids, drawing slow deep breaths.

The scent of horses was strongest. Dust kicked up from the dirt road, and bread fresh from the oven from the nearby bakers. Closer, the lighter scent of sunwarmed leather and the oil used to keep it clean and in good repair. That would be the saddles, and his armor draped across it. With the ease of long practice, Aiden quickly slipped it on and buckled everything into place, ready in bare minutes. Then, he reached for the swords hung off the saddle pommel. 

He’d forever be grateful to Lambert for rescuing his swords, his journal… and his medalion. 

He pulled it out from under his armor and thumbed over the enchanted metal. That one had been a bit of a sore spot. The medalion marked them all as witchers. Marked them as blooded and true, and belonging to something. Physical proof of home and comradery and safety at the end of the path each year. Even when the rest of the witcher schools had turned against the Cats (justifiably so after the stunt Treyse and his fanatics had pulled, no one wanted to work with the school that had tried to massacre the Wolves. And very nearly succeeded). 

Even then , the medalion had meant something . 

Perhaps, to the cats, it had meant more . Because it promised them safety amongst themselves. And it still did mean something for Aiden, but it left him conflicted too. It was hard to take comfort and safety in the promise of his medalion, when the image of Jad’s medalion swinging barely inches from his face while the bastard pinned him down and told his compatriots all about how they should sell Aiden into hell still featured prominently in his nightmares. 

Traveling with Lambert, Aiden had yet to run into any from his own school. And honestly? He wasn’t sure how he would react if he did. He and Jad had never been close. Far from it, in point of fact, and fairly often. But Aiden would’ve fought for the man, for the simple fact that he was a Cat too, if for no other reason. He had thought the loyalty was mutual. Finding out that it wasn’t had left him cold and hollow, and reassessing every relationship he had. His list of trusted people had been whittled down to a fraction of it’s former size.

“You done primping, Kitten?” Lambert called gruffly over his shoulder, back to Aiden to keep watch over the crowds while sheilding Aiden from view.

Aiden couldn’t help but smile, pulling off the cloth that had covered his hair and using it to wipe the dirt from his cheeks. The last of his disguise banished to his saddlebags, he patted Lambert’s shoulder and smoothly stepped back out into the street. 

“Ready for the ball.” He teased, and filched the reins from Lambert’s fingers.

Lambert scoffed, swatting at Aiden as the Cat danced past him to get to his gelding. But his eyes were searching. Assessing the way Aiden’s fingers still played with the snarling cat head etched into the face of his medalion. The figety way Aiden kept watch of their suroundings, particularly the roofs where archers would have a better vantage. The way he kept the hood of his cowl pulled up to hide his face, no matter how much he insisted it was just to keep the sun out of his sensitive eyes after holding them dilated for so long.

Nothing escaped Lambert.

He noticed, when Aiden was feeling trapped and hemmed in. He noticed when the Cat was overwhelmed. When old traumas crawled out of the darkest depths of his memory and did their best to drag Aiden back down with them. Lambert noticed. 

And he always did something about it. 

Whether it was as simple as making excuses and taking Aiden outside, or pulling him back from the brink of panic with soft words and firm circles rubbed across the palms of his hands to draw his attention gently when his mind became stuck in the ruts of memory’s pathways. 

Something he had had to do with alarming frequency over the past two years. 

Not that he would ever begrudge Aiden that. Recovery was brutal at the best of times, and Aiden’s injuries had been about as far from ‘the best of times’ as one could get without actually dying . Even with Dobrogost dead, Aiden wasn’t so foolish as to believe it hadn’t been a close thing.

And he knew seeing him on Death’s very doorstep had understandably scared the shit out of Lambert.

For the first month or two after they’d been reunited, Lambert had stuck close to Aiden’s side like a cocklebur. The Wolf had faced down Aiden’s recovery with all the tenacity of a gargoyle and every ounce of fury at the world that the Wolf could muster (which was quite a fair bit). 

And even when Aiden faltered, Lambert never once did.

It had been Lambert’s strength that had got him out of bed to bathe or use the pot those first few weeks. Lambert’s sharp tongue to harass him into learning how to walk again when everything seemed too much and Aiden had cried out of pure frustration. Lambert had been the one to steady him as he weakly made his way down the stairs to join Elsie and Anna for meals. The one to sit in the parlor and cuddle and keep him company while Aiden read the books Henryk brought him out loud, the fire crackling merrily away and a steaming cup of herbal tea spreading its soothing presence through the room. It had been Lambert’s shoulders that supported him the first time he had gone outside to enjoy the bright spring sunlight on his hollow face and just bask in the novelty of being outside again. 

“What’s gone an’ put a kink in your tail, Kitty?” Lambert quietly gruffed. 

It was on the tip of his tongue to say ‘ You, probably. Or did you miss what happend in our bed last night?’ . Only the knowledge that Lambert was genuinely checking in, the unspoken ‘Are you okay?’ , kept the more irreverent answers trapped behind his teeth.

“I’m okay, Lamb.” he assured. He tugged his gelding into a walk and led him around the outskirts of the crowd, Lambert and his horse easily keeping pace. “Was just thinking about Oxenfurt.”

“Yeah?” Lambert cocked an eyebrow at him. “An’ what’s got you so all fired nostalgic for it?”

Not much, in all honesty. And at the same time a whole aweful lot all at once.

That first spring in Oxenfurt had been hard. Time waits for neither man nor witcher, elf, nor dwarf. And as spring continued to march on, word of various monsters waking to terrorize towns and villages seemed to come from every direction. Much as Lambert would have happily stayed and told the rest of the world to go fuck itself (repeatedly, vulgarly, and in about four differnt languages at minimum) they both knew his time in Oxenfurt was drawing to a close. He had had to leave eventually, and the job of overseeing Aiden’s progress had fallen to Anna, Elsie, Shani, and Henryk. 

And Aiden would be the first to assert that they had done an incredible job. 

Elsie had set to feeding him up to a healthy weight with a will, ensuring that he never left the table hungry. Henryk had kept him well supplied with books while he was too weak to do much else but rest and recover. And Shani had provided him with exercises to run through that helped build up his strength gradually. Which he desperately needed. With his long stint as a prisoner, and then as a bed bound patient, his muscles had atrophied considerably. Anna had taken over for Lambert in reminding him to do them, and lending a hand where needed to ensure he didn’t hurt himself. 

Once he’d started to move more easily, (and with Shani’s tentative agreement once he’d explained what they were and what sort of impact they would have on his body) he’d gradually began to incorporate the Cat exercises that improved one’s balance and flexibility. He’d shown such a marked improvement that Shani had actually asked him to teach her some of the simpler ones to use with her other patients.

And later in the summer Henryk’s friend Alek had found him a job with a local merchant once Shani had given her seal of approval. 

They were upfront with his employer of course, making sure the man was aware that he was a witcher. His employer hadn’t much cared. So long as Aiden was capable of doing the job, it was his. The job itself was a very physical one, loading and unloading freight from the flat bottomed barges that ran up and down the Pontar throughout the year. It was just what he needed to continue to strengthen and tone the muscles he was rebuilding. 

It also provided a source of income, and the first thing he’d done the next time Lambert had swung through Oxenfurt (after kissing the hell out of his lover, of course) was to let him know that he would be taking over chipping in to Elsie’s coffers to help cover his keep. Elsie had tried to wiggle out of the arrangement again, arguing that guests shouldn’t have to pay for food. Lambert and Aiden both had shut that down, pointing out the absurd amounts Aiden was putting away as his body rebuilt itself, and flat out refusing to allow her to fall into financial hardship over the cost. 

Elsie had huffed and grumbled, but had eventually given in and accepted Aiden’s coin. 

Whatever hadn’t gone to Elsie had been squirelled away for the fall when Lambert would return to take him to Kaer Morhen. He would need a horse and supplies, and the fact that he would be able to pay for them himself had felt like a major accomplishment at the time. 

In the end, he’d only ended up paying for the supplies, Lambert had shown up with a spare horse. A pretty black gelding with a half white face and one blue eye. The man had tried to claim that he’d gotten it through law of surprise, but Aiden knew that was a crock of horse shit. Lambert never claimed the law of surprise. But Aiden had let the lie pass, and graciously accepted the gift. The gelding had turned out to be a mischievous little spitfire, and the Cat adored him.

Aiden shrugged, trying to affect a careless air. “Not so much nostalgic. Just thinking. What with this little jaunt we’re on to help your brother and his friend, it makes me wonder...” He was careful to speak no names. One never knew who was listening.

“What about?”

Aiden lightly shouldered a drunkard out of their way, not bothering to suppress his amusement when the gelding flicked his tail right in the spluttering man’s face. “The path to your home. Do you think we’ll be able to reach it before the snows close it off? It’s a long way, and winter comes early up there.”

“Over there.” Lambert muttered, pointing out the inn they were looking for at the end of the street. He tugged his own gelding closer, out of the way of a merchant’s wagon to ensure he didn’t come to harm. “And what does it matter if we don’t? What with the bloody Nilfgaardian’s collectively acting like diseased drowners and chasing anything that moves, Ves want’s everyone home this year. An’ it’s bad enough the sorceresses agreed to portal up anyone who doesn’t make it. One way or another, we’ll make it there.”

“Oh…” Aiden rolled his shoulders back, trying to ease the tension pulling them taut. That hadn’t been the answer he’d expected.

Or wanted.

They hadn’t made it to Kaer Morhen the way they’d planned the year before. Not even two days after Lambert had arrived with his gift horse, a freak blizzard had rolled in far too early in the season and had trapped them in Oxenfurt. Elsie and Anna had been delighted to have them over winter, and Aiden had secretly breathed a sigh of relief. He loved Lambert dearly, truly he did, and would follow wherever he led… 

But it was no secret that Cats weren’t welcome in Kaer Morhen. 

And Aiden had heard Lambert bitch and moan about Vesemir over the long years of their firendship enough to know that while the rest of Lamb’s family might welcome him, Vesemir wouldn’t. And seeing as Vesemir was the Master of the keep… 

Well, Aiden didn’t much like his chances. 

Oh, Lambert wouldn’t let Vesemir outright hurt him, of that Aiden was dead sure and certain. And Aiden didn’t think the old Wolf would hurt their youngest when there were so few of them left. Nor did he think Geralt or (the as yet unmet) Eskel would stand for any harm to come to their little brother. 

But they couldn’t be everywhere at once, and from what Lambert had told him, Kaer Morhen was big. And he’d also seen how miserable the master of a school could make the winter months when they weren’t happy with you for whatever arbitrary reason. Treyse, the master of Dyn Marv, could be exceptionally creative and spiteful when it came to whatever tiny slights (real or imagined) those Cats on his yearly shit list had caused him. There was a reason Aiden avoided wintering with the caravan if at all possible and caught up with his brothers throughout the rest of the year.

Aiden couldn’t imagine how much worse Vesemir (someone who had a grudge against Cats and a very real and very valid reason to carry it) would be.

He’d honestly been hoping they’d get snowed out. Hoping he wouldn’t have to spend three to four months trapped in a crumbling keep up in the mountains with a centuries old Wolf stalking his every step and ready to rend him limb from limb at the slightest provocation. That sounded like a fresh blend of his own personal hell, really. But, there was no getting out of it. Not if the sorceresses were willing to portal up late comers.

Lambert tugged the reins of his bald faced gelding out of his fingers and passed them off to the inn’s stableboy, along with a few coins. Saddlebag’s over each shoulder, he pulled Aiden out of the way of passersby and into a narrow alley between the inn and stable. “Hey. Talk to me, Kitten. What’s wrong?”

Aiden bowed his head under the weight of Lambert’s scrutiny.

For half a second, he contemplated demuring. Telling Lambert that he was just tired, and would surely feel better in the morning. 

But, glancing up at his Wolf with his sharp earnest eyes that had had his back through thick and thin… Aiden couldn’t do it. Lambert deserved better, and would see right through it besides. And unlike Aiden with Lambert’s ‘horse of surprise’, Lambert wouldn’t let it slide if he thought something was wrong with Aiden.

Clinging to Lambert’s hand, Aiden swallowed his nerves and laid it all out at his feet. 

His concern over Vesemir’s reactions, and how that would affect the rest of the family’s reactions to him. His relief when they hadn’t been able to go the previous year. His dread that they couldn’t get out of it the same way this year. His worry that being trapped in a giant stone keep where the nights were long and the keep always cold would drag him back to darker memories of different (equally cold) stone walls and long stretches of darkness that never seemed to end. 

That he would let Lambert down, and Lambert’s family would only ever see him as broken. Unworthy of their youngest wolf’s affections.

“Idiot.” Lambert grumbled when he had finished, and jerked him into a hug, his fingers catching in Aiden’s hood and snagging a bit of the hair underneath. “Next time, tell me when you’re all knotted up like shitty fishingline. You’re no good untangling it on your own. And the longer you sit and stew on it, the worse it gets.”

Unable to stop a wet little snicker, Aiden clung back just as tightly. Aiden’s hood slipped further down off the back of his head, the sea breeze playing with a few whisps of his hair. Aiden couldn’t bring himself to care. He nuzzled closer, a faint purr starting up in his chest. 

He wasn’t sure why he’d been so nervous about telling Lambert his worries, the Wolf would certainly never judge him for it.

Lambert had never made fun of him when bathtubs made him anxious and defensive. Never derided him for the way he trembled when the Wolf poured water over his head to help wash his hair because he couldn’t stand the thought of submerging. He’d never judged when even just the sight of the needles they used to stitch their injuries turned his stomach and had him scrambling away to wretch up his breakfast. Never did anything but stand as a buffer between Aiden and the mages, on the rare occasions that they encountered one. Had never kicked him out at night when the Cat woke up screaming as though he were being murdered. Aiden was always welcome in his bed, the warmth and the living, breathing weight of another body a solid reminder that he was here . He was safe , he had gotten out of that thrice cursed nightmare. That he wasn’t still alone in that cell, fevered and hallucinating a kind touch and a familiar string of gruff swearing in more languages than he’d even known existed. Being able to feel him breathing, hear his heart beat incontrovertable proof that he wasn’t alone. 

Yes, Lambert helped , and Aiden loved him all the more for it. 

From the other end of the alley, a voice climbed at least an octave in a strangled yelp of “Aiden?!”

Every muscle in Aiden’s body locked. 

It felt as thought he’d stopped breathing. Were it not for how hard he could feel it lurch, then set to beating human fast against the underside of his breastbone, Aiden could almost imagine that his heart had stopped too. Face tucked into Lambert’s shoulder, he got a front row seat to the warning snarl that tore out of Lambert in pure threat. The Wolf’s arm’s tightened around his waist and shoulders protctively, and he felt it when the hand at his waist palmed one of the blades Aiden kept tucked away there.

Clever puppy.

Aiden swallowed hard, and lifted his head to look. Not even half an hour ago, he’d mused about how he honestly didn’t know how he would react if he saw a member of his school again.

The gods apparently had quite the sense of humor.

Bonus Memes!

Chapter Text

The velvet fetched quite the price.

The deep blue velvet was worth a fair bit of coin on its own, that shade was a bit more work to get. But then there was the fancy woven gold trim and tassels to consider. Not to mention the black linen lining. It was a curtain from some office in the Nilfgaardian fort, but by the gods it was the most expensive curtain Mikolaj had ever set his eyes on. And he had sold it at a discounted price, seeing as it was secondhand. He shuddered to think of how much it had cost when it was new . 

Point being, it had fetched a good price. So much so, in fact, that he’d barely had to delve into the actual coin that Vren had snatched! 

He’d been able to purchase blankets, furs, and a large oil cloth to keep everything dry (something he’d never seen before encountering Vren. An innovation he was going to be stealing, purchasing oilcloths for himself and Eadelmarr as well. Usually he just put the heaviest wool blanket on the outside, in the desert it was more than enough, and kept him semi-dry in the rains everywhere else. Eadelmarr used a buckskin that had been heavily smoked after tanning to better withstand the weather). 

The bedding was the most important bit, but not the only purchase he made.

In addition to blankets and furs, he’d managed to get second hand shoes in approximately the right size for the children. More wooden bowls and spoons too, so they wouldn’t have to keep sharing at meals. After that, it was just a matter of procuring food that would travel well. He managed to get more dry porridge, jerky, a couple blocks of cheese, and a few loaves of thick crusted bread. One farmer’s wife at the market had had a wealth of dried fruits and vegetables, much to his delight. He bought a reasonable quantity of both. The fruits would be good either as snacks, or to add into the porridge. And the vegetables would be an excellent addition to stews. 

Between what they could hunt and forage, and what he’d bought at market, they would all be well fed.

A warm sweet smell wafted across his nose, drawing the Manticore up short. What was that…? He sniffed at the air, turning this way and that until he’d pinpointed the direction of the smell. Purchases tucked in a giant burlap sack over one shoulder, he waded through the thinning crowd. The scent led him directly to the stall of an elderly man, a brazier merrily burning in the space behind his table. He was using it to cook, tossing prepared rounds of dough into an oiled pan and letting them brown and puff up before gently turning them over. Once they were ready, he flipped them onto a thick sheet of wax paper and served them to his customers with a drizzle of honey over the top. 

They smelled amazing.

Mikolaj ran a thumb over the ridges of the sea shell in his pocket. It didn’t serve any practical purpose, but was fast becoming one of his favorite belongings. He liked the texture of it, and the rich, warm color inside. Usually he kept it safe in his bags, but it had ended up in his pocket when he was making room for their supplies. 

The smell of pastry and warm apples strengthened as the old man served another customer.

Mikolaj stepped into line. His trainers would’ve given him the scolding of a lifetime at best (and beat him black and blue at worst), for wasting coin on something so frivolous. And, indeed, usually he wouldn’t. But… But they had just pulled off quite the challenging task. And the children had just escaped captivity. They all deserved something nice. And they weren’t currently hurting for coin. Plus, it wasn’t like he was making an extravagant purchase. One pastry for each of them wouldn’t even make much of a dent in their nest egg. Especially as they intended to keep working as they travelled (it would be too suspicious if witchers passed through but didn’t check for contracts), saving Vren’s ill-gotten gains for emergencies, or when contracts were scarce . They could afford this.

Mikolaj stepped up to the counter.

The old man turned to him with a smile, only to startle and nearly drop his tongs at the sight of swords and armor, and witcher gold eyes. “Can, ah, can I help yeh, sir?”

The Manticore motioned towards the prepped rounds of dough, waiting to go into the oiled pan over the brazier. “What are those?”

“They’re…” The old man glanced between Mikolaj and the dough, as though disbelieving that the witcher could possibly not know what those were. “Sir, they’re racuchiy! (pronounced Rah-tzoo-hih) Surely you’ve had them before! They’re quite popular hereabouts!”

“I have not.” Mikolaj shrugged, affecting an air of indifference. “I’m from Zerrikania, those aren’t familiar to me. What all goes into them? I can smell apples?”

The man brightened, reaching under the table to produce a fresh green apple. “You've got a good nose! My nephew has a few trees out back of his house, and I’m welcome to pick what I please each fall. You cut ‘em up, and then you stuff each racuch with them. I like to add a bit of honey to the slices, and then drizzle a bit more overtop once they’re done. They’re best when they’re warm. But even cold, they make good snacks. You can make a savory version if you want to serve the racuchiy for lunch or supper, but I’ve only the sweet ones today.”

“Do they reheat well?”

“Aye, I suppose you could heat them again, so long as you’re careful not to burn them.”

Good enough. And whether they reheated them or not, the children would appreciate something sweet. “How much?”

“Eight coppers apiece, master witcher.”

Frankly, having never had racuchiy before, Mikolaj had no idea if he was being shafted or not. Though he wouldn’t have thought so, the man didn’t seem the least bit fidgety or belligerent as he stated the price. And it was a one time purchase. So he nodded and pulled out his purse. “I’ll be needing six, then. All wrapped for travel. The group that I’m escorting is waiting for me outside town and I’d rather the honey didn’t get on the rest of my purchases before I got back to them.”

“Of course! Comin’ right up.” As soon as he’d counted out Mikolaj’s change, he got back to work. Round after round of dough was tossed into the hot pan with a hiss and a sizzle. It seemed almost no time at all before the dough was turning golden brown and puffing up, the delicious aroma wafting out into the market. With the ease of long practice, the man turned the racuchiy out onto the paper once they were done and set to wrapping them.

“Bloody mutant.” A market goer hissed as he walked by, spitting on Mikolaj’s shadow for good measure. 

The witcher sighed, good mood flagging a little at the reminder that he would never truly be welcome amongst humans.

The baker slowed, eyes darting between Mikolaj and the retreating back of the market goer. “That happen often?”

Mikolaj shrugged. “Often enough. There’s at least one in every town and village it feels like, somedays. You get used to it after a while.”

“Not sure as that’s something anyone ought to get used to.” The man muttered. He brushed silver hair back out of his face with an elbow, and offered the paper wrapped collection of pastries. “Anyway, here you are, sir. Six racuchiy, fresh from the pan and drizzled with honey.”

