Witcher Meets Pitchfork

Vic's mount was a dark brown gelding with a black mane and hooves. It was docile, sluggish, and perfectly suited for a beginner like him. Vic had named it "Faithful" based on its temperament. According to Vesemir, the horse had been tilling fields when they retrieved it from the foster farm outside the mountains, and it had adapted well.

With the slimmed-down bear carcass slung over its back, Faithful was led by Vic into the castle, passing through the inner courtyard and straight into the kitchen.

Vic unloaded the bear hide and spread it out to dry, then salted the bulk of the bear meat to prepare it for air-drying in a couple of days. Finally, he stuffed a handful of oats into Faithful's mouth as a reward; the animal seemed quite uncomfortable with the predator resting on its back.

Footsteps echoed—but the rhythm wasn't Vesemir's!

"Hey, you must be Vic," Eskel said.

Vic turned around. That face, ruined by several long, jagged scars, would have been enough to make someone with less nerve or experience scream in terror if they saw it in the dark. It didn't rattle Vic.

He just smiled. "Yes, I'm Vic. Are you Eskel or Lambert? It certainly can't be Geralt; you don't have white hair." He washed his hands, then stood up and walked toward the man.

Eskel smiled back, though it was a grim expression. "Right, I'm not Geralt. I'm just an ordinary witcher. I don't hunt dragons, I don't hobnob with kings, and I don't sleep with sorceresses... I'm Eskel."

Vic extended his right hand—the same right hand that had been resting lightly on his sword hilt since the conversation began. "Vic. You can call me Vic."

Eskel reached out to shake it, his tone friendly. "Lambert came back with me. He's busy bragging to Vesemir right now. You wouldn't mind two more mouths to share your harvest and cooking, would you?"

"It would be my honor."

By nightfall, the roasted bear meat smelled wonderful, and the atmosphere of the dinner was pleasant. This made Lambert hesitate for a moment, but after some thought, he decided to break the bad news now, even if it meant ruining the mood for the evening.

"I actually have some news about Geralt and Ciri, but it's bad news..."

Lambert's opening drew everyone's attention, as both people mentioned were close to their hearts.

"At the beginning of April, Geralt and Yennefer finally found Ciri. The timing matches exactly when you said, Vesemir, that Ciri would return to Kaer Morhen. It seems she found them the moment she teleported.

"After that, the three of them began a months-long journey of vengeance—it seems Ciri had a very difficult time during her flight.

"Then, they separated briefly due to circumstances.

"On September 24th, Geralt and Dandelion arrived in Rivia. He had arranged to meet Ciri and Yennefer at the 'Cock and Hen' inn.

"Unfortunately, a riot against 'non-humans' broke out in Rivia the next day. Geralt was stabbed by a pitchfork during the chaos and died at the hands of the mob. Yennefer, who arrived shortly after, died from exhaustion while trying to heal him.

"Ciri, Merigold, and Dandelion witnessed their deaths at the scene.

"Afterward, Ciri took their bodies onto a small boat and disappeared into Lake Eskalott, following a unicorn that had suddenly appeared."

After Lambert finished speaking with grave seriousness, the hall fell silent. Then, Eskel let out a roar of laughter, filling the hall with a lively air.

"Hah! The story you've cooked up lacks realism! Yennefer dying of exhaustion—I won't even touch on the sorceress part. But for Geralt, with his swordsmanship, to be stabbed to death by a mob with a pitchfork? Heh, that's quite humorous. I'll bet fifty Crowns that Geralt would have slashed at least two throats before getting hit—one on the left, one on the right."

"Hey! I didn't make this up, and I don't want to believe it happened either," Lambert retorted.

"Especially the ending with the unicorn and the boat on the lake; it's full of the pretentious style of a third-rate bard," Vic added calmly from the side.

"Damn it! Next time I see him, I'll pass that comment along to Dandelion," Lambert replied irritably, then downed a gulp of beer.

...The lively air suddenly went quiet. Eskel set down the mug he had been about to press to his lips.

"So... this is something Dandelion experienced firsthand and told you?" Vesemir asked.

Lambert tilted his head back and downed another mouthful of beer, then slammed the mug onto the table. "Yes. When I met Dandelion in Vengerberg, he said he never wanted to set foot in Rivia again because the mob there made his friend bleed."

The only sound left in the air was the crackling of wood in the fireplace.

After a moment, Eskel sighed. "...That is... truly unbelievable."

"Would any kind soul care to introduce me to this Dandelion?" Vic was asking a question he already knew the answer to. Of course, he remembered Dandelion: Geralt's best friend, the famous man who couldn't keep his pants on. Almost none of his side quests in the game were serious, and unserious quests were especially easy to remember.

"Geralt's good friend. A very famous bard, composer, singer, and writer. He's written many poems featuring the White Wolf as the protagonist. They're sung in taverns everywhere. If he's the one who said it, then it must be true," Vesemir said in a low voice.

He then seemed to think of something. "About Ciri..."

Vic interrupted softly, "It's okay, Vesemir. I'm fine. I believe Ciri will be back soon."

Lambert jumped onto the table, raised his mug, and shouted, "Few witchers get to die peacefully in their beds. It's a pity the legendary White Wolf is no exception. Let's have a drink for him. May he rest in peace!"

They all raised their mugs. "May he rest in peace!"

Late at night... After closing his door, Vic sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, lost in thought. His right hand mechanically stirred the cauldron, which contained the Vitality Decoction for the next morning.

He had his own interpretation of Lambert's news. Ciri winning the battle at Stygga Castle and disappearing again likely meant she had teleported away once more. And Geralt and Yennefer certainly weren't dead—at least not completely. He hadn't played hundreds of hours of The Witcher 3 for nothing; the game mentioned this death of the White Wolf from a side perspective.

It was a pity he hadn't read the books or played The Witcher 1 & 2. He felt like a man peering through a tube at a leopard; he knew fragments of the future, but the reasons behind them remained obscured by mist. Even if he wanted to use his foresight to gain an advantage, he didn't know where to start.

Regardless, in the near future—though he didn't know exactly when—he would eventually have to face the Aen Elle, the "Wild Hunt" recorded in the books. They weren't just the enemies hunting Ciri; they were the root cause of his trans-dimensional arrival and the obstacle to his peaceful sleep.

A flash of iridescent light vanished. He picked up a ladle and scooped the blue liquid into a test tube. He no longer needed to hide the Vitality Decoction; as he improved the process, he could use traditional alchemy to create a finished product that looked very similar to the "incredible" version. He deliberately left harmless impurities in the "incredible" one, making the two versions look identical. The only real difference was in the drinking.

His thoughts shifted to when he had retrieved the unused bear traps. He had seen those faint footprints. Clearly, while he was busy fighting the bear, a pair of eyes had been watching over him in silence, only leaving once the battle was decided. This made him feel both good and very bad.

Being watched wasn't the problem; the problem was that he hadn't detected the person's presence at all. That was terrible. If it hadn't been a friend, but an enemy, it meant he could have been easily ambushed. It seemed he needed a strategy to compensate for his lack of perception.

Goal: Leave Kaer Morhen next spring...