Shouldering the sack full of supplies, Mikolaj carefully cradled the package against his abdomen with his free hand where he was less likely to drop or squish it. “Thank you. I’m sure the family I’m escorting will appreciate it.”

The baker beamed. “Safe travels to you!”

Mikolaj collected Sweet Rose from the stable, pausing only just long enough to sort the shoes and food into the saddle bags and secure the sack of bedding on top of them like a big puffy backrest. Packet full of pastries balanced on his knee so they wouldn’t get squished in the saddle bags, Mikolaj clicked his tongue and turned the mare back they way they’d come. Sweet Rose gave a long, drawn out snort, tossing her head as she set out in a ground eating lope. Well used to guiding her with his knees, the Manticore didn’t hesitate to drop the reins and use his free hand to pull the sea shell out of his pocket again.

A cockle shell, Vren had told him over the crackle of the campfire that first night after Jakub had gifted it to him, the children fast asleep nearby. Vren had grinned, white teeth a flash in the dusk. An unusually colorful one, he’d said. For having snatched it up at random in the dark, Jakub had gotten lucky. 

Then the Crane had turned his attention to Eadelmarr, flicking his fingers at the speckled shell whose smooth, domed surface the Gryphon had been rubbing his thumb over. For Eadelmarr, Jakub had chosen a shell called a cowrie. They were supposed to be good luck, if you were to believe the superstitions of the sailors and those who dwelled along the shore. 

When asked about his, Vren had called it an ‘olive’ shell. Fitting, Mikolaj thought. Both for the color, and the size, it was barely bigger than the tip of Mikolaj’s pinky. Perfect for attaching to a braid, he should think. Vren had already been working on slowly and delicately boring a tiny hole in the tip so he could. What else might be necessary before wearing it, the Manticore couldn’t be sure, but he’d seen Vren working on it each night since. Surely it would be ready soon.

A nudge of his knee sent Sweet Rose turning off the road and taking to the path through the brush that Tempest had bulled through earlier that day. The branches sprang back into place behind them. A nearly perfect camouflage to cover their tracks and protect their camp from outsiders. Anyone who didn’t know what they were looking for would probably pass right on by without a second glance. 

Drawing closer to camp, the scent of leaf litter and the sound of branches swaying in the breeze was replaced by the smell of a campfire and the laughter of children. The three were running around the perimeter of the camp. Vren thundered after them, steps too wide and heavy. He ran at a mere fraction of his actual speed. The Crane gave an over the top roar, the sound so ridiculous Mikolaj half thought he might never be able to take the man seriously ever again, size be damned. The children squealed when he lunged, dodging away from his reaching hands and cackling when they evaded him.

Eadelmarr squatted by the fire, turning the spit where several birds were skewered. The older witcher shook his head at their antics. But the looks he kept darting their way between checking the meat on the spit and the cornbread in the pan was soft and fond. 

His head snapped towards Mikolaj long before any of the others heard his approach.

Mikolaj waved, and the Gryphon relaxed. Vren never once broke character as he chased the children, but Mikolaj could see the slight tension leave him the second Eadelmarr settled. Not so distracted as he seemed then.

The Manticore settled Sweet Rose with the other horses, and set about unloading his purchases. The bundle of bedding over by their bed rolls. The shoes went by the bags. The food and the package of pastries by the fire for Eadelmarr to sort through. 

Curious, Eadelmarr gingerly unwrapped the package of pastries. The Gryphon arched an eyebrow at the sweets. 

Scowling, Mikolaj roughly pushed the wax paper back over them and set them near the fire to keep them warm. Not quite able to meet the older witcher’s eye, he muttered “Curtain Vren borrowed sold for a fair bit. We have the extra coin. And the kits have been through hell. Figured it couldn’t hurt to get ‘em something nice. Just this once. They weren’t more than a few coppers a piece. We can afford it…”

A firm hand on his shoulder drew him up short.

Eadelmarr took a deep breath, and Mikolaj braced himself for the lecture that was sure to follow. The gods knew he had heard many such lectures from older witchers over the years. Hours long diatribes against the foolishness of spending your coin on anything that wasn’t a necessity. Anything that wasn’t food, potion and medical supplies, and the upkeep of tools and gear. And even that was to be paid for sparingly, any witcher worth their salt was perfectly capable of hunting and foraging their own food and ingredients, tanning and working their own leather, and in some cases even smithing some of the metalwork they needed for repairs. Basically, if you couldn’t do it for yourself, then you didn’t need it. 

Coin was for emergencies.

Instead, what he got was a shoulder squeeze, and a low comforting voice. “Mikolaj. While I might be old, I am neither one of your trainers, nor a Manticore. I know you are fiscally responsible. I have traveled with you long enough to have seen such for myself. You do not need to justify your actions to me. It is not my place to levy recriminations against you. Especially so for an act of kindness that I perceive as admirable, and would not have hesitated to engage in had I been in your place. I approve. Though you hardly require my approval.” His lips quirked up under Mikolaj’s startled gaze. “Besides, it has been an age since I have had racuchiy.”

That startled a laugh out of the Manticore.

“There’s enough for everyone to have one.” Mikolaj assured. “I’ve never heard of them, but they smelled good. And you can’t go wrong with apples and honey. Children like sweet things, right?”

“So I am told.” Eadelmarr’s voice was dry. He turned back to the fire, and the food he was cooking. “In the meantime, our supper is ready. If you would be so kind as to rescue the innocent children from the demented sea bird that harasses them?”

Mikolaj smirked. “Gladly.”

He rose from his crouch, studying the game the children played with Vren. He waited a moment. Waited until the children were out of the way… Then he charged. Vren was much bigger than Mikolaj, and probably outweighed him by a fair bit. But being that tall meant a higher center of gravity. So if Mikolaj went low and jammed his shoulder against the backs of the Crane’s legs, right above the knees… 

Vren yelped, tumbling like a cut tree in a flail of limbs.

Mikolaj scrambled out of the way and jumped on top of Vren, arm across the Crane’s throat. “Ha! You’re safe now kits, I’ve defeated the monster!” He declared grandly to the children, much to their delight. The chest under him shook with muffled laughter as Vren did his best to ‘play dead’. “Now that he’s dealt with, you’d best be off! Your supper is ready, and I’d hate for one of you to go hungry because Eadelmarr ate it before you got there!”

“I am famished…” Eadelmarr mused, loudly enough that even the children could hear.

Jakub made an indignant noise and dragged Dawid off to rescue their dinner. The two boys flopped down beside the fire already reaching for their supper. Eadelmarr indulgently forked the bread and portions of the meat into the new bowls Mikolaj had picked up in town and passed them over. “Here you are chicks. Eat up. When you have finished, Mikolaj was kind enough to bring back racuchiy. Be sure to thank him.”

“Thank you, Miko!” The boys chorused, Zofia a beat behind them. 

Vren flopped down by the fire, happily accepting his own bowl. “Racuchiy, huh? Been a while since I had those. Good thinking, Miko. What flavor did you pick?”

Mikolaj shrugged, taking his own place by the fire. “Never heard of them before, didn’t know there were other flavors. Think he only had the one, though. He didn’t mention any others. These have an apple filling. Smelled fantastic while he was making them fresh at the market.”

“You’ve never had racuchiy before?!” Jakub demanded, scandalized.

Mikolaj shrugged. “No. You have to remember, I’m from much further south, kit. We have different plants and animals, so the food we make is different.” He accepted the bowl Eadelmarr passed over, mouth watering over the scent. “What about you, what types of racuch’s do you like?” 

“Berries!” Jakub cheered.

“I like the meat ones Mama makes.” Dawid disagreed. He bumped his shoulder against his older sister, the teenager giving him the stink eye when the jostling nearly tipped her cornbread out of the bowl. “Zofia likes the red currant ones, but Mama can’t make them as often as the other kinds. Red currants don’t grow so well in Lettenhove.”

Vren hummed. “I like the savory ones too. My mother used to make them when I was a child. She’d make them for supper, then send the extra with us when my father and I took to the sea to fish in the morning.” 

Mikolaj caught Eadelmarr’s eye over the fire, a perfect understanding passing between them. The wistfulness in their friend’s voice was as familiar to them as their own slow, steady heartbeats. It was rare that a child came to the witchers with a happy past, unless they were a child surprise. But pretty much all of them were damn small . 

Which meant that as they grew older... As intense training, being pushed until they shattered, and then being excruciatingly remade through the trials took their toll, those memories of their early lives took a back seat. They lived, and they traveled, and they fought. And it was a universal constant, that one day they each thought back and realized that they had forgotten. That they could no longer remember the shape of their father’s face, or the sound of their mother’s voice. Memories that were more precious than gold, lost somewhere along the way. Burned away like mist before the morning sun. What tattered recollections remained were hoarded like fine wine and rarely brought out into the light of day.

So when a brother shared, you listened . 

Vren wasn’t kin to either of them, but he was their friend. And communal memory was so much stronger than any one individual. So just as they would with any brother in arms, they committed the information to their own memories. So that if Vren ever lost them, they could help try and tease those memories back to the forefront where they could be easily found and admired.

It was a burden all witchers knew intimately, Mikolaj included.

Mikolaj couldn’t help but wonder how many memories Eadelmarr had lost when without his brothers there to help him carry them. Wondered how many memories he carried for witchers that Death had long since taken by the hand. Or if he had purged them from his mind, the grief too all consuming to allow him to carry that weight alone as he made his rounds of the continent. 

“So, are you gonna teach us how to make bombs after supper?”

Vren was only too happy to pound Mikolaj on the back until the Manticore managed to dislodge the piece of cornbread he’d choked on. 

Eadelmarr just prayed to the gods Pankratz would forgive them.

It couldn’t be Aiden.

Chiefly because Aiden was dead . Had been for years . And they had grieved accordingly when Jad and Brehen had brought the news back to them. But not his medallion or personal effects, much to the displeasure of Gaetan and his brothers and sisters. Not that those smarmy bastards had cared.

Which was the least surprising aspect of the whole debacle.

The unity of the cats had been fractured  after the tournament, the group split between those who had agreed with Treyse’s plan to slaughter the Wolves, and those who had objected, and been bespelled to force their compliance. But the rest of the world hadn’t known that, and the two groups had been forced to live cheek to jowl with each other in the caravan for safety’s sake. Those who hadn’t been a part of it had been assimilated into either group depending on their own morals. The tension during the winters was always high, and they all lived on tenterhooks until spring woke the monsters and gave them excuses to leave Dyn Marv. 

Jad and Brehen had agreed wholeheartedly with Treyse and his ideals. Aiden decidedly had not.

But no matter which side of the debacle they had been on, everyone had grieved for Aiden. Of Guxart’s get, he had been the best of them. Talented, kind, and probably the most stable of the lot, the green eyed Cat had been well loved and respected, much like Guxart before him. And (also like Guxart) now he was dearly missed, his absence a gaping hole that, while slowly healing, would always be debilitatingly painful.

Now to see whatever that was wearing his face…

Gaetan eyed his elder brother’s doppleganger at the other end of the alley. The man had been in an embrace with another man, chin propped up on his shoulder and nuzzling into the man’s hair. Not that Gaetan gave two fucks about that. He didn’t see the appeal of bedding a man, but he sure as hell wouldn’t judge his brothers for it. And even if it wasn’t like that, Aiden had always been a tactile little shit. 

And there was no doubt in his mind that whoever that was, was pretending to be Aiden. 

The second his brother’s name had tumbled past his startled lips, the man had frozen for a second, then tucked that familiar face away against the other man’s chest. Too little too late, Gaetan had already seen it. But he saw the way the man clutched tighter to the other. Saw the way he trembled a little in his hold. The way the other’s grip tightened protectively.

What he wasn’t prepared for was the inhuman snarl that ripped out of the other man when his head snapped ‘round to face Gaetan. 

He wasn’t ready to find himself met with witcher gold. Which ruled out a fair few monsters that could’ve taken his brother’s shape, as any witcher worth their salt would’ve cottoned on to that, and right fast. Maybe not a doppler though. Those damn things were a hell of a lot harder to detect. Especially if you hadn’t known the individual they were impersonating for long. If this thing had been impersonating his brother since his death years ago, it was entirely possible the strange witcher had never known any other Aiden. The very idea turned his stomach and set his blood boiling. If it had had anything to do with Aiden’s death, Gaetan was going to make it’s death hurt and he wasn’t going to feel the slightest bit bad about it.

The impostor took a deep breath, then raised their head to look at him dead on.

Gaetan’s eyes searched for any discrepancy that might prove the falsity. Anything that he could point to, and say with a certainty that ‘that’s not my brother’. The problem was that every detail was right . 

Aiden’s eyes were just as rich of a green gold as he remembered, the unique feature impossible to deny. Thick black hair, and a warm skin tone that was half southern genetics and half the sun’s doing. The scattering of tiny freckles that you’d never even notice unless you were close enough to touch. The slight point to his ears from some far distant elven ancestor. The scar through his eyebrow from back when they were all still trainees and his idiot older brother had decided that the laundry line would make a good tightrope (it hadn’t, and Guxart had reamed him out for almost splitting his head open. And then made him redo the laundry all by himself).

Everything exactly as it should be, though, perhaps not exactly as he remembered. 

There was a new scar on the side of his neck. His hair was longer than it had ever been in Gaetan’s living memory, the sides braided up in a style that he had never seen Aidan wear before. There were more piercings in his ears, the lobes now double pierced and fitted with silver studs, and a small ring fitted into the cartilage further up the right ear near the tip. He looked tired, and his eyes were haunted in a way they never had been before.

A doppler was an exact copy. Always . 

So what the hell was this ?

Gaetan felt something unpleasant curl in his gut, even as he stamped down the hope his traitorous heart tried to unfurl. It couldn’t be Aiden. It just couldn’t be. 

“Gae…?” The impostor called weakly. “That you, Stringbean Cat?”

Gods above, but he even sounded like Aiden. Gaetan bared his teeth, fingers inching towards one of his silver daggers. “You don’t get to call me that .” He hissed. “Only one person ever called me that, and he died years ago. I don’t give a rat's ass if you look just like him, I’ll gut you if you use his nicknames on me.”

The impostor drew up short. 

Understanding flashed across his face, then grief. Hands that had started to relax fisted themselves again against the other witcher’s chest. Gaetan didn’t miss the way the stranger had snitched one of Fake Aiden’s blades from around his waist, ready and waiting to attack or defend even as he kept Aiden close. 

“You thought I was dead too.” Aiden shook his head, face twisting. “Fuck, Gae, Gaetan ” he hurriedly corrected under the threat of Gaetan’s warning growl. “It’s really me, Gaetan, I swear it. I know my word doesn’t mean much since you think I’m some thing wearing your brother’s face, but I promise it’s me…” He hesitated. “You can test me, if you want. Silver and steel, and whatever else you need. I won’t fight you on it. Whatever it takes to prove to you I am who I say I am… please …”

Again, that invasive little tendril of hope unfurled in Gaetan’s chest. 

The way he talked, the figures of speech, the cadence and inflections were all right . Melitelle’s tits, the gods be damned nicknames were right! While a great many of his brothers and sisters in arms shortened his name to Gae, Aiden had been the only one who’d ever called him ‘Stringbean Cat’. A call back to an unfortunate incident involving a newly medallioned Gaetan, an angry kikimora, a donkey, and four massive baskets of string beans. Plus it was a poke at Gaetan’s overall whip thin physique. Aiden had saved his ass that night with the kikimora. And Gaetan had sworn him to silence on the more embarrassing details. But the nickname had stuck around and was their own inside joke by the end. 

While others might know to call him that, they wouldn’t know why .

He pulled the silver blade. “Fine. If you're willing to let me test it, I won’t say no. But he ,” He gestured at the unfamiliar witcher with the dagger, probably a Wolf, based on the armor style. “He stays over there. I’ll give you a chance to prove it, but I’m not stupid enough to let you both close enough to ambush me like a fucking novice.”

The Wolf(?) growled, grip around Aiden’s waist getting tighter somehow.

The impersonator mumbled a reassurance under his breath, patting the man’s shoulder. A little louder, he added “It’s alright, Lamb. Gaetan is my little brother, one I’d consider a brother in truth.” His lips twitched in amusement. “Truth be told, if we had to run into a Cat, I’m glad it was him. He’s one of the few I’d still trust with my life without question. And you two would get along like a house on fire if you gave each other half a chance. I’ll be fine. I’ll take his tests, and we’ll go get food after, okay Puppy?”

Puppy? Definitely a Wolf then, and absolutely the type of irreverent nickname Aiden would come up with.

Lamb (and seriously, what in the nine hells sort of name was Lamb for a gods be damned Wolf ?!) scowled mutinously, though whether it was at the names or the situation was anyone’s guess. Still, he reluctantly let go. “If he makes a move to hurt you, I’ll gut him and string him up on a thorn tree by his intestines.”

“There’s the charming Wolf I know and love.” Aiden snickered. 

Lamb scoffed and rolled his eyes. But the look he shot at Gaetan was wary and calculating. “Careful, Kitten. You might trust ‘im, but I’m not convinced.”

The imposter patted his shoulder. “It’ll be okay, Lamb. Trust me, yeah?”

The Wolf sighed. “Always, Kitten. It’s the rest of the world I doubt.”

Fake Aiden didn’t answer. With one last pat to the Wolf’s shoulder, he spun around and strode forward to meet Gaetan at the other end of the short alley. His posture was upright, his movements smooth and assured. He was aiming for confidence, and he would’ve fooled damn near anyone else. But just like Gaetan’s brother, this Aiden couldn’t keep his gaze still when uncertain of his position. He was constantly looking, eyes open for anything that might give away a trick, warn of a monster, or betray a trap. A small tell, but one he'd never broken.

Head on a swivel my little cats! But don’t be obvious about it. Guxart had always bellowed at them during training when one of them missed something that would get them killed. The other trainers train fighters. They tell you all that Cats have nine lives. Well, I ain’t other trainers, an’ I don’t train fighters. I raise survivors ! And you’ll damn well keep those lives for a century or two if I have a say in it, or you’ll damn well answer to me !

Aiden always had been a good student.

The man stopped in front of Gaetan. For a moment, the two simply stared at each other. Then, Aiden’s look alike took a deep breath and obligingly offered his right hand.

Never offer your dominant hand if you think there might be violence . Guxart’s lessons whispered in the back of his head. Your dominant hand is for your blades. If one of your hands must be injured, don’t let it be the one you use most . Of course, the old grimalkin had monstered all of his students into some level of ambidextrous, so even if their dominant hand was injured it wouldn’t be a death sentence. But the common sense of the lesson held true. And was another point in favor of this actually being Aiden . 

Gaetan hardly dared hope.

He twirled the silver dagger on his fingers and laid the flat against the bare skin of Aiden’s forearm. Aiden didn’t even twitch. There was no hiss of pain, no sizzle of skin burning under contact with the silver. That was a very good sign. 

“Going to nick you with it.” He muttered in warning. Both for Aiden, and for the Wolf waiting anxiously at the other end of the alley who could undoubtedly hear everything.

Aiden nodded, averting his eyes.

That gave Gaetan pause. No witcher worth their salt would ever take their eyes off of someone who was an  active threat to them. Any witcher trained by Guxart and raised in the caravan, even less so. It wasn’t trust, Gaetan could feel the slight tremor of the wrist in his grip. Aiden was scared. So why? Why look away? Anything Gaetan could think of that would have non-red blood would’ve reacted to silver on their skin. But he could smell the other man’s fear. It was real. So what was it about this situation that was scaring him shitless?

The nick was small, barely a papercut on Aiden’s wrist. 

He only really needed to see a couple drops of blood, make sure they were red and not black or some other weird color. Which Aiden passed with flying colors, his blood as red as Gaetan could’ve ever expected. The cut would heal in a blink or two. He swapped the silver dagger for a steel one, and laid that against Aiden’s skin. Still no hiss of pain. No reaction from the skin.

Still, Aiden kept his eyes averted, deliberately not looking at what Gaetan was doing.

Heart in his throat, Gaetan put the second dagger away. “Alright, last test…” Aiden tensed. “... Why do you call me Stringbean Cat?”

His elder brother’s head snapped up. Slowly, a tremulous smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Thought I wasn’t ever supposed to tell that story… But alright, if you want to hear all about it I’ll be happy to indulge you! It’s all about how a kikimora contract turned into a night on the town with your big brother, a sadistic, blood thirsty donkey, and more bushels of string beans than was really reasonable for two witchers who only had their swords, three boots and one pair of pants between them…”

“No! Stop! Not another word, you’ve made your point! I believe you, you’re Aiden.” It took a few seconds for the words to actually register in his head. This… This was Aiden . Aiden was alive and here and standing right in fucking front of him! A sob battled its way up out of his throat and he practically threw himself at the older Cat. 

“Oh shit!” Aiden yelped. 

But just like every other time, Gaetan’s older brother caught him before he could fall. Aiden swept him up in his arms and clung on tight, nose pressed against the hinge of his jaw and chest heaving as he huffed in great lungfuls of Geatan’s scent. 

Not that Gaetan was doing much better. 

Time ceased to have any meaning as the two stood there, reacquainting themselves after almost eight years apart. Aiden scrubbed the edge of his jaw against Gaetan’s temple, the feline gesture sure to leave a swath of his scent behind on the short bristles of Gaetan’s (generally) shaved head. Geatan was quick to return the sentiment, rubbing the scent glands of his own jaw along the side of Aiden’s neck. It was customary among the Cats to scent mark each other, to carry that little bit of your siblings and your brothers and sisters in arms with you. And it was comforting now, to have such proof that this was real . That Aiden was alive . And to know that the scent mark he’d placed would continue to linger with Gaetan as a reminder for days afterward unless Gaetan made an effort to wash it off.

Eventually he pushed back. Not enough to let go, or be let go in turn. Fuck, in that moment you couldn’t pry him off of Aiden with a crowbar. But enough that he could see Aiden’s face. As delighted as the older Cat looked to see Gaetan, he also looked tired . 

Gaetan ran his hands up either side of Aiden’s throat, thumbs cradling his jaw while his fingers curled around the nape of his neck and buried themselves in Aiden’s thick black hair. “Melitelle wept … Aiden. Aiden ! What the fuck happened to you?! They told us you were dead!” He gave his brother a little shake to emphasize the point. 

A low warning growl reminded him that the Wolf witcher was still there, and had in fact snuck up on them while they were reacquainting themselves. ‘Lamb’ was very protective of his brother, it seemed. Good to know. Whatever had happened, at least Aiden had had someone watching his back. 

“That whore son actually went back to the caravan and told you all I’d died, did he?” Aiden looked so very exhausted . His hands clutched at Gaetan’s shoulders, just as reluctant to let go as Gaetan was. 

“Him an’ Brehen.” Gaetan agreed.

Aiden froze. “ Brehen ?” 

“Him an’ Jad came back together that year. Said they’d been traveling together when they passed through the town what hired you for your last contract. Said the bastards had looted your corpse and you’d been burned where you fell. That there was nothing left for them to bring back to Dyn Marv.”

“Oh did they?” Aiden hissed, his voice darker. Sharper. Dangerous . 

Not to Gaetan, never to those Aiden called family. But more than enough for Gaetan to sit up and pay attention. “That was the story we got.” He confirmed.

Aiden’s jaw clenched. But his voice, when he addressed the Wolf over his shoulder, was light and cheerful again. “Lambert, darling. Any chance you saw ought of Brehen during your travels?”

“Not a whisker. Seems we missed one.”

“Seems so.” Aiden agreed, a manic smile beginning to curl his lips.

The Wolf cocked his head, lips pursed in thought. “Odd though. None of the others mentioned him.”

That got Aiden’s attention. “No?”

Lambert (damn, did the name make so much more sense) shrugged. “Not a word. They flipped on Jad as easy as breathing, but not a one of them said a word about there being another Cat there. Much less offered up another name. You know I wouldn’t ‘ave stopped otherwise.”

“You are very thorough.” Aiden agreed. He squeezed Gaetan’s shoulders, then when that didn’t seem to be enough he pulled him into another bone crushing hug. 

“I’ve missed you.” He mumbled against Gaetan’s temple. He scrubbed his jaw along Gaetan’s cheek, leaving another swath of scent to ensure anyone with the nose to catch it would know Gaetan was one of his . “Come on. We were just going to get a room. You’re joining us for dinner, and you’re catching me up on everything I missed over the last four years while I was away. I’ll buy the beer.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Gaetan grumbled. Reluctantly, he stepped back, staring between Aiden and the Wolf. “You gonna introduce us, Aiddie-Cat? Or are you gonna just leave us to figure it out?” 

Lambert scoffed. Gesturing at himself, he muttered “I’m Lambert, you’re Gaetan. There, introductions made. Talk inside, we haven’t had anything but trail rations all day and I’m hungry.”

Aiden burst into laughter and finally let go. “Alright! Alright!” He slung an arm around Gaetan’s shoulders and dragged him back down the alley towards the front of the inn. “Come on, Kitten! Best feed the Wolf before he eats us!” 

Still half in shock, Gaetan let Aiden drag him around to the front of the inn and inside, Lambert trailing after them with bags in hand. Inside, the inn wasn’t full up, but it wasn’t particularly empty either. Most of the patrons didn’t pay much attention to them. And those that did seemed to reassess being assholes when they realized that there were three of them. Aiden paused long enough to take the bags from Lambert, then led Gaetan to a table in the back corner while Lambert headed for the bar. 

“He’ll get us a room.” Aiden explained, stowing the saddle bags under the table and flopping into a seat. “Unless something’s changed here, the inn’s a lute. Short of being full up, they won’t turn us away. Now.” He turned to Gaetan with a grin. “Tell me everything I’ve missed.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to demand answers of his own. To say fuck that, what the hell happened to you?! But… Well, Aiden was here and alive, he wasn’t going anywhere. And if what he’d implied about Gaetan being the first Cat he’d encountered in the four years since his supposed death was true, then he was very out of the loop when it came to their friends and family. He had to be desperate for news. Gaetan could be patient.

“Where to start?” He grumbled. 

Aiden leaned a little closer. “Did we lose anyone?”

Yeah, that was fair. “Aside from you? No. The path hasn’t claimed anyone else.”

Aiden sagged in his seat. “Gods be kind.” He mumbled, scrubbing at his face. “I was so worried. That I’d escape, only to find out that some of you had died in the interim.”

Lambert thumped down beside them, mugs of barley beer clattering against the wood table top. Passing a mug to each of the Cats, he grunted “Your family alright, Kitten?”

“All alive and well according to Gaetan.” Aiden confirmed. He took a swig of his beer. “But now for the really important question: Have you figured out who Dragonfly’s secret lover is?”

Lambert side eyed him. “Really? That’s your most pressing concern?”

“What? I’ve been out of the loop for four years, I want the good gossip! And she’s our sister, we don’t have many of those! The trainers were absolute asses to her aside from Gux, so now that we’re all adults and can actually do something about it we look out for her and the rest of our sisters. And if she’s got a lover, clearly we’ve got to make sure they’re worthy of her. And know what’ll happen if she gets hurt.”

Gaetan smirked into his mug. 

It was an old argument among the women of the Cat’s. To the wider world, women witchers were almost like unicorns. So rare as to almost be a myth. Only the School of the Cat had ever accepted girls, rare as it was. Which would’ve been a shame, seeing as how the girls had only taken it as having something to prove, and had gone on to become some of the school’s best out of spite. 

They were more than capable of holding their own. And the rest of the school was well aware of it. But therein lay the disconnect. Because while the male witchers would trust their sisters with their lives on a hunt, they had also seen how much harder the trainers were on them. And it course corrected as adults into wanting to protect their sisters more fiercely, despite their very vocal protests that they didn’t need to be protected. For the most part, they’d come to an accord. But their sisters still grumbled about it. Particularly in instances like this when their brothers played up their tendencies for mischief just to get a rise out of them. 

Honestly, at this point it had become something of a game that the whole school indulged in.

If any of their siblings took a lover from outside the school, (or anyone made truly close friends with an outsider) they used any and all means to keep it hidden. And once the rest of the school realized, they did everything in their power to figure out who it was. So far, their sister Dragonfly had proven especially adept at concealing her lover from the rest of the group. Witchers were patient, as a general rule, they lived very long lives. But even for them, managing to conceal a lover for little over half a decade was a stretch. And the rest of the school was starting to get tetchy about it.

“No, we haven’t found him yet. But we will.”

“Good. I’d hate for her to beat my record.”

Gaetan choked on his drink.

Aiden cackled, leaning over to thump Gaetan on the back. “Bones in your beer, Gae? You know you’re supposed to chew, right?”

Gaetan flipped him off. “Oh fuck you! Fuck all the way off, Aiden, you gremlin! Why the fuck did I miss you again? You do nothing but drive everyone around you crazy.”

“Ironic, considering he’s one of the more sane Cats.” Lambert chuckled.

Aiden shrugged. “Eh. My trainers used to joke that my grasses had the opposite effect on me and my yearmates. Instead of making us unstable, they gave us the ability to drive everyone else batshit. Not sure how true that is, most of my cohort didn’t make it to the grasses, let alone past the first five years.” 

Watching in interest as the Wolf nonchalantly leaned a shoulder against Aiden for comfort, Gaetan took another sip of his beer. “So. If you’re worried about Dragonfly beating your record, how long have you and your Wolf here been a pair? You never once said fuck all about meeting a Wolf, let alone making friends with one.”

“That would be telling.” Was Aiden’s cheery retort. He leaned more heavily against Lambert, the Wolf shifting to compensate and keep him upright. “But as it is, I met Lambert a couple decades ago.”

“Little more than that now.” Lambert corrected.

“Oh?... Oh, yeah, I think you’re right. My sense of time is still half fucked after spending two years in that hell hole. Anyway, Gae. We both got contracted for the same beast by two separate employers. His was dumb enough to insist on coming along, and of course the fuckwit immediately goes and gets himself killed.”

“Idiot.” Gaetan scoffed.

“No arguments here.” Lambert agreed. 

A serving girl arrived at the table with three bowls of hearty stew, a board of fresh bread, a butter-bell, and a pitcher of beer to refill their tankards. Despite acting like a cantankerous curmudgeon, it was the Wolf that slipped a few extra coppers into her hand with a muttered word of thanks and to leave the pitcher. The girl beamed, dropping the coins into her apron and assuring him it was no trouble. 

Aiden picked up again once she’d gone. “So there we were, standing over a dead ogre that it definitely took the both of us to kill. And it’s looking like, of the two of us, I’m the only one that’s looking like I’m gonna get paid. Because his contractor is laid out on the ground like a squashed frog and deader than a fence post. And, well, I kinda liked the foul mouthed bastard. He had every right to walk away and leave me to it as soon as his employer died. But he stuck around and he watched my back, same as he would’ve for any other Wolf. And I figured fair’s fair, he did do half the work. So I offered to split my fee with him. Naturally, he was suspicious, and he had every right to be. But he took me up on it.”

“Didn’t have much choice, that was the first contract I’d found in a month and what I’d found prior hadn’t been all that good.” Lambert grouched, taking a break from shoveling his stew. “Didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but if there was even a chance that he’d follow through, I figured it was worth the risk. Hell of a surprise when he met up when and where he said he would and split the purse exactly even. Figured I’d chalk it up to you all bein’ half crazy bastards and move on. Then this fuckin’ gremlin decided to start deliberately crossing paths with me afterwards and I didn’t know what to think.”

Thoroughly enjoying the show, Gaetan finally left off the beer to start in on the stew. It was thick and hearty. Full of chunks of beef, potatoes, onions, and some sort of pepper. It was damn good. Much better fair than he was used to getting as a witcher. Gaetan tore a chunk off of the bread to dunk in the stew. …Perfection. 

He’d said it before, and he would keep saying it, but gods bless and defend the professor who had come up with the lute marks.

“You intrigued me. I thought you were sexy and would be fun to travel with.” Aiden shrugged, not the least bit concerned with past him’s life choices. Around a spoonful of stew, he added, “Besides, it worked didn’t it? I got him to be my friend out of sheer persistence, and we’ve been friends ever since. Lovers for the past sixteen, seventeen years or so? Maybe a bit more? No regrets. Best decision I’ve ever made.”

“Damn.” 

Whether he went by friends or by lovers, that was definitely a record for how long a Cat went before someone else from the school caught wind. Dragonfly wasn’t even close. She'd definitely be disappointed about that. The rest of the school would probably fall into the worlds biggest snit over missing it. Geatan was actually a little impressed. And already looking forward to being the one to tell the rest of their family. 

And lording it over them that he got to meet Aiden’s Wolf before any of the rest of those fuckers.

A fight broke out near the bar, and all three witchers sat up a little straighter to assess if they needed to react. But the innkeep was already wading in with a bread paddle and booting the lot towards the door. They shrugged and settled back into their meals.

“What about Kiyan? Have you heard anything of him lately? Schrodinger?”

Gaetan hummed around his mouthful. “Mmf. Kiyan’s up in Velen, caught a good contract. His last letter said he’d decided to stay around a little longer to do some wet work. Seems some bastard mage fucked up and needed to be put down. As for Schrodinger… Not sure. Schro was cagey this last spring. Squirrelier than normal. He said he’d heard something interesting last fall, just before the snows, and was going to check it out this spring. Last I heard, he was heading for Vicovarro.”

“He better stay out of trouble.” Aiden muttered. The Cat hesitated. “... And Guxart? Have you heard anything new about what happened to him?”

Lambert pricked up his ears. “Guxart? That was your primary trainer, right? Like Vesemir is to us?”

“Yeah. He was a good man. Tough, but fair with us. Always used to say he didn’t train fighters, he raised survivors . He disappeared about two years after the tournament. No one could ever find out what had happened, he was just gone .”

Gaetan spun his spoon over his knuckles, playing it through as though it were a dagger. “Don’t sell the old grimalkin short. Guxart raised survivors alright. When the tallies were taken at the end of each year, his surviving students always outnumbered those of any other trainer. He was well loved, or at the very least respected.” He glanced at Aiden, curious if he should bring this next bit up. Wolves were notoriously (understandably) touchy about the tournament.

Aiden nodded.

Well alright then. “He was one of two trainers who’d opposed Treyse’s plan to ambush you Wolves. And he fought tooth and nail to get as many of his kittens out of the tournament alive as he could once he realized we’d been be-spelled to fight despite ourselves. Myself included.” 

Lambert’s eyebrows shot up. 

Gaetan waved off the surprise. “It is what it is. Point being, Gux was well loved and respected, an’ that made him a threat to Treyse’s authority. We suspect that Treyse had Guxart assassinated, because a good two thirds of the caravan would’ve followed him if he’d left. But we’ve never been able to figure out what happened to him, or prove that it was Treyse’s fault.”

Much like Aiden, he was another one who’s loss haunted all of them.

Lambert drummed his fingers against the table top, eyes distant. “I know there were spells being slung around like cow shit at that fucking tournament. I wasn’t there, was too young to attend. Ves wouldn’t let any of the wolves with less than a decade under their belts attend. There were too few of us left, and he had a bad feeling about the whole thing. But Vesemir and my elder brother were there. Geralt had to cut down one from his own cohort that had been be-spelled to turn against our school. A few others too. We thought it was purposeful. A way to sow distrust and winnow down our numbers. But if you were all under the spell, I can’t help but wonder if ours were caught in the crossfire by accident.”

There was a thought. 

“Wouldn’t know. Mage fuckery either way.” Gaetan tore off another chunk of bread, sopping up the stew from the bottom of the bowl. “Now, unless you’ve got other questions, Aiden, mind telling me what really fucking happened to you?”

The light seemed to leave Aiden’s eyes a little. He threw back the least of his beer and reached for the pitcher the serving girl had left behind. Lambert muttered a quiet ‘here’ and passed a potion bottle over. The second Aiden popped the cork the scent of white gull hit Gaetan full in the nose. 

Something squirmed in the pit of his stomach as he watched Aiden tip about a third of it into his beer. 

Passing the vial back, Aiden gave the tankard a couple swirls to mix it and took a swig. “Damn, Lambert. Whatever you changed in the recipe this time, it worked, this shit is strong… Okay. I need you to listen close, Stringbean Cat. And if you run into our siblings, feel free to tell them. I don’t want to tell this story any more often than I have to. Got it?”

“Got it. Now tell me why Jad and Brehen thought you were dead.”

Aiden scoffed. “They knew damn well I wasn’t, but there were times I wished otherwise… Alright, so it all started with a contract…”

Slowly, Aiden laid the whole sordid tale out before Gaetan, piece by ugly bastard piece. About a contract to remove a curse from a duke’s daughter. How he’d been offered quite the tidy sum by various other lords and merchants if he would just leave without fulfilling the contract. 

He’d refused.

Aiden told him about discovering that it wasn’t a curse at all but a creature Aiden had never encountered before feeding on her. Fighting tooth and nail to get it off of her and failing, killing the creature but ultimately resulting in her death. Of the grieving duke leaving it to his right hand to pay Aiden for the attempt. 

Aiden’s voice twisted in disgust as he described how the little lordling tried to use the girl’s death to whittle down the price, even though the duke had given strict instructions to pay him in full. 

“Sniveling little bastard paid me when I threatened to take it before the duke himself, but he took it personally. Personally enough that he put a contract on my hide.” Aiden threw back another gulp from his tankard. “Fucking Jad and few of his friends took the contract.”

Gaetan stilled, ice trickling down his spine. “What.”

Aiden gave him a twisted little grin. “They ran me to ground. I’d already spent the money on much needed repairs and supplies. And Jad pops off with the most marvelous idea. ‘Cause apparently , he knows a mage who’d pay well for a witcher to run experiments on. If they sold me to the mage, and lopped off the head of some random beggar that looked vaguely like me to present to their contractor, they would get paid for me twice. By the time they got back to their contractor the head would’ve rotted too much to tell the difference. And they would have all my belongings, so why wouldn’t he believe them? A win-win, so far as they were concerned. I was sold off within a week. At nine hundred crowns, apparently I was quite the bargain .”

The hiss was instinctive.

Across the table, Lambert let loose a rumbling growl that would have done an actual wolf proud. Gaetan was only half aware of it. Distantly impressed, but at the same time holding onto his composure by his fucking fingernails as red tinged his vision and his thoughts started to haze with the beginning edge of Cat madness. Because how dare they ?! How dare they sell a brother, sell Aiden into slavery to a fucking mage ?!

A hand wrapped around his own and squeezed hard .

“ Breathe , Stringbean Cat.” Aiden crooned, voice silk soft and inviting as he tried to draw Gaetan back from the edge of madness. “Breathe. I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. Especially not with Lambert to keep me out of trouble.”

Gaetan choked on his breath, desperately trying to claw his way back before it got it’s hooks in him good and proper. Rage was one thing, and well deserved in this case. But he’d been overcome by Cat madness once before, and he desperately didn’t want to come out of it to find an entire village slaughtered ever again. But it was hard . So very hard to wrangle himself back when he wanted to hiss and spit and claw that sick fuck Jad to god damn ribbons for having the audacity to even think of selling one of their own into slavery.

“Damn right.” Lambert muttered. “You get into too much trouble if I leave you alone for too long, I’m never taking my eyes off of you again.” He dug into a pouch on his belt and produced another vial. “Wave that under his nose.”

Bemused, Aiden pulled the cork with his teeth.

Whatever it was, it was potent, the older Cat jerking and nearly spilling the vial when the scent hit him. Still, he gamely shoved it under Gaetan’s nose. The effect was instant. A bitter chemical smell invaded his senses and Gaetan flinched back. His thoughts snapped back to clarity, the hot inferno of his rage burned off in the rush to get away from the all consuming scent of whatever the fuck that was.

“The fuck is that shit?!”

Lambert took the vial back with a shrug and corked it. “Salt of harts horn. I make them to sell to village healers at market for extra coin. Most healers use it to rouse a patient that’s gone and fainted, but it works damn well getting a witcher’s attention when they’re going off the deep end and you can’t pull them out any other way. We Wolves don’t go mad the way you Cats do, but we can get hyper focused on our senses and it’s hard to break us out of it. Plus, I have very vivid memories of seeing a trainer use it to break through a visiting Bear’s rage when he went berserk. Figured if it worked on hyper focused Wolves and raging Bear witchers, it had a shot of working for you mad Cats too. Glad to see I was right.” He offered the vial. “Want one? I’ve got several ready for market, so it’s no skin off my nose to give you one.”

Could it really be so simple as that?

Usually, when madness took a Cat and they were beyond the point where a brother could pull them out, there was nothing to be done but isolate them. Isolate them and wear them the fuck out! And hope you didn’t die in the process. Once the madness truly hit, the Cat wouldn’t recognize friend from foe. They just saw movement and lashed out until it stopped moving. The madness could last for hours at a time. Some never came out of it, something inside them breaking and leaving nothing but an empty shell full of nothing but violence and spite.

Gaetan gingerly took the vial. “Not sure how much help it’ll be to me, once the madness starts to creep in it’s almost impossible to stop or do much before it rolls you. But it’d be good to have something to help if one of my brothers was struggling… Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it. If you’re worried about not being able to fumble it out in time, tie a vial around your neck. That way it’ll always be close to hand, and it shouldn’t take much brain power to bite the cork. At least then it’ll be close to your face and you’ve got the best shot of pulling yourself back out.”

“I’ll do that. Thank you.” A squeeze on his hand drew Gaetan’s attention back to Aiden, and some of the rage flickered back to life. “When we find Jad, Aiden, the whore’s son is going to wish he was never born. I swear it”

Aiden’s grin took on a bit of a feral edge. “No need. When Lambert caught wind of my supposed death, he and the White Wolf hunted the whole group down. They put Jad to the sword and managed to collect at least some of my belongings from the shit stain that decided to keep them as a trophy.” His smile faded, and he slowly sat back in his seat. “What confuses me is how Brehen fits into all of this. He wasn’t with Jad when they captured me. Not that I remember, anyway.” 

“I don’t know. But I’m damn well gonna find out.” Gaetan hissed. He polished off his beer and reached for the pitcher. “You said they sold you to a mage. Which one? And what happened once the freak had you?”

Aiden blanched. “Dobrogost. He lived in Oxenfurt. Had a small compound tunneled into the ground below his home. He… He wanted to know how much we could survive. Wanted to know exactly how much abuse we could take before our bodies gave out.”

“Shit. Aiden…” Gaetan breathed, horror struck.

His elder brother shuddered, grabbing Lambert’s hand and squeezing with all his might. “I won’t go into detail. I’d rather my family didn’t know all the nitty gritty details of how I was tortured for two years. Just… Don’t be surprised if water makes me panic, yeah? And if you come up behind me, make sure I know you’re there. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. I won’t let you.” Gaetan reached across the table to grab Aiden’s other hand. The older Cat clung on just as tight. Gaetan glanced between Aiden and Lambert. “We can stop if you need. Much as I want to know, I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Aiden shook his head, jaw clenching. “No. No, I can go on. You deserve answers after having to think I was dead for four years.”

Personally Gaetan was doubtful about Aiden’s ability to keep going. But the Wolf didn’t seem all that concerned, and presumably he’d know better in this instance. So Gaetan would trust his judgement for now. 

“You said two years of hell. Your Wolf come and find you?”

“Nah. Crazy bastard managed to escape on his own.” Lambert corrected, the fondness for the Cat undeniable as he rubbed his thumb comfortingly back and forth across his lover’s knuckles. “Made his escape in late winter. An Oxenfurt professor, friend of Jaskier’s found him wandering almost naked in the snow and took him in. Once it became clear that sorcerer had put a spell on him, he sent a mage letter to Jaskier asking if the bard would drag Geralt back to Oxenfurt with him to try and help get it off before Dobrogost killed him. Geralt recognized Aiden’s name and realized it might be the Cat he helped me avenge the year prior.”

The Wolf tucked Aiden closer to his side, not that Aiden was complaining.

“Geralt dragged Jask down the mountain in the dead of night to make sure they caught up with me, and called in a favor from Yennefer of Vengerburg. We portalled into Oxenfurt early the next morning.” He swallowed hard, the faintest trace of a canine whine creeping into his voice. “It was Aiden alright. And, Kreve’s crooked cock , but he was nothing but skin and bones.” 

Lambert muttered something grating and high in the throat that Gaetan tentatively identified as the goblin tongue, though hell if he knew what the words actually meant. Whether he knew or just had an idea of what it meant, Aiden at least seemed amused. He lightly bumped his head against Lambert’s, the feline gesture nothing but pure affection.

Lambert smiled a little, squeezing Aiden’s hand back. “The fucking spell on Aiden allowed the shit sucking goblin fucker to siphon energy off of Aiden. Theoretically, with that spell in place, if he got hurt he could trigger it and use Aiden’s energy to fully heal himself without ever touching on his own reserves. It would’ve given him a massive advantage in a fight if you didn’t know it was there.”

“Lambert, Geralt, and Yennefer were able to sever the spell before he could take my life to save his own.” Aiden finished quietly. 

“Never thought I’d be grateful to a Wolf. Much less two of Kaer Morhen’s prodigies.” Gaetan muttered. Lambert made a disgruntled noise at being called a prodigy, and the two Cat’s smirked at him. He might not be as well known as the White Wolf and the Dragon of Kaer Morhen, but the bard sang about him too. To Aiden, Gaetan added “I’ll let the others know. Seems to me we owe the Wolves a new debt. We won’t forget.”

“Didn’t do it for repayment.” Lambert grumbled, embarrassment starting to tinge his scent. “Geralt followed because I asked him. I did it because I’m a selfish bastard who refused to let my lover go, even if it might’ve been easier on him.”

Face completely deadpan, Gaetan snipped “You think I give a shit why? You saved my brother’s life, and that’s all I care about. All any of us will care about. You saved his life, and kept him going. And I think I can safely speak for all of us when I say that, for that? We’re grateful. I hope you like Cats, Wolf. Because once the others hear about all of this, you’re going to be seeing a lot of them.”

The poor Wolf looked utterly flummoxed by the entire idea.

Aiden snickered and bumped his shoulder. “After Geralt, Lambert, and Yennefer disposed of Dobrogost, the Wolves reworked their usual routes to allow Lambert to stay in Redania while I recovered pretty much the rest of that year in Oxenfurt. I wasn’t… comfortable with the idea of going back to the caravan that next winter. Given Jad’s betrayal, I wasn’t sure who all to trust outside our family. And Lambert and I weren’t exactly eager to let each other out of our sight, so the plan was to go to Kaer Morhen with him.”

Gaetan darted a sharp look at Lambert. “He’d be welcome there?”

“Vesemir would be pissy about it, but my brothers would welcome him with open arms purely for the fact that he makes me happy.” Lambert assured. “Didn’t make it last winter though. I went to Oxenfurt to pick him up and a blizzard tore through not even a day later. We ended up wintering with Jaskier’s friends. We’ll go back to the Kaer this year.”

Still holding Aiden’s hand, Gaetan reached for his tankard again with the other. “Kaer Morhen is up somewhere in the Blue Mountains, right? Pushing it close, aren’t you?” 

A loud burst of shouting and laughter from another table drew their attention for a moment, before the humans settled down again.

Lambert waved the question off. “Yennefer’s already agreed to portal us if we don’t make it. This is more important. You’re aware Jasker the bard and Professor Pankratz are one and the same, right? And that Nilfgaard’s got it out for him and Geralt?”

A sense of foreboding tickled at the edges of Gaetan’s awareness. “Yes…”

“You’re gonna love this then…”

Schro

If you went south towards Vicovarro the way you said you would,  then you’re probably already aware that the Nilfs have a hard-on for witchers in general, and the White Wolf and his bard in particular. However, seems a few important bits haven’t made the rounds through the lutes yet, so let me break it down for you.

First, and most importantly: Aiden’s alive. That motherfucker Jad sold him into slavery to a fucking MAGE. He’s since escaped and is recovering well.

Second, Aiden apparently hid a lover from us for the past two or three DECADES. Said lover is a fucking WOLF of all things! Fucker named Lambert. He and the White Wolf hunted down Jad when they thought Aiden was dead, then turned right around and hunted down the mage when Aiden escaped and they found out he was alive. Aiden’s been with his Wolf, not sure who he can trust in the caravan outside of our family.

Third, apparently the princess is the White Wolf’s child surprise. She’s just a little kid, not an adult paying him for protection. I wouldn’t have cared before if it was a transaction. But knowing that he’s just trying to protect his kid? That changes things. Plus, after everything with Aiden, we owe him. 

Which brings me to the last bit. You know how the bard and the professor are the same damn person? Nilfgaard apparently went and kidnapped his little siblings. They’re from his stepmother, so a fair bit younger than him, still just kids. Word has it some unknown witchers managed to get them away from Nilfgaard. I doubt you’ll see them, they’ll most likely be heading further north. But the Nilfgaardians might be even touchier around witchers, and you’re about as far into their territory as a man can get. 

Update any lutes you visit as you go, the rest of the witchers need to know the lion cub of Cintra is one of ours now, and that Nilfgaard took children hostage against the professor’s good behavior. 

Keep your head on a swivel, Schro. And get the fuck out of Nilf territory as fast as you can. 

-Gaetan

Schrodinger reread the mage letter twice.

Pure joy and utter rage battled through his head and chest, neither side of the war having an outlet there at the bottom of the continent and miles away from any other soul. 

Or, at least, any other soul that deserved his ire. He wouldn’t have hurt his current traveling companion for love or money.

A quiet, tired voice called out behind him. “Deep breaths, Kitten. What’s gone and got your fur on end?”

Schrodinger swallowed hard. Slowly, carefully,  he made his way back to the bedroll where his new companion lay and settled into a kneel. He offered the letter. 

A hand that still trembled slightly with long disuse took it, and he waited patiently while the man read. Instead, he focused on his breathing. Let himself sink into a light meditation until the faint tinge of red at the corners of his vision faded.

When it looked as though he'd finished reading, Schrodinger spoke up.

“What do we do now?”

Guxart scowled, stubble rasping against his calluses as he rubbed at his jaw. “Now? We remind the entire continent that witchers are neutral and should be left alone for a gods be damned reason . Pack your things, Kitten. We're going to Gorthur Gvaed.”

Bonus Memes!

BONUS Bonus Meme suggested by SecondhandDemon !

Holy FUCK I finally got the images to attach!!!!!!

Chapter Text

“Why doesn’t Marr’s bigger horse have a name?”

Eadelmarr glanced over. Jakub was helping Vren with the horses, the small boy reaching as high as he possibly could with a brush and only reaching part of the way up the nameless stallion’s shoulder. The horse turned his head, nipping at Jakub’s shoulder. Not enough to hurt the boy, but the sort of exploratory nip to see what he could get away with. 

On Jakub’s other side, working a brush across the stallion’s withers, Vren wasn’t about to let him. He made a sharp sound and lightly swatted the stallion’s muzzle away from Jakub. “Ksht! Hey now, let the boy alone, you little brat.” 

The stallion jerked his head back, all affronted dignity and slighted innocence as if they hadn’t just seen him try to set teeth on a child.

Ground hitched across from the stallion, Tempest made a grumbly noise and stamped a hoof, ears turned back as she watched him. Eadelmarr suppressed a grin when the much larger mare stretched out her broad neck to give him a sharp nip when it looked like he might try his tricks again. 

He was young, and a certain amount of mischief was to be expected. Having Dove and Sweet Rose had been helpful to aid in training and model good behavior while traveling with the stallion. But Dove was a quiet sort (hence the name), and Sweet Rose would put up with a lot from him before she eventually got fed up with him and gave him a nip or a swift kick for his insolence. Not so with Tempest. The massive mare was stolid and calm, but she would not put up with his behavior the way the other two would, treating him like a misbehaving foal. It had done wonders for the bad manners and spoiled behavior. 

Snickering, Vren turned his attention back to Jakub’s question. “Well. I’d imagine it’s because he hasn’t found the right name yet.” He glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. “Or maybe he’s just bad at naming things and needs help coming up with one. Maybe you could help?” 

Jakub spun around, ignoring or maybe not noticing the way the stallion startled at the sudden movement. “Can I?!”

Eadelmarr chuckled, pushing himself to stand. He strode over to the pair, ruffling Jakub’s hair. The stallion snuffled at him curiously, and he smoothed his hand over the satin soft muzzle. “Well, I have had this stallion for quite some time now, and have neglected to name him. As I have yet to bestow a suitable name, it seems only fair that someone else should be accorded a turn. Perhaps your siblings might be of help?”

Jakub’s head bobbled much like one of those balancing toys Eadelmarr remembered from his youth. “I’ll go ask!” He’d barely taken three steps before he stumbled to a stop and spun around again to hold the brush out. “Here, can you hold this?”

“Of course, little chick.” Eadelmarr assured. “Go ask your siblings opinion of names, and let us know of the council’s decision.”

Giggling, the boy nodded and took off again. 

His siblings were seated by the fire. Dawid in his tunic and brais with a blanket over his lap, was watching avidly as Zofia showed him how to mend a tear in his pants. Jakub bounced into their group with all the rambunctious energy of an overexcited puppy and immediately began to chatter away to the pair. Zofia tucked her needle into a fold of the fabric to ensure even if the string came loose the needle wouldn’t be lost. The care was much appreciated. While the witchers could whittle new sewing needles out of antler or bone, such needles were not in the slightest bit ideal for sewing wounds. That she was being so careful not to lose one of their metal ones was very thoughtful of her.

Eadelmarr turned back to the horses.

Tempest stared back at him, the mare towering over him. 

Still working on the stallion, Vren chuckled. Presumably at the ludicrous discrepancy between their sizes. He paused his brushing to point over the stallion’s back to Eadelmarr’s mare. “Don’t worry about Tempest, Marr. I’ll tend to my lady as soon as I’m through with your lad. But I’m sure Dove would appreciate your attention.” 

Dove pricked up her ears at the sound of her name, whickering. 

Eadelmarr stepped around the stallion, hand out. Dove made a happy noise, lipping at his fingers in greeting. He smoothed his fingers across her velvet nose, cupping under her bristly chin to rub that spot she liked so much. It was an odd spot, to be sure, he’d never found another horse that liked getting scratches there. Most preferred scratches at the withers or rump, or along the crest of the neck. He’d found her spot by accident putting her bridle on. She leaned into it with a happy groan, eyes half lidded and head heavy in his hands. 

“She looks comfortable.” Vren teased. 

Eadelmarr laughed. “That she does, my friend. She has always been like this.” He moved along her far flank so that he could face Vren, and set to work brushing out her coat. “That stallion is going to have quite the name, I think.”

“He will at that. I look forward to seeing what they come up with.” Vren agreed cheerfully. Tempest gave a great, billowing sigh, and the Crane laughed. “Patience darling, I’ll get to you soon, I promise.” To Eadelmarr he added, “Sweet Rose will be jealous she missed out on being pampered. We’ll have to show her some extra attention, either tonight when we make camp or this afternoon in the stable.”

“She will appreciate it, I’m sure. Will we leave Mikolaj to tend to her?”

Vren hummed, considering. 

Since they had taken to the path with the young Pankratzes, they had fallen into a rhythm. Passing by towns, they would make a temporary camp and one of the witchers would enter town to check for contracts. They’d only found one so far, a small contract for a few drowners. Nothing that required any special preparation, and it had barely taken an hour’s worth of work. Vren hadn’t even bothered to come back to the camp between accepting and completing the contract. 

He had, however, forgotten that the children wouldn’t be accustomed to the sort of stinking mess that tended to accrue during a hunt. He had waltzed back into camp, dearly in need of a bath. And the children had all been properly disgusted by the stink of the mud caked into his hair and clothes. Vren had been quick to grab a change of clothes and beat a hasty retreat to the nearby stream while Eadelmarr explained to the children why the Crane smelled like weeds and rot and looked like he’d rolled through a pig's wallow.

This town, it was Mikolaj’s turn to check. 

“We’ll wait till we know what the contract is, then decide. One of our skillsets might be more suited to the hunt.” Vren finally answered. 

“Fair.” Eadelmarr agreed. He scratched his fingers over that spot on Dove’s withers that most horses enjoyed. Dove rumbled happily, leaning into the affection. “We are making good time. If we continue as we are, we will arrive in the Blue Mountains well before the first snows.”

Vren stopped brushing, instead folding his arms and leaning across the stallion’s back. “I didn't expect to be coming up on Kaedwen so quickly. Not with three children in tow.” He admitted honestly. “Once we’re past the Kestrel Mountains we can turn further north. Do you know where the path to Kaer Morhen lies? Or at least the general area?” 

Eadelmarr scoffed, taking up brushing again. “I have never been. But my brother Coen has, and was kind enough to write out directions in his letters. And an older brother was once required to visit to speak to the Wolf headmaster in person. They both mentioned a small town at the foot of the mountain path by name, as it is the last opportunity to rest in an inn or acquire supplies before making the ascent up the path.” His lips quirked. “We will no doubt find the ascent a challenge. I’m told the Wolves called the path up to their keep ‘The Killer’. Apparently for very good reason.”

“Of course they do.” Vren grumbled under his breath and went back to brushing out the stallion. He paused, head cocking slightly. “Mikolaj is back. I can hear Sweet Rose coming up the road.”

Eadelmarr hummed in acknowledgment, flicking his fingers toward their charges. “It seems our chicks have come to a decision.”

Jakub skipped back to them. “I got it!”

“Ah, so the council has decided. And what name did you determine to be worthy of such a fine animal?” Eadelmarr asked, with all the solemn dignity one would use to address a king. He gave up the brushing and stepped around Dove to be better able to see the boy, who had gone straight to the stallion. 

Vren leaned over the stallion’s back again, chuckling as he watched the animal lip at Jakub’s sleeves.

“Well, Dawid said we should pick something that described his looks. Like ‘Socks’ or something. And Zofia said that we should pick something that described his character. But I don’t think ‘Asshole’ is a very nice name.”

Vren buried his head in his arms folded across the stallion’s back as he tried to muffle his laughter. 

Eadelmarr swallowed hard against his own. “Oh? And why would we call him that?”

Jakub shrugged, fingers petting over the stallion’s nose. “That’s what Miko always calls him whenever he gets nippy. It’s funny, but it’s not a good name.”

Vren’s shoulders were beginning to shake.

“No, I do not suppose it is. He has had many such suggestions.” Eadelmarr agreed, mind casting back to various other ‘suggestions’ Mikolaj had made. Compared to ‘Shithead’, ‘Troll Brains’, and ‘Ass Biter’, the name ‘Asshole’ was actually on the tame side. “What else did your siblings suggest? Surely it was something better than what Mikolaj has recommended to me over the past weeks.”

Jakub hummed, little fingers crawling up the stallion’s muzzle to play with the whorl of fur in the center of the animal’s forehead. “Uh huh. Well, there was ‘Socks’, like I said. But they said ‘Garnet’, ‘Jasper’, ‘Ember’, ‘Dusk’, ‘Star’, ‘Mahogany’, ‘Freckles’, and ‘Stormy’ would all be good names too.”

Eadelmarr nodded seriously. “All are good names.”

“Very good.” Vren agreed, having finally gotten a hold of himself enough to keep a straight face. “Which one did you pick?”

Jakub gave a decisive nod. “Goose.”

Their eyebrows shot up.

“...’Goose’?” Vren asked. “That’s not any of the ones you mentioned before. Why ‘Goose’? If you don’t mind me asking? I’m not objecting, I’m just curious about your reasoning. He doesn’t much look like a ‘Goose’ to me.” 

Jakub grinned up at them. “No. But he bites like one”

Vren threw his head back and laughed, the stallion startling under him at the sudden loud noise. 

It was as good a name as any, and substantially better than the ‘Jackass’ Mikolaj had first suggested. Chuckling, Eadelmarr patted the boy’s shoulder. “That he does, little chick. That he does. And it is a good name. An odd name for a witcher’s horse, I’ll grant you, but it suits him. ‘Goose’ it is.”

Vren laughed, gesturing with his brush towards where Mikolaj was guiding Sweet Rose into camp. The Manticore could surely hear them, but he raised his voice a little anyway to ensure he didn’t miss it. “And just in time! Why don’t you go tell Miko that you vetoed his choice of names.” 

“Oh? That ratty old fleabag finally getting a name?”

Jakub scampered over, bouncing as he tugged on Mikolaj’s pants leg. “Uh huh! Marr said I could name him, since he couldn’t come up with a good one. Zofia and Dawid had lots of good ideas too, but I thought ‘Goose’ was the best.”

Mikolaj snorted. “Goose, huh? Appropriate.” He flashed a grin at Eadelmarr. “He’s definitely a featherbrain. Good choice, kit.” He swung down off Sweet Rose, dropping her reins into Jakub’s hand and ruffling boy’s hair. 

Dawid jumped up from his place beside the fire, waving. “Welcome back!”

Mikolaj arched an eyebrow. “My thanks, kit, but where are your pants?” 

Dawid yelped and yanked his blanket back around his hips, ears burning. “I tore my pants. Zofia was showing me how to fix them…” He ducked his head, scuffing a foot in the dirt. “Our father wouldn’t let me learn before. He said it was women’s work.” 

Mikolaj scoffed. “It’s a useful skill. For fixing clothes or healing wounds, though you need a different stitch for that second one. Remind me, and I’ll teach it to you.” 

Zofia looked up from her mending. “Could you teach me as well? I’m already well versed with a needle and thread, learning yet another stitch is nothing. And it seems to me a far more useful one than the embroidery stitches my birth mother insisted on hammering into my head.”

“Of course.” Mikolaj turned to the other two witchers. “Well, lessons in sewing and horse naming aside, we’ve a contract to focus on. And it’s going to take two of us.”

Vren straightened from his lean on Goose’s back. Goose shifted, ears flicking as he looked between the humans and witchers. “Oh? And what would we be hunting that would require two ? Or are you saying it would go faster with two?”

Mikolaj made a face, pulling the contract from a pouch. “ Require . One could do it, but it’d be a gods-be-damned miracle if he made it out without serious injury. Seems there’s a whole damn herd of chorts running wild near here. Alderman estimates six or seven of them. He’s offering 900 crowns for the herd. Several of the villages banded together to put up a more than generous contract to be sure someone would be enticed to take it.”

Eadelmarr grimaced. 

Chorts were a hard hunt and a harder kill. Like giant wild boars, they were powerful and aggressive. Standing head and shoulders over men, they feared nothing. Confident in their ability to trample anything into paste that got in their way. 

The beasts’ faces resided somewhere between a goat and a cow in shape, with a small third eye in the center of their forehead and a mouth full of sharp teeth. They sported massive curling rams horns on either side of their head. Or sometimes antlers, if you encountered the mountain variant. Chorts had broad shoulders and low hips, and moved about on all fours. Even though the front legs had clawed hands that they could use to grab at witchers or to tear their victims apart. They were covered in slabs of pure muscle that acted similarly to armor, allowing them to bull their way through brush, fences, wagons, light walls… anything that got in their way really. 

The best way to take one down was to lure it into a charge. They were surprisingly fast for something so large, but they couldn’t turn worth a damn once they really got moving. Which made it a simple matter to dodge out of the way at the last moment. The goal being either to take a slash at their flanks, repeat the process, and cripple them through repeated slashes. Or to dodge out of the way and let them run head first into something sturdy and stun themselves so you could move in and do some damage that way. 

It was a war of attrition.

For there to be more than one… It was a nightmare of a hunt for any witcher. 

Mikolaj was right, they definitely needed two. All three would’ve been ideal, but someone needed to stay with the children to ensure that they were alright and that they made it up to Kaer Morhen one way or another. As Eadelmarr still had the letters, it didn’t much matter who stayed with the children, they would have the directions regardless. 

He sighed. “I should go. My signs are stronger than yours. They’ll serve better as distractions against that many chorts. Vren? Stay or go?”

A slow grin bloomed across the Crane’s tanned face. He pushed a single braid that hung loose from the larger braid out of his face and tucked it behind his ear. The movement drew the eye to the little sea shell woven in amongst the beads and charms about halfway down the braid. It was decorated with a bit of thin bronze wire that formed a loop at the top, through which the hair had been woven. Tiny glass beads dangled on strands off the bottom of it in a sort of tassel. Seems he had finished prepping Jakub’s gift to wear.

“You know, I think I’ll tag along. I think I might surprise the bastards.” 

The Crane ambled over to the pile of saddles and gear propped up against the nearby trees. From out of a leather sling he drew a long steel pipe the length of his forearm. It was octagonal, with a tiny bit of metal sticking out of the side near the tip. The other end had a spiraling pattern Eadelmarr recognized as a dwarvish screw. Reaching back into the leather sling he retrieved a piece of carved hardwood of a similar thickness to his forearm. Thicker than the steel, it was carved in an octagon shape at one end, tapering quickly into something flat that formed a graceful sort of curve a hand’s length from the octagonal end and continued in the flat shape on the other side of the curve. Vren spun the steel about about, slotting the end with the grooves into the octagonal wood and screwing it into place. Once it was secure, he snatched up a few other items from his supplies. 

Grinning, he brought it and a pouch from the saddle bags to show the others.

“Handgonne.” He explained, holding it out to Eadelmarr. Once the Gryphon had taken it, he upended the pouch into his hand. Out of it poured several metal balls, each the size of a plum pit. They clicked against each other as he rolled them in his palm. 

“Got some iron and some silver. Load the stick with powder, drop one of these balls on top with some wadding to hold it there, aim and touch the powder off through this hole using igni. Blows some pretty impressive holes in some damn thick hides.” He grinned at Mikolaj’s excited look. “Cranes have been using them for the better part of a century now. Not good for every hunt, too big and unwieldy. But they pack a punch when you’re after something big, and you’ll need it with a herd of chorts. ‘Tween the two of us, one running distraction and one firing and reloading this beast, we got a good chance. Watch the colts for us, Miko? We’ll swing by afterwards with the proof so you can go claim the purse from the alderman. Wouldn’t do for a different face to show up to claim it.”

Mikolaj smacked his arm. “Fine, I’ll watch the kits. But you’re teaching me how to use that thing over the winter. Come on, I’m pretty sure I have some Devil’s Puffball in my bag, and the ingredients to make more. You’re going to need everything you can get your hands on.” He paused, thinking. Then, “Dawid? Do you still wanna learn how to make bombs?”

Dawid sat bolt upright. “Yeah!”

“Get over here then. I’m gonna teach you how to make a noxious bomb called Devil’s Puffball.” He grinned at the boy as he pulled out ingredients. “But we witchers nicknamed them Peasant Farts.”

Axel stretched languorously against the sheets. 

He had been having a marvelous time having a lay-in, in the first real bed he’d been able to enjoy in almost two months. The room was bought and paid for for the next three days while they worked, and he couldn’t hunt until dark since the beasties didn’t come out till then. So. There was nowhere he needed to be, no one was coming to roust him out, and he was delightfully content in his pocket of warmth amongst the blankets. You couldn’t have pried him out with a crowbar.

Now if his space heater would come back, that would be great.

Across the room, his partner Cedric held the mage letter that had just arrived closer to the window so as to make it easier to read. Axel grumbled to himself. The loud snap and crackle of magic had scared the shit out of them when the letter had popped into existence in their shared room. Axel had been bound and determined to roll over and go back to bed but, well, you know what they say about curiosity and cats. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

Cedric had climbed out of the bed they were sharing to see what it was. 

A small, feline sort of growl sounded high in Axel’s throat. Objectively, he knew that whatever it was was probably very important, seeing as someone had shelled out the coin to send it to them. But seeing as how it had woken them both from a dead sleep after a long and grueling hunt the night before, scared them witless, and then deprived him of his space heater, Axel wasn’t exactly inclined to be forgiving. 

He huffed when Cedric made no move to return. “Ced. Tell me what the blasted letter is, then come back to bed. For as late as we were up last night killing these bastards’ katakan, I’m not getting out of this bed until noon. You can’t make me. Whatever it is can wait until then.” 

The sharp, icy scent of shock began to seep through the air, and Axel’s attention sharpened. Cedric’s face had gone pale, the paper trembling slightly in his hands. 

Axel propped himself up on an elbow. “Cedric?”

Across the room his lover’s face suddenly contorted, paper crinkling in his grip. 

The spicy scent of rage cut through the room like a knife. 

Axel threw back the covers and all but catapulted himself out of bed and across the room. Cedric was panting for breath, shaking with fury as he stared at the letter clenched in his fists. Of the two of them, Cedric usually had the better control of the cat madness. So to see him flying into a rage over the contents of the letter was… unsettling to say the least. Unsettling and highly terrifying. Both for the fact that if Cedric well and truly lost himself, it would fall to Axel to deal with him,  and because in an all out fight between the two of them he wasn’t sure who would win.

He cradled Cedric’s face in his palms, lifting his head to look at him (and get his eyes off of whatever was in that letter). 

“Cedric.” He crooned, soft and low, both to comfort and to force Cedric to pay attention to what he was saying. “Cedric, hey, you’re edging a little too close to the edge, love. Come on back to me, now. Come on, take a deep breath and come back to me. We’ve more than enough to hunt in this city without my having to hunt you down too.”

Cedric blinked, a little bit of alertness coming back into his face. 

Promising.

“Yeah, there you are. Come back to me now. Deep breaths, love. You can do it. Follow my heartbeat. Come on, you can do it…” Axel kept up a steady patter of reassurance, praise, and gentle direction. Gradually, Cedric pulled back from the edge of madness.

The scent of rage faded down to something more manageable. Cedric was still pissed, but not in danger of losing his mind over it. His panting breaths tapered away. His raging heart, almost human fast in his fury, gradually fell back to the slow pace of a healthy witcher at rest.

 Until finally…

“...Axel…”

Axel sagged in relief . “Oh thank fuck!” 

He yanked his lover into a hug and clutched him tight, rubbing his jaw repeatedly along any part of Cedric he could reach to spread his scent over the taller man. “Don’t scare me like that, you bastard! If you went cat-mad and I had to be the one to take you down… I can’t hurt you Ced, I can’t …” He lifted his partner’s hands to scrub the edge of his jaw along the inside of Cedric’s wrists affectionately, swapping scents with the man. “ Fuck , you had me worried. Feeling better?”

“Better.” Cedric glanced down at the letter at their feet. The Cat’s nose wrinkled in distaste before he deliberately looked away from it. “The letter’s from Gaetan.” He rasped after a beat.

Axel pricked up his ears. Gaetan was one of the Cat school’s youngest, with only two or three younger still. If anything had happened to their little brother… 

Axel swallowed back his own anger, it wouldn’t do for both of them to lose their heads. “Is he alright?”

Cedric’s free hand came up to grip at Axel’s arm, a grounding point to focus on. The hand that still rested against Axel’s head thumbed over his temple soothingly. “He’s alright, or at least I assume he is. He didn’t mention anything in his letter about being hurt. He’s just been made aware of some information that he felt was… prudent to pass on.”

“Prudent, huh?” Axel pulled his head out of Cedric’s hand to give him a sharp look. “You don’t lose your shit like that over baby brother checking in with the good gossip. So: Do we need to go anywhere right this very second?” Cedric shook his head. “Alright then. Anything that’d prevent us from finishing our hunts here before we leave?”

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Cedric’s mouth. “No.”

Axel pushed down hard on the urge to give a victory whoop at the sight of that smile. “Then we can talk about it in bed. Get your pert ass moving, Kitten, I’m in nothing but my brais and it’s cold out here. If we hurry, there might still be some heat trapped in the blankets.”

Cedric snorted a laugh, but let himself be chivyed back under the covers.

Feeling very pleased with himself for pulling Cedric back from the brink so thoroughly (and wrangling cuddles out of it too, couldn’t forget that!) Axel crawled in after him. He flopped over Cedric’s chest like a particularly affectionate blanket, face tucked up under Cedric’s chin. Deep in his chest, an organ he rarely used sputtered to life. Slowly, the purr gained traction, growing louder and louder until he could feel it buzzing through Cedric’s skin. Good. Let the asshole try to lose himself while that racket was going on. Axel’s purr was rough from disuse, it was rare that they felt safe enough to do that, but he was loud and had no problem being an obnoxious git about it if one of his brothers needed a distraction. 

The Cat butted his head against his favorite person’s chin. “Talk.”

“Asshole.” Cedric muttered, not the least bit actually upset about the current turn of events. His own purr stuttered to life in his chest. His was quieter, smoother from more frequent use, Cedric had an easier time settling down to purr than Axel did. He settled to carding his fingers through Axel’s short black hair, snickering when his lover redoubled his efforts to shake the bed apart through purring alone.

The chest under Axel’s cheek expanded in a deep breath, and he braced for impact.

“Gaetan… He found Aiden.” 

Axel froze . 

Cedric’s fingers never stopped carding through his hair. The repetitive motion was soothing, giving Axel something to focus on as he waited breathlessly for the other shoe to drop. Waited to hear what manner of atrocity had been visited on Aiden’s corpse that had been so horrendous it almost pushed Cedric to madness.

“He’s alive, Chel. Aiden’s alive.”

The fond nickname did nothing to soften the shock. The raucous purring cut out. Axel bolted upright in bed, staring down at his lover. It couldn’t be true. Aiden was dead, had been dead for years . Jad had said … Axel narrowed his eyes. Something wasn’t adding up.

“If he’s alive, then what the hell were Jad an’ Brehen thinking, telling us he was dead?” 

Cedric’s purr rattled into a low, feline growl. For several long seconds, he just lay there, glaring at the ceiling of their little inn room. “They were lying.” He finally answered. “Gaetan doesn’t know what Brehen’s angle was, but apparently Jad hunted our little brother down and sold him into slavery to a mage . He was trapped there for years .”

Cedric clutched him close, nose buried in Axel’s dark hair. “Breathe. Breathe , Chel…”

Axel swallowed hard and buried his head in Cedric’s throat. 

His emotions had always run closer to the surface, even as a child when he and Cedric had been going through the training together. Their batch of grasses had been one of the experimental batches, or so they’d learned later from the older Cats. In trying to bring the newest batch of trainees closer to their ideal emotionless killing machines, the mages had instead caused the mutagens to swing wildly in the other direction again, enhancing their emotions to a degree that was almost untenable. Half the boys died in the attempt, and of those that survived, half again died in the subsequent trials or had to be put down because they were too volatile to be allowed out on the path. In the end, there had only been four of their cohort that had been medallioned, and Axel had been skirting the edge of what was acceptable to a dangerous degree. He never would’ve made it without Cedric. And he most certainly would’ve snapped out on the path and gone cat-mad if Cedric hadn’t been willing to flout the rules and travel together.

Breathing in his partner’s scent while his own emotions waged war against him was old hat after so many years.

“...You with me?”

Axel huffed and pushed himself up to glare at Cedric. “You said ‘was’ trapped. Did Gaetan find him?”

The smirk Cedric pasted on looked like it left a bitter taste in his mouth. “No. The ballsy little shit managed to escape on his own. Gae had to pare the story down a fair bit I’m sure to make sure he had enough room on the page, but he did say Aiden escaped. Found help and shelter with friends of Professor Pankratze…” The smirk faded, the spicy scent of rage tinging the air between them. “Not without getting bespelled though. It would’ve killed him if the professor’s friends hadn’t written to the bard, and he dragged a pair of wolves and a sorceress there to save Aiden.”

Axel choked. “The fucking Wolves had to save him?! What the fuck?! Not that I’m not grateful but, Melittel wept, I thought they hated our guts! Why the hell would they help Aiden?!”

The rage disappeared from the air again as quickly as it came. In its place came the warm bread smell of amusement.

“Because apparently our dear baby brother has been keeping secrets . Somehow he managed to tame one of the last Wolves of Kaer Morhen, and has been traveling with him for decades. Gae says the Wolf was so devastated by Aiden’s supposed death that he and one of his brothers hunted down Jad personally and put him down like a rabid animal.”

“Good.”

Axel flopped over onto his back, fingers playing with the covers as he stared at the ceiling waiting for his worldview to stop flipping. The enmity between the two schools was longstanding (and entirely justified on the Wolves part in all honesty). Axel couldn’t fathom it changing anytime soon, or ever really. But apparently it had . 

He didn’t know what was more surprising. The fact that Aiden had managed to earn a Wolf’s trust (no matter how grudging), or that he had managed to earn it in such a way that the Wolf felt strongly enough about it to seek vengeance on Aiden’s behalf. And to drag another Wolf into it, what’s more! So far as Axel knew, Wolves didn’t generally do that kind of thing. Then again, Axel hadn’t had much experience with Wolves before the tournament, and what little he had afterwards had been spent doing his damnedest not to die, generally speaking. Most of what he knew came from Guxart, who had apparently been friends with one of the Wolf trainers before their lives went to utter shit. But he hadn’t heard of an inter-school friendship between Wolves and Cats since the tournament. 

If someone had asked, he would’ve said it was impossible.

Though, thinking about it, if anyone could do it it probably would be Aiden. The former street rat was too charming and stubborn for his own good and both were weapons he used to great effect. The man could probably charm the fae and outstubborn the gods if he had a mind to. 

One lone Wolf didn’t stand a chance.

He tried to picture it. Tried to imagine Aiden with a Wolf. But the image refused to hold. A vague idea of black leather armor, a stoic face, and the distinct impression of having an uncomfortable stick lodged up the ass was all that came to mind. And Axel couldn’t see Aiden pursuing someone like that. Nor Guxart, for that matter. So clearly there was something more to the scions of the Wolf school than what initially met the eye. 

Fuck if he new what though. 

“So what now?” Axel asked, once he felt he had a sufficient grip on reality again. 

Cedric rolled over and propped himself up on an elbow. “For now? We finish our hunt. Gae says that Aiden has been traveling with his Wolf, and intends to spend the winter with them rather than go back to Dyn Marv. Given what happened the last time he ran into a Cat, I can’t say as I blame him.”

Yeah, that was fair. But… “Will he be safe with the Wolves?”

“I…” Cedric chewed at his lip, fingers worrying at the corner of a pillowcase. “I don’t know. Gux only ever had good things to say about his Wolf, but that was before Treyse and his treachery. I don’t know if Gux’s Wolf is alive, much less his current opinion on Cats. Gux mentioned once that he saw him at the tournament, so…” 

Axel cringed. He hadn’t actually known that . 

“Still. Much as I hate to say it, until we know if Jad was a one-off or part of something bigger, Aiden will probably be safer with the Wolves. I can’t imagine his Wolf caring that much and not making sure Aiden was safe in his own home. Aiden’s got a blindspot for people he trusts, but even he would think twice about going to Kaer Morhen. And Gaetan would never let him leave with the Wolf if he caught so much as a whiff of distress. So for now, we’ll trust their judgement and work on making the path safer for Aiden.”

Axel snatched his pillow and shoved it back under his head. “Oh yeah? I take it you got thoughts on that?” The smirk Cedric leveled his way was downright sinister, and Axel matched it tit for tat. This was why he and Cedric were partners. “What’s rolling around between your ears, Ced? I want in.”

Cedric pretended to gasp, affecting a look like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Yeah, like that was believable. Axel scoffed. 

Snickering, Cedric went back to toying with the corner of the pillowcase. “Well, the triplets are apparently heading back to the caravan to see what they can rustle up. And Dragonfly already called dibs on hunting down Brehen’s lying hide. But it seems there’s a little lordling that gave Jad the perfect cover by wrongfully placing a contract on our little brother’s head. I think that warrants a talking to, don’t you?”

“Face to face.” Axel agreed sagely. “After our hunts here are finished?”

Cedric’s grin was sharp enough to cut glass. “It’s like you read my mind.”

Axel hummed, gaze going back to the ceiling. He traced the patterns up there while he thought. The woodgrain in the beams. The old water marks where the roof had sprung a leak at some point in the past. He traced them, and put together a list of what they might need from the market. Who else they could reach out to from their school that was safe. 

The triplets were already on board. Schrodinger was so far down south he was damn near licking the continents toes. And Dragonfly…

“Dragonfly is gonna be pissed.” He commented absently to the ceiling.

Beside him, Cedric snorted, then broke down into quiet laughter. Axel looked at him, not bothering to hide the smug feeling in his chest as he watched his best friend laugh. He waited until Cedric glanced his way, then waggled his eyebrows in the most ridiculous and suggestive manner he could, just to watch the way he devolved further and further into helpless giggles. Not being one to lose, Cedric haphazardly poked at his sides until Axel gave up and joined him. They must have looked half mad, sprawled across the bed cackling like crows with a new shiny trinket to show off.

There was just as much relief as elation in it. 

After all, their little brother was alive !

In a few hours they would get up and go hunting. For lunch, for a messenger mage, for information on the possible zeugl in the sewer. For now, the two just laughed until their sides hurt, imagining how put out their elder sister would be to learn that she did not, in fact, hold the record. Either for hiding a paramour, or keeping her family away from them. Imagined the grumpy look of disappointment she would level at Aiden for upstaging her, even as she no doubt snatched him into a hug and growled at him for scaring her.

Not that any of the rest of them would be much better.

But they would all be looking forward to whatever pranks Dragonfly and Aiden would inevitably get up to the next time they all met. 

After all, it was tradition!

In the meantime, they had revenge to plan. Axel turned fully onto his side to face his lover. “Hey, for the lord: How do you feel about feeding him to an arachas…?”

Bonus Memes! 

Chapter Text

The weather was going to be fucking abysmal.

Bazyli sighed, slumping down against his horse to rest for a few moments. Gods knew Obsidian would keep him far safer than he would right now, in his current state of exhaustion. 

Fuck alghouls. Just… Fuck them. 

He disliked most necrophages as a general rule, but alghouls were particularly beloathed where he was concerned. They were loud, and more trouble than the usual type of ghoul with those fucking spines and being smart enough to be a pain in his ass. They were twice as bold as the average ghoul, and three times as aggressive. Annoyingly fast, they were bigger than the average ghoul too, and they stank so gods-be-damned much! 

Unlike other necrophages who were scavengers at heart and reveled in the rot of cemeteries and the like, where the flesh was already cold and pale. Alghouls on the other hand had a taste for human flesh specifically. And they didn’t much care how they got it. Whether it was cold on a battlefield or warm and bloody they would take their meat however they could get it. Given that battlefields were a bit thin on the ground, and cemeteries didn’t often get new occupants, that was something of a problem. And they made it the problem of any human, elf, dwarf, or whatever else have you that they came across. If they ran across a pack of normal ghouls, they’d take it over and lead them to attack not just lone travelers but groups and even caravans. 

Coincidentally, that meant that there was always something fresh on their skin in the process of spoiling, which only added to their fetid stink. 

The scent would’ve been bad enough had he been human, or even any other type of witcher. But he was a fucking Viper! He used his sodding tongue to enhance scents. Which meant it was now in his mouth and Kreve’s crooked cock but it tasted fucking foul! 

He crammed another mint leaf into his mouth aggressively, in the hopes that the strong flavor of the herb would help overpower the gods awful taste before he lost his damned mind.

Sure, the pay had been good, but at what cost?!

He huffed a sigh against Obsidian’s damp mane. His tastebuds would never be the same, he just knew it. Was that a bit dramatic? Certainly. Did he care? Absolutely not. Obsidian, not the least bit concerned with his master’s gustatory crisis, snorted and flicked his mane. The wet strands slapped against Bazyli’s face and stuck there. 

The Viper sputtered, pawing the thick dark strands off his lips. He scowled at the gelding’s coal black ears. “Appreciate the sympathy. Asshole. I should’ve left you to become a cart horse…” 

As if he understood and didn’t appreciate the slander, Obsidian made a longer, louder snort. 

“Yeah, yeah, law of surprise is a crock of shit. And you’d do well to remember it only said I had to take you, not keep you.” Bazyli grumbled, not meaning a word of it. He suspected the gelding likely understood that too somehow. Even at the Viper’s pissiest and most irritable, Obsidian had never once been afraid of Bazyli. Which made it damn hard to maintain any sort of emotional distance. Impossible really. 

Much to the Viper’s dismay.  

But the truth was undeniable, he really had gotten… attached. Which, for a Viper, was a fucking problem! If his brothers, or worse, his trainers ever found out he’d gotten attached… Bazyli shuddered at the thought. He didn’t know if the trainers would demand it but… 

…Well. 

There was a reason young Vipers were required to keep pets from day one… and that the adults looked on in well disguised longing, and no small amount of pity. Wanting what they had, and knowing they could never have it again. Never daring to show so much as hint at the yearning, for fear of the repercussions such a weakness would bring down on their own heads.

It was the cruelest of jokes, really. The moment they set foot in Tor Tochair, an animal was placed in their arms. And they were informed that it was their job, and theirs alone to care for it. They spent years, almost a decade, caring for their assigned animal. The animal was their biggest source of comfort as they went through the brutal training. And their biggest source of warmth in the cold that plagued their bones if they survived the grasses. Their animals were there through everything. The training, the deaths, the trials. 

Finding out that the final trial before you received your medallion was to kill them was the sort of dickpunch that nightmares were made of. 

It had broken Bazyli’s heart, the day he’d cradled Ebony’s fluffy body against his own for the last time. Stared into her trusting gold eyes while the six trainers of Tor Tochair looked on, her purrs vibrating through his chest like a dragon’s rumble… and broke her neck, quick and clean. Because if he didn’t do it, the trainers would. 

And those sadists would be anything but merciful. 

His yearmate Gunnar had discovered that the hard way, and had warned them when he’d come back without his beautiful little black and white collie, Precious. Even without the warning, they had known something wasn’t right. After all, their ears worked just fine. Bazyli had found out later that there was almost always at least one that tried to refuse the kill. The trainers always took their time. Made a gruesome example out of whatever unlucky soul had dared oppose them. Did every sick thing they could think of to make the poor beasts scream while their owner could do naught but watch, their chance to grant mercy long past. 

Gunnar had never been the same. He’d still fulfilled his duties around the keep, and had performed well in his training. But losing Precious like that had broken him. There was something distant in his eyes, and when not in active combat he was silent and listless. No one had been surprised when Gunnar hadn’t come back from the path at the end of the year.

After all, it had taken Precious a very long time to die.

With such a visceral lesson against forming attachments, not a single Viper would ever take another pet, nor admit that their horse had a name. Not even under pain of death. Bazyli had never seen a fully blooded and medallioned witcher be made to lay hands on yet another animal… but he’d heard stories that the trainers wouldn’t hesitate to reinforce the lesson if they felt it was necessary. There were only two trainers left after all these years, but… He shuddered.

Never again.

Obsidian huffed, ribs expanding and contracting sharply under the Viper’s knees. He chuckled, scratching along the crest of the gelding’s neck the way he liked.

“You sick of the cold and wet?” 

Obsidian grumbled.

Bazyli laughed, giving his horse a final pat before pushing himself upright. “Yeah. Me too. This constant drizzle is getting old real fucking fast. Think we’ll be able to find a spot in the fort stable for the night?” Obsidian tossed his head, tack jingling as he shook out his main. Bazyli sagged. “Yeah, probably not. Silly of me, this is Nilfgaard after all. What on earth was I thinking?” 

That earned him another rumble, that he chose to interpret as agreement.

“Guess we’re camping then. You’re bunking with me.” 

A scent teased at the edges of his awareness. Bazyli sat up straighter, scanning the path ahead. Was that…? The Viper flicked his tongue out, the semi-split tip flickering before sucking back in and pressing against the roof of his mouth. Tasting the air. 

There were the usual odors, of course. 

Obsidian, wet and dirty. Leather and metal, and the fresh scent of necrophage oil from where he’d poured it on his blade to fight the alghoul. The smell of plantlife, animal scat, petrichor. But beyond all of that… His lips twitched up. Yeah, that was definitely the stink of a large fort, faint though it was. Cooking, horses, farm animals, smoke, latrines. The stink of a larger group of humans living in a confined space. 

If they kept going as they were, they’d be back at the fort just before dusk.

Setting camp up in the dark was lousy. If they hurried a little, they might be able to collect his pay and still have a little daylight left to find a good spot.

Pulling up his face cover, he clicked his tongue, and Obsidian picked up the pace.

“How did the hunt go?”

Vren took a deep breath, then deliberately let it out slow. Mindful of the children fast asleep in their bedrolls, he flopped down on the opposite side of the fire beside Mikolaj. Sprawled out on the leaf litter, long arms and legs akimbo, the Crane huffed.

“I have a great many words as might describe the hunt. None of which are fit for the company of children.”

Miko winced, attention fixed on the fire as he used a stick to maneuver the logs to better positions. The embers crackled in protest when the log settled where he wanted it. Sparks darted up into the night, dangerous little fireflies winking away into the smoke beneath a cloudy sky. Mikolaj sat back. Satisfied, he stubbed the glowing end of his stick out in the bare earth around the temporary firepit and set it aside. Then tossed a few more branches on top for good measure.

“That good, huh?”

Vren just groaned.

It had been a shit show in all honesty. The chort hunt had gone off the rails from the very start. Chorts didn’t often travel in groups, but when they did it was always during mating season or leading up to it. Which made them even more of a hazard than they usually were. 

When mating season approached, older, seasoned bull chorts gathered up younger males into a herd, bullying them into submission. And then the whole group would set out to find a female. Females were far rarer, males outnumbered them ten to one. So a whole herd would work together to protect and service a single female. If something happened to the dominant bull prior to finding a female, the rest of the herd would lose any cohesiveness they had. Which made them easier to separate and kill.

With that in mind, of course they’d targeted the bull. 

With Eadelmarr distracting the rest of the herd and leading them away, it had been child’s play for Vren to present himself as a great big target. The bull had taken the bait and charged right at him. And Vren had unloaded the handgonne into its chest without hesitation before flinging himself aside, reloading as he went. He’d been aiming for the throat, but it had come on faster than he’d been expecting and he’d ended up hitting the thick breastbone instead. 

As fast as they were, chorts were clumsy and tended to overshoot their targets by a fair distance. It gave him just enough time. He managed another three shots to the ribs as it charged past again and again before having to swap his weapon for the sword. With its lungs filling, it hadn’t taken long before it couldn’t breath.

He’d put it out of its misery, preferring not to prolong any beast’s suffering.

The problem was, they’d failed to take into account the presence of the chort cow. Safe within the center of the herd, they’d never even caught a glimpse of her until she made herself known with a furious bellow. 

Generally speaking the herd would fracture without the dominant male there to keep order. They would begin to fight amongst themselves until a new pecking order was established, regardless of the danger that posed to the herd… Unless they had already found a cow to mate for the season. 

Once the herd had a female in the ranks, the entire social structure shifted in her favor. Even the dominant bull would cede leadership. For the rest of the season until they separated to build massive dens for the winter, the cow would lead the herd, and the bulls would protect her with their lives and breed her anytime she pleased. And all of the bulls got a turn. She would make sure of it. The better to ensure that her coming litter had the widest array of genetics possible. The dominant bull got to skip to the front of the line whenever he liked when it came to that, assuming strength meant more virility. 

But in the case of a fight it also fell to him to run out and meet the attackers head on, seeing as he was the strongest. While he fended off all comers, the rest of the herd would keep the cow hidden and protected.

The cow had not appreciated the loss of her primary suitor.

By the time they’d realized their mistake, it was already too late. The enraged female had stirred the younger bulls up into a frothing frenzy and led the entire herd charging right at them. It had been everything Vren and Eadelmarr could do to get out of their way with five fully grown adults to contend with. 

In the end, they’d had no choice but to retreat. 

They’d watched from a distance, of course, to make sure that none of the villages suffered for their mistake. And slowly the  frenzy died down. Not completely. And not without a lot of help from the witchers. 

Using a combination of puffballs to slow them down and the lights of their signs as lures, they appeared and disappeared frequently like willow-the-wisps to lead the herd away whenever they got too close to a settlement. But there hadn’t been another opportunity to separate the cow from the herd. Once it had become clear that the herd was getting ready to settle for the night, the two had made their way back to camp to rest and regroup.

Eadelmarr sat down on Vren’s other side with a huff. “Ye gods, what an egregious hunt.”

Mikolaj cocked an eyebrow at the older witcher. “Egregious? There’s a three crown word if I ever heard one.”

Vren snickered.

“Hush.” Eadelmarr swatted at him halfheartedly, which of course only made Vren giggle harder. Apparently electing to ignore their Crane’s plight, stuck in a gigglefit as he was, Eadelmarr addressed Miko’s unasked question. “We slew the dominant bull, but failed to realize until after the fact that the herd had already acquired a female to lead them.”

“Shit.” Mikolaj hissed. 

Eadelmarr hummed in agreement. “Indeed. She was not best pleased that her favorite had been slaughtered. She rallied her remaining four bulls against us. They were veritably rabid in their bloodlust. We kept them running and set off the puffballs strategically to slow them further and cut their wind. It was enough to  keep them from the villages and settle them for the night, but we were unable to cut her from the herd… I fear the hunt will require all three of us after all, my young friend.”

“But the children…”

Vren groaned and pushed himself upright, groan growing louder as he stretched out his long legs. “We don’t have much choice in the matter, Miko. With the hunt or the children.” He gestured to the northeast. “You might not be able to smell it as keenly, sitting so close to the fire. But there’s a storm on the way. It’ll be on us by late morning tomorrow, if I’m any judge. And it’ll be a bad one. We would be fine. But the children aren’t witchers. They don’t have our constitution. Cold as it is, between that and the wet they’re almost guaranteed to catch their death of cold out here. And we have no means of offering them shelter. If they fall ill, I don’t know how to help them. Do you?”

The string of curses was longer, and in Zerrikanian. More colorful too, if Vren were to guess, given the amount of feeling packed behind the foreign words. The Manticore stewed for several long moments, then huffed and turned to fully face them.

“So we need to take the children into town?”

“We do.” Eadelmarr sighed in confirmation. “We will tell the inn keep that the children are refugees from the war, and that we were contracted to act as their escort through the war torn countryside all the way to their brother in Kaedwen. That we could scent the storm approaching and wished to get the children within shelter before the storm fell upon us. That will hopefully settle the worst of their paranoia regarding our child eating ways. You have already been seen about town due to the contract, so you cannot join us initially. You will approach us in the main room of the inn, and request our help in your endeavor to put an end to the herd of chorts. Hopefully the very notion that the foul beasts are breeding on their very doorstep will defer the usual suspicions and paranoias even further.”

“...It’s not the worst plan.” Mikolaj reluctantly agreed. “Survival is a powerful motivator.”

Vren flopped back down onto the dirt. “It’s the best we got, lad. Now, if you’ll excuse me, this old sea bird needs a nap. Poke me when it’s my turn to stand watch.” He ignored his dear companions' quiet laughter, squirming a little to make himself comfortable in the dirt. 

Today’s hunt had entailed far more running than he was generally used to. 

Being a coastal hunter, Vren tended to do all his hunting on horseback or in coastal cities. On horseback, Tempest did all the running until Vren could snag their quarry from the air or water. Then she would brace herself against the beast’s thrashing while Vren threw himself from her back to kill it before it got its bearings and followed the ropes back to her. In cities, the fighting was tight quarters and required him to sprint more than anything else. Long stretches of nonstop running like he’d done today were foreign to him. Oh he could do it, he was a witcher for the gods sakes. They were bred for this sort of abuse. But his thighs and calves were most certainly not thanking him for their unexpected workout. 

Maybe he should make an effort to run more often.

They did let him sleep, but not before Eadelmarr chivied him out of his armor and into his bedroll so that he would rest more comfortably. Vren sleepily huffed and grumbled the whole way, but he was grateful. It really was more comfortable. 

Sleepily watching the Gryphon make his way back to the fire to help Mikolaj make more Devil’s Puffball for the next day’s hunt (likely so the younger man could get to sleep sooner), Vren couldn’t help but smile. 

Eadelmarr really was such a mother hen. He reminded Vren of his elder brothers amongst the Cranes. Scattered across the continent as they were, with no keep to overwinter in, they had no choice but to shelter wherever they could find a place. And witchers were rarely welcome for long, much less more than one at a time. It was rare that they saw each other. And rarer still that he got to spend any prolonged amount of time with them. He missed them dearly. Eadelmarr wasn’t one of his brothers, but it was nice to have something similar to that care back, even just a little bit.

Resolving to do something nice for the Gryphon, Vren cuddled down into his blankets and drifted off with a contented sigh.

He never noticed the considering gaze peering at them from the bedrolls on the other side of the fire.

The wariness and suspicion of humans never got easier, no matter the number of centuries he had endured. 

Or less tiresome.

The fact that this man was a good foot and a half taller than him certainly didn’t help. The balding, paunchy bastard was leaning on his palms over the counter, practically looming over Eadelmarr and the children. They had sent the Gryphon in to acquire a room, as he was the more soft spoken of the three, and generally less intimidating. But perhaps it would have been more strategically sound to send Vren in. 

Eadelmarr bit back a sigh, knowing full well that any sign of irritation could push the man into complete truculence and they would never get what they needed. “We only have need of accommodations for a night to wait out the storm, good sir.”

“Stealin’ kids, are ya, witcher?” The innkeeper sneered, ignoring the request yet again. He smirked at Eadelmarr, his teeth crooked and yellowed. One of the front ones was chipped.

Eadelmarr pushed down the urge to make the other front one match.

Before Eadelmarr could answer, Zofia piped up from behind him. She spoke in a haughty and controlled tone that he had never heard her use before. But he had heard its like countless times on the tongue of many a royal woman. He couldn’t know for certain, having never met the Lady Pankratz, but he would lay coin that it was an impressive imitation. 

“As a matter of fact he is not, sir.” Zofia stepped up beside him, laying her slender little hand on his arm like a lady waiting to be escorted to dinner. Her chin was raised in defiance, and she stared the man right in the eye despite her shorter stature. “This witcher and his partner have been well paid to escort myself and my siblings to our elder brother, the Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz. And an excellent job they have done of it. What call do you have to levy such vile accusations against our escort?”

Glancing at her, Eadelmarr paused. 

Her hood had fallen back, revealing her long brown hair had been done up in an elaborate style of braids. The sort of thing young girls got together to do for a festival… or that nobles wore daily, as they had servants to help them arrange it. 

When on earth had she had the time to do all of that this morning? 

She was also wearing the nicer clothes that Merna had sent in the packs for her. Complete with a single strand of silver beads draped gracefully across her brow and disappearing into her hair. A dark sapphire blue glass teardrop glittered where it dangled off the strand at the center of her brow. Matching glass drops dangled from her ear lobes, and two strands of a matching necklace wrapped loosely around her slim throat.

He hadn’t even been aware that Merna had packed jewelry for her.

She looked every bit the noble daughter, and much older than she was. And Eadelmarr wasn’t sure how he had missed her change in choice of attire and hairstyle that morning at camp. Though, she and the boys had all been bundled up in cloaks to avoid the autumn chill. And they had kept their hoods pulled up to avoid the rain that had started misting down about an hour ago…

The paunchy man behind the counter spluttered. “I just meant… well, ya know how it is, Milady, him bein’ a witcher an’ all. They steal children an’ such! To eat, ya know? I didn’ mean no disrespect to you, Milady…”

Zofia arched an imperious eyebrow. “Did you not? Then you would do well to keep such thoughts to yourself. The witcher and his partner have served my family faithfully, and have accorded me more respect than some lords I could name. Now. We require a room. The witchers tell me that a violent storm approaches, and my brothers and I’ve no desire to be out in the elements if there is no need to do so.”

Thoroughly cowed by the implied threat of a noble’s wrath, the innkeeper bobbed his head and fetched up a key from below the counter. “Of course, Milady. But…” He glanced between Eadelmarr and the children. “Just the one, Milady? Surely you would prefer a room to yourself…?” 

Surely you would prefer a room you didn’t have to share with monsters.

The teenager scoffed. “The last inn we stayed in housed several… unsavory characters, who thought it would be clever to break into my room and attempt to take advantage of my person. Our escorts were quick to arrive and deal with the matter, but I would frankly prefer their company. They are used to sleeping in the wilds, a wooden floor is no hardship. Nor would they do anything untoward. As I stated, they have treated me with nothing but the utmost respect. And I have no doubt they will continue to do so.”

“R-right.” The innkeeper quickly slid the key across the table. 

Eadelmarr scooped the key up before the bastard could change his mind. Zofia had done well, but he needed to get the children out of sight as quickly as possible. 

The door swung open, Vren stumping in with Mikolaj on his heels. 

The Crane pushed his damp hood back, the trinkets in his hair jingling as he shook the braid loose from his collar. His eyes alighted on their group and he trotted over for the next part of their little play.

“Hold up, Marr. We’ve a bit of a problem.”

Eadelmarr tilted his head. “Oh? How so? And who is your friend?”

Mikolaj made a show of inclining his head to Eadelmarr, and offering a proper bow to Zofia after a second, as if only just noticing her. “Mikolaj, sir, of the school of the Manticores. I… I find myself in need of your aid.” 

He scrubbed a hand along the short side of his hair, fingers catching in the longer strands along the back. It was growing back in, slowly but surely, no longer the tight shave that it had been when they’d met. But he still had a long way to go before it was even with the rest of his shoulder length locks. 

“There’s a breeding herd of chorts in the area that I have been contracted to exterminate. Were it just the males, they would be well within my abilities. But they have already found a female, and her presence has made them too volatile to hunt without risking the safety of the villages. The hunt is more than any one witcher could manage on his own. I would be more than happy to share the purse in return for your help. Please.”

“You have my permission to aid him.” Zofia answered, again cutting in before Eadelmarr could speak. As if it were inconceivable that anyone would not listen to her. The girl spoke with all the calm self assurance of any noble twice her age. “The door has a lock. And I sincerely doubt anyone would be so foolish as to incur the wrath of the witchers who are endeavoring to prevent their home from becoming a breeding ground for monsters. We will be safe until you return.”

If the other two were surprised by Zofia’s impromptu role in their little bit of trickery, they hid it well. Vren inclined his head respectfully, and Mikolaj actually bowed.

“Thank you for your indulgence, Milady.”

Zofia waved him off carelessly. “Your hunt is important, Witcher. The longer it goes unfinished, the more danger we are all in. It behooves me to allow our escort to aid you, lest we encounter the beasts during our travels. Be quick to finish it, master witchers. My brothers and I have a great distance to travel yet, and winter is only just around the corner.”

“My Lady.” Eadelmarr murmured. The teen firmed her grip on the crook of his arm. As if it were the most natural thing in the world to be escorted by a witcher. To Mikolaj, Eadelmarr added, “We will join you in the stables shortly. But we must see our charges safely to their room beforehand. Innkeep. Send meals up to the room. Starting with lunch. Milady and her brothers will not be dining down here with the rabble.”

He turned away before the man could stammer out a reply and led the children upstairs. 

Behind him, he could hear Vren growling out a warning to the innkeeper (and likely  to the rest of the townsfolk present) that they would vastly prefer the chort herd over the sort of recompense he and his cousins would rain down on the town should any harm befall their young charges while they dealt with the monsters. Eadelmarr didn’t usually approve of threatening humans. The reputations of witchers were better than they used to be, but any poor behavior could poison the well and bring their reputation crashing down again. 

Looking at the children that were trustingly following him to the room at the end of the hall, Eadelmarr found that just this once he could condone it. If it kept Zofia, Dawid, and Jakub safe, he would happily snap and snarl and wave a dagger around right there alongside Vren. 

He closed the door behind him and scooped Zofia into a hug. “Well done, Zofia. I do not know when you heard us discussing our plans or what possessed you to prepare as you did. But well done! You played your part beautifully.” 

The teenager shrugged, cheeks heating with embarrassment. “After everything you told us about how people treat you, I didn’t want them to have any room to accuse you. I knew I could make myself seem older. It would be more believable to have a noble corroborate your story. And Merna packed one good outfit for each of us, and some of my jewelry. Nothing that’s overtly expensive, but it looks the part well enough. So I didn’t think it would be hard to fake…” 

Eadelmarr scoffed. “You are nobility. There is nothing fake in that. The only falsity is that we are not under contract to your family. I am merely sorry that this farce was necessary at all to ensure your safety here while we hunt.”

Dawid leaned against Zofia. “We’ll be okay, Marr. Don’t worry. Jakub and I’ll keep Zofia safe.”

“Yeah!” Jakub cheered.

Eadelmarr ruffled the child’s sandy blond hair. “I am sure you will. Still, better safe than sorry. Which is why we agreed to leave you with these.” The Gryphon produced three daggers from the pack he had brought with him. Setting the pack aside, he crouched before the children. “These are not toys, am I clear?”

Three solemn nods the best he could hope for, he passed the daggers out.

“They are for your protection. But as you haven’t been trained to use them, they are your last resort. Better to hide them initially, and use them to escape later when your enemy’s guard is lowered. To cut yourself loose, or to injure them enough to give you a chance to get away.” 

“Understood.” Dawid promised.

Zofia tucked the dagger, sheath and all, into a pocket in her skirt he hadn’t even realized was there. She patted it twice, then slipped her arm around Dawid’s shoulders. “We’ll stay in the room. And we’ll be cautious when they bring our meals up.”

It was the best he could ask for.

Rising, Eadelmarr pressed the key into the teen’s hand. “Stay safe. And lock the door behind me.” He hesitated a moment. But, it needed to be said. “Should anything happen to us, that pack there and its contents will be enough to get you safely to your brother. There is enough money to see you fed and housed. There are also letters from my brother in the pack that describe the path up to Kaer Morhen. Wait two days. If we have not returned by the morning of the third day, do not wait for us. Order the horses saddled for you, take them, and go. Do not allow yourselves to be seen on the main roads if you can help it. If we are alive, we will catch up. And if the path has claimed us, then the sooner you continue on, the safer you will be.”

Zofia swallowed hard. “I don’t… I don’t know how to find my way.”

“You know more than you think you do.” Eadelmarr corrected gently. “Why do you think Vren has been teaching you and the boys to find the stars at night? The tales are clever and entertaining, but their purpose is to help you remember which stars are which. If one can read the sky, then one is never truly lost. But I take your meaning. This is sudden, and overwhelming. And I am deeply sorry to have to place this on your shoulders. Gods be kind, you will have no need to carry out my instructions. But better to plan and have no need, then to need and have no plan.” 

Jakub pressed against Zofia’s hip, little hands clutched in her skirts. “Don’t worry, ‘Fia. If you forget a star, we’ll help you remember. We got good memories. We won’t let you down.” He leaned into the hair ruffle from his elder sister, smiling up at Eadelmarr. “Marr? What star should we find?”

“You remember the story of the archer who had to fetch the magic bird?”

“Yes.”

“Which star is that?”

The child’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Oh, I remember that one! That story is for The Stallion! On account of the horse bein’ the only one what had any sense. So he gets to be in the stars!”

Dawid poked him. “I don’t remember that one.”

“That’s cause you fell asleep!” Jakub crowed, inordinately proud of himself for having held out longer than his older brother and thus having obtained stories said brother wasn’t privy to. 

“Vren told me! There’s this archer that works for a king. And the king is dumb and mean, and sends him on all these quests that are impossible! And the only reason the archer wins is ‘cause his horse is magic! But he gets in lots of trouble first, on account of he never listens and does what he’s told. Even though the horse knows everything.” The boy scoffed, crossing his arms and scowling at the floor. Seemingly genuinely offended on the mythical equine’s behalf. “So the archer’s not mean like the king, but he’s dumb too. The horse should’ve gone and found a witcher to be his rider. At least they would’ve listened.”

Eadelmarr had to work very hard not to laugh.

The Gryphon crouched down again, the better to be on eyelevel (or at least close to it) with the boy. “You are right. The archer in that story should have listened better. Not every talking animal would necessarily have meant him well, but the horse clearly loved him, and never would have led him astray.”

Jakub thrust out both hands at Eadelmarr, as if to tell his siblings ‘See?!’

“Which is very important when navigating.” Eadelmarr continued, catching the boy’s hand. “The magic horse had a white mark on his brow, and the constellation has a star in the same spot. While the rest of the stars might dance around it, that star never moves. Much like the magic horse, it will never guide you wrong. So to reach Kaer Morhen, you find the horse. And once you’ve found him, you hold your hand up to the sky right next to it. The keep is only a hand’s breadth to the right of the star. Do you understand?”

“We got it. Go kill some monsters.” Dawid asserted, slinging an arm playfully around Jakub’s shoulder.

With one last glance to doublecheck with Zofia, Eadelmarr slipped from the room. He didn’t leave until he heard the key turn, and the lock clicked shut. Gods, he hoped he was doing the right thing. There was a turning in his gut that had him deeply uneasy, and he very much wanted to snatch the children up and ride out of that town like a bat out of hell. But, there were monsters to kill. And if they didn’t manage it, god only knew how many of these people would die. They had no choice.

Eadelmarr gave himself a shake and strode down the stairs.

The innkeeper eyed him nervously, and Eadelmarr couldn’t resist the urge to narrow his eyes suspiciously at him. The man promptly turned away and hurriedly went about his business as briskly and efficiently as he seemed to know how. 

Good. Vren’s warning must have been effective. 

Then again, when a mountain of a man with preternatural strength looms over you and threatens violence, it tended to leave an impression. One which you would do well to listen to. The innkeeper might not be kind, but he didn’t seem a fool. Within reason, he wouldn’t allow any harm to come to the children. Out of self preservation if nothing else, for fear of what the witchers would do if they came back and found out aught had happened to their charges. It was the best they could do in a pinch.

The rain was falling in earnest when he stepped outside.

Up and down the street, he could hear shutters being pulled closed against the downpour. Mothers calling their gleeful children in from the damp before they caught their death of cold playing in the puddles. The main street wasn’t mud yet, but he had no doubt it soon would be. Thunder rolled in the distance, heralding more to come. The wind was picking up, and he could smell the heavier rains on the way. This would either help or hinder their hunt, and Eadelmarr wasn’t yet sure which it would be. 

Either way, he was grateful the children and horses could wait where it was warm and dry.

Vren and Mikolaj waited in the stable, kitted out for the hunt, and with extra supplies in satchels at their sides. The same oil cloth ones from the Cormorant Island caper, unless he was mistaken. This time likely packed with plenty of Devil’s Puffball.

He strode to the pile of tack and scooped up his own bag. He made one last check, to be sure he had all that he needed. Nothing seemed amiss. And yet, his gut still heaved and roiled as if he stood on the deck of a seafaring vessel. He hesitated… then sighed and put the bag over his shoulder.

“Let’s go.”

They set out into the rain.

“Here now, girl. Run that up to the Lady Pankratz. And be right quick about it, ye hear? Don’t be lollygaging, there’s a crowd tonight and money to be made!”

“Yes, sir!”

Caldus pricked up his ears at the familiar name, peering over his tankard. A serving girl, a homely little thing that couldn’t have been older than fifteen, scurried away from the counter. Braid flying behind her, she hustled across the room with a large tray clutched in her hands and raced right up the stairs.

Caldus swigged down the last of his ale and held up his hand for another. Eventually the innkeep trundled over, grumbling all the while about ‘damn spoiled nobles’ under his breath. Caldus waited for the man to finish pouring, then made his play. He leaned forward across the bar, elbows splayed, and a bit more slur in his voice. As though he couldn’t hold his ale with the very best of them.

“ ‘Ere now, bar keep. What be alls this about uh, about nobles?” 

As he’d hoped, the irritable man was just itching for a chance to unload.

“Nobles? What isn’t about the damn nobles these days.” The innkeeper groused. He whipped a cloth off his shoulder, mopping up a spill from the patron next to Caldus (and giving the guilty party a sharp word and smart hand to the back of the head for his clumsiness, much to the drunkard’s dismay). “Got a lady an’ her party stayin’ in the best room upstairs. Spoiled thing never once comes down out of her room, nor the brothers either. They jus’ stay up there, have their meals brought up, an’ set the chamber pot out a few times a day for cleanin’.”

Caldus affected a slightly drunken sway, screwing his face up in disbelief. “Now you’re puttin’ me on, man. Ain’t no ladies live in these parts.”

The innkeeper straightened up, his pride pricked. “No there ain’t, but I didn’t say she was from around here, now did I? The lady’s from somewheres down south, gettin’ away from the war. Supposedly she’s got an older brother somewhere up here who’ll be looking after her.”

“No shit? An’ she don’t ever come out? Think maybe she’s hidin’ somethin’?” Caldus pushed, sloppily throwing back another swig of his ale. A bit dribbled down his chin. It was intentional, but he hated the waste. “W’a’s her name again, anyway?”

The innkeeper rapped his knuckles smartly across Caldus’ skull. “Never you mind what her business is. The Lady Pankratz is a paying customer, and made her want for privacy plain!” He huffed, flipping the little towel back over his shoulder. “Sides, the witchers escorting her made it damn clear they won’t be happy if anyone lays hands on her ladyship or her brothers. They already been gone all of yesterday and most of today hunting the monsters plaguing the villages hereabouts. I don’t want to know what they’d do to all of us if’n their charges were hurt when they came back.” He shuddered and trundled off to deal with a lout down the bar calling for another refill.

Not that Caldus cared, he’d said more than plenty.

He stumbled away from the bar, keeping up the act of drunken sot barely keeping upright. The bard that was prancing about like an overeager puppy swerved to avoid him, and Caldus debated pretending to trip just to spill his drink across the annoying twat’s clothes. But that would be a waste of good alcohol. Ignoring the urge, he carried on and found a table tucked up against the wall to nurse his ale and think. 

When his captain had called for volunteers from among their battalion to be sent into the ass ends of the various northern countries to look for the white wolf and the missing princess (or even just that bard that sang the wolf’s praises), Caldus had happily volunteered. It got him away from the front lines, and all he had to do was move about frequently and keep his eyes and ears open. He got a stipend each month to cover his expenses, delivered via magic. And a bonus if anything he heard was interesting enough to pass on to the higher ups. All in all, not a bad job. 

He’d never expected to actually find something.

He smirked to himself, already drafting a letter in his head. He’d write it and get it sent off once he got back to his room, near the back on the first floor. He had a speaking spell, which would allow him to speak to someone directly if need be, but the witchers weren’t coming back anytime soon. He’d seen a chort once, and he couldn’t imagine that hunting a herd of them to extinction wouldn’t take at least a week at minimum. He had time. 

Idly, he toyed with the idea of trying to get a look at the supposed nobles, but eventually discarded the idea. The innkeeper had said they never came out of their room. Presumably waiting for the witchers to come back. They’d never open the door to a man they didn’t know. Better to just pass the information along and let the higher ups decide what they wanted to do.

It was intriguing though. It poked at his curiosity like nothing else had.

He sat back, eyes distant as he puzzled through the possibilities. So there was a woman upstairs claiming to be the Lady Pankratz, eh? There weren’t many Pankratzes, so far as he knew. Just an elderly grandmother, her son and his wife, and their children. Oh, there were a few cousins, to be sure. But none that carried the name Pankratz. Much less a noble title. And he had a hard time picturing Leonorra or Rodmilla Pankratz tramping around in the back end of Kaedwen on a lark. Especially not without the Count and or a full escort of soldiers with them. The fact that this supposed ‘lady’ was being escorted by witchers…

Caldus chuckled, and threw back the last of his ale.

He could already hear the clink of the coins as he counted out his bonus.

A pox on whatever deity deigned to design chorts.

Vren sighed as he stumped towards the inn, glad of a chance to sleep somewhere warm and dry after two gods awful days of hunting the herd over the landscape through mist and ice cold rain and clinging mud. 

Despite the beasts being more brawn than brains, the cow had been smart enough to recognize that the irritating creatures harrying her herd were the same things that had deprived her of her prize bull the day prior. In contrast to the previous day, she seemed to decide that she wanted no part of it and led her herd into the wilder areas between the various villages to escape them. 

Good for the villages, but substantially harder for the witchers.

Running pell mell through the woods, the chorts couldn’t care less what they knocked over. And more than once it was only a well timed dodge or shot of Aard that kept the witchers who raced at their heels from being brained by falling branches or small trees knocked loose. 

The herd hadn’t stopped once, not even when they had managed to cut one of the younger bull chorts out from the group and hamstring it. Even working together, it had taken time to kill it. And then once they’d vanquished it and harvested it for useful parts, the three had had to track the herd down all over again. By then the four remaining chorts had managed to put a fair bit of distance between them, leaving a broad swath of destruction over the landscape headed southwest. It was only after hours of tracking that they’d come to the realization that the herd had traveled in a great arching curve and circled around to the wilds north of the villages again. There were a series of deep gullies there that were perfect for chort burrows.

And hadn’t that been a horrible thought, to realize they never intended to leave once their mating was through.

With fall marching on, the threat of the passes up to Kaer Morhen being closed by snow was ever present. With the children waiting for them, they didn’t have time for a long drawn out hunt. They dared not linger. So they’d set to planning as dusk had fallen. The chorts had yet to actually dig burrows, which worked in their favor. It meant they had to bed down on the bare ground at the bottom of the gullies. 

Vren, exhausted from all the prolonged running, hadn’t been up for making much of a camp. Marr and Miko hadn’t been much better off. No one had bothered lighting a fire, preferring instead to eat trail rations and sleep piled together in the bracken for warmth. They’d risen well before the dawn the second day, and crept to the edge of the gullies overlooking the remaining chorts. The herd had settled in one of the deeper gullies, one with high, sheer walls. And only one way in or out. Perfect for digging burrows, and ideal for defense… But equally perfect for ambushes and traps.

The plan, though simple, had been a thing of beauty in Vren’s humble opinion. And it had started with Eadelmarr’s signs. 

The Gryphon had put his signs to good use, slamming the walls of the gullies and shaking loose dirt and rocks. Not as much as they’d wanted, it didn’t totally block the entrance like they’d been hoping. But it piled a fair bit of dirt in the way. And the explosions of dust and debris every time Marr cast another blast of Aard did an excellent job of filling the air with dust and spooking the herd away from the entrance. 

From there, it was Miko’s turn.

The young Manticore had done himself proud with those bombs. He’d lobbed three of the Devil’s Puffballs down in front of the blocked entrance, further discouraging the chorts from making a run for it. The noxious fumes from the bombs billowed out from the point of impact, yellowy brown smoke hanging in the early dawn air. The bombs were key to ensuring this hunt went as smoothly as possible. The more smoke the chorts breathed in, the slower they would be. In movements, thoughts, and reaction times. Again and again, Miko hurled down another as the smoke began to clear, ensuring that there was always a layer of smoke along the floor of the gully. All of it stemming from the point of impact near the only exit. Eadelmarr’s blasts of Aard continued to send up sprays of earth and rock, and fanned the smoke further into the dead end.

Which left Vren to deal the actual damage.

It’d been some time since he’d had occasion to use the handgonne to this extent, and he was having a blast! In more ways than one. As chorts were built of slabs of pure muscle across their backs and shoulders, and their skulls were easily two finger widths thick, the Crane directed his fire to their flanks. The ribs protected things like the heart and lungs, but would still slow them down if cracked. The muscle was far thinner along the sides and belly, leaving the abdominal organs with significantly less protection. Even a chort couldn’t exactly get too far with their intestines hanging out. And if he could cripple one of the back legs, he’d limit its movements even further.

After each shot, it was the work of a moment to drop a pre-measured amount of powder (contained in thin tissue) and a ball down the barrel. These were followed swiftly by a small tuft of grass or leaves to act as wadding and keep the ball from falling out, rammed into place with an iron rod. Long practice left him able to accomplish the task in seconds.

As he needed to reload and fire quickly and repeatedly, he didn’t bother with the short bits of wicking that generally were used to touch the powder off. Instead, he wedged the stock tight against his shoulder (instead of over it as it was designed to go) and used his free hand to cast Igni directly on the powder. That allowed him to fire almost instantly, but the altered position meant his aim wasn’t as accurate as it could’ve been. Which wasn’t to say that he missed, Vren’s instructors amongst the Cranes had drilled them in a variety of shooting styles and positions. Vren rarely missed. He just wouldn’t be directly on the bullseye. 

The fight hadn’t been long, but had cost them most of their supplies.

He’d pumped far more of the handgonne balls into their bodies than he’d initially expected to. Which was something of a failing on his part. Even if he rarely saw them along the coast, Vren knew damn well how powerful chorts and other monsters like them were. How much damage they could take and keep right on going. He’d very nearly burned through all of his prepared powder. And he’d gone through damn near all of his shot. He and the others had been able to retrieve most of the iron balls from the corpses after the hunt while they’d been harvesting the bodies for parts, so he didn’t need to do a complete restock, thankfully. 

But it had been a drawn out and bloody affair to grind the herd down enough that they could climb down into the gulley and finish them off. And an even bloodier affair to butcher them afterwards. The work had taken almost half the day. But it would be worth it for the potions that could be made from the ingredients, the extra coin to be made selling organs to apothecaries and hides to tanners. 

Anything they couldn’t use was piled with logs and brush and set ablaze where it fell so as not to attract any sort of necrophage. They would likely be the last witchers to pass through until spring, which would leave the villages at the mercy of any monsters the corpses attracted for the whole of winter. 

They’d put everything on a hastily constructed travois and the three took turns pulling it. It was slow and unwieldy, and required them to take the main roads. Which had taken them far out of their way. They’d debated camping on the roadside, and then being up again well before dawn to make it back to town before the children felt the need to leave. But they had time yet, and they hadn’t wanted the children to worry.

So push on they did, and made it back a little before dusk. 

Eadelmarr had split off from the group, intent on checking on the children. Once he was assured they were well, he would see about acquiring supper and baths. The three had rinsed off the worst of the gore in an icy little creek, but they were all rank and needed hot water and actual soap.

Vren couldn’t decide whether he was looking forward to the bath, food, or bed more.

As the witcher who had initially negotiated the contract, Mikolaj had gone to speak with the alderman about their pay. If they were to leave early the next morn to make up for time lost to weather and the hunt, they didn’t want to be stopping at the alderman’s. The man wouldn’t appreciate being rousted out of bed at dawn and would likely try to short their pay out of spite. Mikolaj took the six tails they’d cut off each chort as proof of a contract completed with him. Not that anyone could really claim they hadn’t exterminated the herd, seeing as he also had a sack full of various chort parts slung over his shoulder. The apothecary was to be his second stop. 

Vren took the travois directly to the tannery on the outer edge of town.

The tanner had apparently been feeling ill and retired early, and so had to be rousted out of bed, and was understandably irritable about it. The man was substantially less miffed once he’d set eyes on what Vren had brought him. 

While not as tough as draconid hide or wing membrane, a well prepared chort hide was tougher than almost any conventional hide from deer or cattle. Even if all he did was prepare it, the tanner stood to make thrice whatever he paid Vren for it. More if he took the time to fashion it into bags, boots, gear, and whatever else.

Vren had been paid handsomely for all six hides, and the man had been quick to kick his apprentices out of the building to come drag the travois out around back to unload and get the hides soaking.

As he didn’t need the travois back, Vren had turned his feet toward the inn. 

“Vren!”

The Crane blinked out of his little daydream of hot food, a bath, and bed. Mikolaj was standing outside the stable, leading two horses with each hand. All four horses were saddled and bridled, saddle bags and bedrolls tied on and ready to go. 

Tempest was nibbling at Dove’s withers, the older mare preening at what was apparently a very good scratch. Sweet Rose had her ears pricked, tail switching back and forth as she watched the town gradually settle for the night. And Goose… well, the young stallion seemed to have picked up on Miko’s tension, and unlike the mares he didn’t yet have the training or experience to be calm about it. He shuffled from foot to foot, snorting and lashing his tail and looking about for whatever had upset Mikolaj.

“What’s going on?”

Mikolaj shook his head, tossing Vren Tempest’s reins. “Trouble. We gotta go. Eadelmarr’s grabbing the kids now. As soon as everyone’s mounted up, we need to get the hell out of here on the double.”

Vren swung up into his saddle and took Dove’s reins when Mikolaj passed them up. As soon as he had them, the Manticore was scrambling into his own saddle on Sweet Rose, Goose fidgeting at his elbow. Vren kept his eyes on a constant sweep over the surrounding town, wary of whatever had spooked his cousins. “What happened, Miko?”

“Fucking Nilfgaardian spy.” Mikolaj hissed, checking his various weapons and pouches. Geared up for a fight, restocked, and double checking that he was ready to kick some ass. “Came back from the apothecary and heard him talking through one of those speaking spells out here by the stable. Fucker caught wind of the kits. Guess he was waiting for soldiers to come get them, and spooked when he saw Eadelmarr. Kits’ve eaten, thank fuck, but we’re not getting anything hot today. You got the money from the tanner?”

Vren bounced the bag of coin in his palm, then twisted to tuck it into his saddlebag for safekeeping. “I got it. Man was surprisingly fair. Bit irritable about the hour, but gave a good rate for the hides. This keeps up, we’ll have quite the sum to split between the three of us when we take to the path next spring.”

“Same here, surprisingly reasonable. Though apothecaries don’t usually give me trouble when I’m trying to sell parts like that. They know they’d almost never get them without us.” 

Vren checked over his own gear, counting potions and grabbing what few spares he had from his packs. “This is Kaedwen. I imagine they see a lot of the bard up here in the early spring and late fall. You’ve seen how much impact his music’s had throughout the continent. Imagine how much stronger the impact would be in towns that he passes through often.”

Mikolaj hummed in acknowledgement. He’d produced a bomb from one of his hip pouches, and was slowly rolling it back and forth across his thigh. He caught Vren eyeing the clay bomb and smirked. “It helps. You get a better reaction if the ingredients are gently agitated beforehand.”

Vren sighed. “Please don’t set off any bombs in the village. We’re practically on the Wolves’ front lawn. They still have to live and hunt here.” 

“I promise not to use it unnecessarily.” Mikolaj temporized, and kept right on rolling the corked and wax sealed bottle back and forth, tempo steady and sure as an army drum. “Meantime, can you shoot that hand cannon of yours accurately from horse back?”

“Who do you take me for?”

“Then I’d get to it. I killed the rat bastard spy and tucked his corpse in the middenheap, but who knows how soon his friends will show up.”

That… was a fair point actually. Still, Vren couldn’t help teasing. “You just like the handgonne and want to see it fired again.”

“There is that too. But mostly it’s the Nilfgaardians.” Mikolaj lied, unconvincingly. The Manticore’s fascination with the gun had been immediate and blatant, and Vren was looking forward to teaching him how to use it once they had a moment to take a second and breathe. If he took to it as well as the Crane was expecting him to, Vren was already toying with the idea of crafting one for him as soon as the opportunity presented itself. But in the meantime, Vren was fine letting him learn from observation.

He pulled the handgonne from its leather sling and screwed the pieces together. The hunt had used up every one of his premeasured powder plugs, and he definitely didn’t have time to make more. Eyeballing it, it is. Which wasn’t precisely smart, but then again neither was stealing captives from the Nilfgaardian empire, so they were well past the point where smart was part of the equation. Now all that was left was to be skillful and clever. 

He poured the approximate amount of powder directly from the horn into the handgonne’s muzzle, then dropped an iron ball in next… shit, he needed wadding. The Crane glanced around, looking for some form of plant life he could take some foliage from, but there didn’t seem to be anything…

“The roof. Take a bit of the thatch.” Mikolaj pointed up at the eaves of the stable. He’d definitely been paying attention.

Between his height and Tempest’s, Vren had no trouble reaching the straw thatching. He snatched a small amount, rolling it into a wad. Once it was sufficiently crumpled up and should theoretically fit in the barrel, Vren pulled the steel rod from its channel under the barrel and used it to jam the wad of straw down after the iron ball. That would keep everything in place until he set the powder off. The steel rod made a metallic, slithery sort of noise as Vren slid it back into place. He laid the handgonne across his thighs, careful to keep the wick hole upright so none of the powder fell out. 

“I can fire just fine, but reloading on a running horse without having everything premeasured is.. Dicey.”

“One shot’s all you need, if the aim is right.” Mikolaj answered easily. The Manticore’s attention snapped to the inn door. He sat up straighter in the saddle. “Here they come.”

Eadelmarr rushed out the door, saddlebags over his shoulders and children in tow. The Gryphon scooped up Jakub and tossed him onto Sweet Rose in front of Mikolaj. “Take him. Any sign of our pursuers as of yet?”

Mikolaj was quick to catch the boy around the waist before the frightened child could slide off the other side of his lap. “None yet. But the sooner we leave this place, the better.”

Eadelmarr didn’t answer, already securing the saddle bags onto Dove. 

Zofia took the brief pause to tuck her skirt into her belt. As soon as the Gryphon had moved she swung up into the saddle the way Eadelmarr had taught her.

Vren leaned down, holding out a hand to Dawid. “Here, lad. Up you get. Sorry to snatch you colts away from warm beds, but it couldn’t be helped. Did anyone bother you while we were gone?”

The boy shook his head, the scent of his fear bitter in Vren’s nose as the Crane pulled him up onto Tempest’s back. “No. No one bothered us. What’s going on? Eadelmarr was fine, an’ then all of a sudden he got upset and said that we had to leave right away.”

“He could hear me, kit. Our hearing is better than yours, remember? I told him the Nilfgaardians were coming, and we had to go.” Mikolaj explained. 

Even from where he was, Vren could see Jakub shaking. 

The youngest witcher’s expression softened. Mikolaj was quick to wrap his cloak around the boy, warding off the chill. Even if they knew it wasn’t the cold of dusk that left the boy trembling. He nuzzled the child’s hair, voice dropping to something gentler. “Don’t worry, Jakub. They won’t get you and your siblings back without a fight. I swear it.”

Scarcely had the Manticore said it before Vren’s medallion started vibrating hard enough he could almost swear he felt it in his teeth. “Best stop swearin’ and start running, Miko!” He bellowed, and slammed his heels into Tempest’s flanks. 

The mare leapt forward, plate sized hooves pounding the road in a heavy drumbeat. Mikolaj was a bare halfstep behind him, Goose and Dove following Tempest’s lead. Vren glanced back, and for a second his veins froze and his heart lurched in his chest when he realized that Goose’s saddle was empty. Vren twisted further, craning to see if Eadelmarr was still back by the stable.

“Marr?!”

Goose snorted, tossing his head, and Vren saw it. Saw two gloved hands fisted tight on the reins and saddle pommel, and in the long dark mane at Goose’s shoulders. 

Goose was tall. Eadelmarr decidedly was not. But he could reach Goose’s shoulders just fine. And usually that was all he needed to be able to swing himself up into the saddle. But could he manage the same while Goose was running? Vren had no doubt he could keep up running alongside, but they’d move faster and travel farther with Marr mounted up. 

The top of Eadelmarr’s head bounced into view for a second, as if the smaller witcher had given a little hop. The next, his whole body suddenly came flying into view, feet briefly above his head before gravity reasserted itself and he fell back down against the stallion’s back. Goose gave another snort, tossing his head and giving a small buck of protest. The Gryphon settled into the saddle grimly, one callused hand smoothing over Goose’s neck. 

He locked eyes with Vren. “Do not worry about me! Go!”

No need to tell Vren twice. Over Eadelmarr’s shoulder, Vren could see Nilfgaardian soldiers pouring out of the inn, a mage barely a step behind them. Had that sanctimonious ass actually opened a portal inside the building? While there was no law against it, it was considered exceedingly rude to do so uninvited. But, that was sorcerers and Nilfgaard all over, so he really shouldn’t have been surprised. 

Fingers pointed and shouts rang out as the soldiers realised their quarry was getting away. The soldiers gave chase, but not the mage. His lips turned up in a smug sort of grin. Like the cat who’d got the cream and was already eyeing the fish laid out for dinner. The man planted his feet, hands glowing as he raised them above his head and brought them down with a shout.

Vren had barely a second to realize what was about to happen.

A loud crack sounded ahead of them, and his medallion gave an almighty buzz against his chest. Vren spun forwards. Barely ten paces ahead, a portal rent the air. Great spirals of light and dark, taking up the whole of the street. There was no way to avoid it. Even if they hauled back on the reins, brought the horses to a sliding stop, they’d still not stop before they’d already passed through it. They’d be sitting ducks for whatever waited on the other side. Or… they could spur the horses faster, and pray that the unexpected speed would serve them well. 

There really was no other choice.

Vren set his heels into Tempest’s flanks and spurred her into the portal.

Frankly, Eadelmarr was astonished that Goose didn’t balk at the portal.

Then again, the young stallion had belonged to someone important once. It wasn’t such a massive stretch to imagine that he might have been taken through portals before so that his previous master might fulfil their duties. Either way, it was one less thing to worry about as they thundered through the portal and out into the late afternoon sun. 

The sudden shift from icy cold air to something warm and humid was almost a physical blow.

They were substantially further south then, portals didn’t mess with time. The days were shorter everywhere the closer they got to winter, but night came faster in the north. If it seemed earlier in the day, then they’d traveled quite the distance south. The warmth and humidity only further supported the conclusion.

The mage had opened a portal directly into a Nilfgaardian fort. A massive one at that. The main building towered over them, casting deep shadows across them as the sun sank further and further into the horizon. Rows upon rows of barracks took up the far wall, and a long low building on the opposite side was clearly a stable of some sort. At that size, it could’ve held a couple hundred horses if they didn’t mind their mounts being a little cramped. 

Bizarrely, there was no one waiting to catch them. 

Oh to be certain, there were people out and about in the main yard. A batch of what seemed to be trainees were running through a set of polearm drills in the center of the yard. Likely the last training block of the day. Closer to the main building, more experienced soldiers were sparring or working through sword drills individually. But there was no force dedicated to capturing them as they came out of the portal. No one had expected their arrival.

This wasn’t planned, the mage made the portal in the heat of the moment.

Vren and Mikolaj seemed to have come to the same conclusion. They didn’t slow their horses in the slightest, urging them to run faster and faster as they turned them towards the open gates at the front of the fort. 

Chaos and bedlam erupted all around them.

Shouts went up, and the soldiers responded to the alarm. They piled out of their barracks and the main building where they’d likely been eating in shifts to avoid overwhelming the cooks. The trainees wheeled round at the direction of their captain, racing to intercept the witchers. The older soldiers abandoned their spars and drills to give chase. At the front of the fort, two soldiers dove out of the gatehouse to try and pull the gates closed. If they managed to bar them, the witchers wouldn’t be able to get them open fast enough to escape the soldiers. 

Behind them, someone shrieked “Stop them, you fools! Stop them!”

A fireball burst against the hard packed dirt to Eadelmar’s left and Goose shied away from it with a squeal. Adrenaline set Eadelmarr’s heart racing. He dragged the stallion back in line, positioning him between Zofia and her mount, and the furious mage behind them. Better he be hit than the teenager. The sorcerer must have followed them through the portal with his soldiers. 

Another fireball slammed into the dirt, this time on the far right near Sweet Rose. The Zerrikanian racer whinnied, but didn’t shy more than a step or two before falling back into place at Tempest’s side. Likely more accustomed to fire and explosions due to her master’s proclivity for them.

“Vren!” Mikolaj bellowed, curled over Jakub protectively.

The Crane dropped Tempest’s reins to lift the handgonne from where it had been resting across his and Dawid’s laps and planted it against his shoulder. Barking at Dawid to duck down and cover his ears, the Crane twisted in the saddle to face back the way they’d come. The boy scooped up the knotted reins but didn’t do anything to redirect the mare as she hurtled towards the gate. 

Vren sighted along the barrel of the handgonne. And then his free hand flicked in the so familiar pattern of igni. Sparks ignited at the powder hole, and the handgonne spewed fire and smoke with an almighty bang. Dawid flinched hard at the sudden noise, ducking down closer to Tempest’s heaving neck. 

Behind them, the sorcerer dropped in a spray of blood, crumpling to the ground and leaving his soldiers to scramble in their efforts not to trip over the fallen man. Two stopped to check on him. Not that it would do much good. Even firing backwards and from the back of a horse galloping at breakneck speed, Vren was a crack shot. And that handgonne had been loaded for monsters of chort caliber. 

The sorcerer wouldn’t be getting back up.

“If you’ve got any other ideas, lad, I’m all ears!” Vren shouted, slotting the handgonne back into its sling. 

Eadelmarr crouched lower over Goose’s neck. He spurred the animal harder, a sharp “Kssst!” noise falling from between his teeth to urge him on. Given his head, the stallion stretched out into a full gallop. His long legs ate up the ground beneath his hooves, carrying him forward past Dove and Tempest. Powerful she might be, but Tempest would never be the fastest amongst their horses. Dove had the heart, and always did her best to give him whatever he asked of her, but she was short and a little bit stocky. No, the honor of fastest horse likely fell to Goose with his absurdly long legs, or to Sweet Rose with her Zerrikanian Racer blood. And Mikolaj wouldn’t risk the child in his arms by taking the lead. 

Thus it fell to Eadelmarr to take the lead.

Goose outpaced Tempest, the larger mare snorting as the stallion pulled ahead. Eadelmarr held out his hand, and flicked his fingers through the sign for aard, pushing as much of his chaos through it as he possibly could. Goose tossed his dark head at the sudden hand in the corner of his peripherals, but didn’t shy away. Good, his training was paying off. Ahead, the sign struck the unsecured gate. The blow flung the doors open, wood splintering under the strike. The two guards were bowled ass over kettle directly out the gate and into the road beyond. 

“Give her her head, lass! Stay right on Marr’s tail!”

A quick glance back at Vren’s shout showed Zofia begging greater speed out of Dove. The dappled little mare gave a sharp whinny, stout legs churning as she fought to answer the teen’s plea and outpace Tempest’s longer strides. On Vren’s opposite side, Sweet Rose gave an angry squeal, the strawberry roan irritated that her master held her back from overtaking the other two mares.

Given that her master was lighting a bomb, there was a reason for that.

Mikolaj gave a gleeful whoop, something wild and ululating that Eadelmarr had never heard come from any other witcher. 

He’d learned quickly during their travels that such a noise usually preceded an explosion of some kind. After that first somewhat bewildering hunt, Mikolaj had explained that it was a signal used by Manticore witchers to warn any hunting partners that they were going to set off a bomb. Only when the element of surprise had already been lost of course. They usually tried to plan out the initial attack in advance, so in general no one was taken by surprise. 

Well used to this strange sound after hunting with the man for months, Eadelmarr ducked his head. 

A resounding bang sounded behind them, followed by a chorus of shouting and swearing. A whiff of acrid, dusty scent told Eadelmarr that it was a smoke bomb the Manticore had dropped in their wake. None of them would cry over the deaths of Nilfgaardian soldiers, but they did try to avoid human deaths as much as possible. They were well aware that a great many of the lower level soldiers were nothing more than conscripts that didn’t want to be here any more than the witchers did. So long as they weren’t an active threat, the witchers had no quarrel with them. 

Goose shot through the open gate, not even breaking stride as he gave a little hop over one of the soldiers Eadelmarr had sent sprawling. The road ahead was wide open, the area around the fort cleared of trees and brush to prevent stealth attacks. Eadelmarr checked over his shoulder, watching to make sure that his friends made it through the gate after him. 

Dove was just over a body length behind him, Tempest nose to tail behind her as the pair cleared the gate. Mikolaj gave another warning cry and dropped another bomb as Sweet Rose neared the gate. The mare didn’t so much as bat an ear at the loud noises or concussive force at her back as she shot through into the open air. 

They’d made it. For now.

Fifty feet from the fort, the trees loomed before them, casting the road beneath into heavy shadows. None of them hesitated, well aware that whatever might lurk beneath the trees was likely far safer than what lay behind them. As they passed beneath the boughs, the aromas of the forest rose up to greet them. Wet earth, leaf litter, animals. They must have had rain within the last few hours. 

Given the warning rumbles in the distance, they were likely to have more ere long. 

Sweet Rose came abreast of Goose, the two horses galloping side by side down the road. Mikolaj reached across to tug on Eadelmarr’s sleeve. “Draw him back, Eadelmarr! Save their energy! The Nilfs’ll be after us soon enough. This is going to be a contest of endurance, not a sprint. Better to conserve their strength until we need it, rather than waste them on a headlong rush at the start.”

“You are right. We must conserve the horses. But not so much that we lose the advantage of our head start.” Eadelmarr temporized. He gently drew back on the reins, firming his hand when Goose fought him on it. The stallion loved to run, and would likely have run himself into the ground if Eadelmarr allowed it. Mikolaj followed suit, drawing Sweet Rose back into a slower canter. She huffed and tossed her head, but settled into the easier pace. 

Vren and Zofia caught up, drawing their own horses back to fall into step with them. 

Vren smirked down at them. “Well. That was exhilarating.”

Mikolaj barked a laugh. “To say the least.” He agreed. He leaned over to tweak a strand of Zofia’s braid playfully. “Well done, milady. For being a novice rider, you did well for having to ride on your own in an emergency. You kept up and stayed close, and you kept your head.” Then he tickled along Jakub’s sides. “You boys did good as well. I’m proud of you three. I’m sure Vren and Eadelmarr are as well.”

“That we are.” Eadelmarr agreed. “Now, we would do well to fall silent, lest the soldiers should come upon us unawares.”

Obediently, the others quieted.

Nothing broke the stillness of the forest save the rustle of the breeze through the woods, the thump of their horses’ hooves, the creak of leather, and the faint jingle of the trinkets in Vren’s braid. 

Ahead, the road diverged into a fork. 

One path continued on in a straightaway towards the southwest. The other path turned in a deep sinuous curve to the left towards the north. It would make the most sense to turn north, as they would have to go that way regardless to get back to Kaedwen. But… perhaps it would be smarter to turn south? The Nilfgaardians would surely expect them to go north, perhaps they could throw their pursuers off the scent by turning their horses the other way?

But they didn’t have the time to spare. 

Winter came fast in the north, and once the pass to Kaer Morhen was snowed in there would be no passage until spring. And the gods only knew how far south they had been thrown. Without the help of a sorcerer of their own, they could be facing months worth of travel time. The sooner they found a magic user willing to portal them, the better their chances to make it to the keep in time. Every second counted… Plus, the trees and underbrush on the left hand path was thicker. More cover for when they inevitably had to hide from Nilfgaardian patrols.

Mind made up, Eadelmarr guided Goose to the left. 

The trees loomed over them, grasping fingers of branches and leaves blocking out the fading light. It wouldn’t hinder the witchers, but it would prove to be quite the hurdle for their pursuers. They only needed to remain out of sight until then.

Another serpentine curve in the path made itself known ahead.

Eadelmarr had barely a second to register Dove’s sudden snort and the warning whinny that followed before he and Goose were rounding the new bend in the trail and coming face to face with a new rider. He jerked the reins, the stallion startling under the sudden jolt and skidding to a halt. Behind him, the Gryphon could hear the rest of the group jerking to a stop with soft curses and loud snorts from the mares. 

The stranger drew up short with a low hiss.

They were swathed in a thick cloak, of such a deep navy it could surely be mistaken for black in such low light if one did not possess the advantage of a witcher’s keen eyesight. The hood of the cloak was drawn up, concealing the rider’s hair and leaving their features indistinct. A strip of cloth, a scarf perhaps, had been fastened over the rider’s mouth and nose, further obscuring any identifying facial features. The cloak covered all else. 

The horse was of average build, shorter and built on stronger lines than Goose, but taller and of less solid build than Dove. It was a slate gray color, speckles of black scattered liberally across the beast’s hide like coal dust. The head and limbs gave the impression of having been dipped in thick black ink. The pair seemed a matched set. And in the gathering dusk, their coloring blurred their edges and left them indistinct as a wraith in a mist.

Distantly, the belling call of blood hounds split the air.

The rider tilted their head, as if listening to the far off cacophony. “I don’t suppose those hounds are for you, are they?” The voice was male, mellow and smooth with the faintest touch of a lisp to the ‘s’ sounds. Their head languidly rolled to the other shoulder. The movement reminiscent of a drunkard, but too smooth and fluid to be anything other than deliberate. Eadelmarr found himself reassessing the threat the man posed. He was too at ease, unexpectedly faced with a small cadre of witchers as he was.

The man’s mount rumbled, one hind hoof stamping against the dirt. 

“Might be.” Vren agreed, easy and conversational in a way Eadelmarr would have been hard pressed to replicate. “We have children in our care, and the Nilfgaardians meant them harm. Naturally, we objected somewhat strongly to that. Why? Care to make something of it, lad?”

Goose made a nervous whicker, ears twitching. He sidled a few steps, attempting to angle himself so one eye faced back the way they’d come. The baying of the dogs was growing louder. They were joined by the shouts of their handlers, the thunder of hooves. 

Their lead grew slimmer by the moment, they dared not delay.

The stranger groaned and rubbed at his eyes. Muttering curses under his breath, he unlooped a leather thong from the saddle horn and held up what it was tied to so that they all could see. 

Fuck.

There, dangling from a leather thong punched clean through its lower jaw, was an alghoul’s head. A large one. Fleshy and wrinkled, it was coated in layer upon layer of filth and blood. Broad, pointed ears stuck out from either side of the head, the edges ragged from fighting. A bulbous, hooked nose stuck out over thin lips. Deepset, crimson eyes glared at the world in impotent outrage. Sharp, crooked teeth were bared in a soundless snarl. An effect marred somewhat by the long, bloody tongue that dangled from its open maw. On the back of the skull and neck, slender spikes stuck out like thorns. A fully mature adult then. One with a great many years behind them. Young alghouls didn’t start sprouting those until they’d survived several winters at least.

The witcher (for what else could he be?) gave the alghoul’s head a comical little shake, the red tongue swaying in a macabre little dance. “I’m not getting paid for this, am I?”

Vren muffled a laugh behind one hand. “Yeah, I wouldn’t count on it. Sorry about that, lad… We’ll make it up to you?” 

The other witcher seemed to consider it. After a long moment, he sighed and secured the head to his saddle pommel again. “Good enough.” Wheeling his horse about, he called over his shoulder. “We’d best move quickly. The trees end around the next bend. Better for all of us if we’ve crossed the open ground and entered into the trees again on the other side before your pursuers are close enough to see.”

A hunting horn sounded through the trees.

Eadelmarr was quick to lead his little party after the man into the gathering dusk.

Bonus Memes!