By the time Witt returned to the herbalist's hut, Geralt was already waiting there, soaked through from diving underwater to look for buckthorn.
Old Graz had also finished preparing the fake sheep for the trap and had used some magic to make it look more realistic.
The reason he had not used magic to conjure up bait directly was that magic that created objects out of thin air was actually only a kind of illusion, not something real. The more capable the caster, the more realistic the object would appear.
"Why did you come back alone? Where's Lowell?" Geralt asked.
Witt told Geralt and Old Graz what he had seen in the village and about his confrontation with Lowell, then handed Old Graz the dagger Lowell had left behind.
Looking at the ordinary little meat knife, Old Graz sighed.
"I gave him this more than ten years ago, when I taught him how to dissect monsters. I never thought it would end up back in my hands. When I arranged for him to come here, I wanted to keep him away from magic. I never imagined..."
Geralt sighed. "Graz, some people just can't see reason about certain things."
"Let's get ready to deal with the griffin." Old Graz did not want to discuss it further.
"Did you find anything in the village?" Geralt asked Witt.
"I found a griffin feather at the village chief's place. It was dark brown all over, hard yet flexible, with a tip shaped like a knife point," Witt described.
"An adult male griffin. That's trouble. We might lure in two griffins," Geralt concluded.
"Yes, that's what I think too."
"I'll report all of this to Headmaster Dorregaray. We'll leave it to him," Old Graz said regretfully.
"Dorregaray? Dorregaray of Vole?" Geralt asked curiously upon hearing the name.
"Yes, that's right. The mage Dorregaray. Why? Are you old acquaintances too?"
Geralt rubbed his chin as he recalled, "We met years ago, during the golden dragon incident near Kaer Gyn. He's another old mage who advocates balance in all things."
"He's the headmaster of Ban Ard Academy of Magic now. We're very close. Thanks to Witt discovering this early, it shouldn't have too much of an impact."
Witt nodded. "Now that we've more or less dealt with the underlying danger, let's start luring the griffin out and kill it."
"Don't rush, Witt. Everything is ready. Next comes the most important stage of the hunt."
"What stage?"
"Waiting."
East of White Mist Village lay fields near the Blue Mountains. Winter had only just passed, and the ground was covered in dry, rotting stalks. These fields, where crops had yet to be planted, were the best place to trap a griffin.
Carrying the fake sheep that gave off an intense, rank stench, Witt chose a field far from White Mist Village and set the trap there. He also stuffed a gift Geralt had carefully prepared into the wooden sheep.
After setting the trap, Witt slipped into a concealed patch of brush, where Old Graz and Geralt were crouching, waiting for him.
Old Graz had not originally needed to come, but in case two griffins really did appear, he had decided to lend a hand.
"Thanks for your hard work, Witt." Geralt struggled to hold back his laughter. Having picked the buckthorn himself, he knew its lingering stench all too well.
"The villagers won't come here, will they?" Old Graz glanced at the village, where fires still glowed.
"No. I already notified the village chief. No one will dare come here to die."
"Then let's wait."
Geralt and Witt half crouched on the ground, using the witchers' special meditation method to adjust their condition, while Old Graz watched them from the side.
As the sun set, the sky gradually darkened. The moon rose, spilling silver light over the fields to mingle with the starlight.
Wisps of cooking smoke rose from White Mist Village. The fields grew quiet in the night, broken only by the occasional strange cry from the distant forest.
Then the dark clouds veiling the moonlight scattered, the stars lost their color, and darkness plunged from the mountaintop.
Whoosh!
A fierce wind howled as a shadow swooped down from above the mountain forest, shattering all the silence. The witchers opened their eyes.
"It's here!" Old Graz's startled cry drew two cold stares. He hurriedly covered his mouth and gave a slightly apologetic smile.
"Only one?"
Geralt and Witt exchanged a glance. Neither lowered his guard because there were fewer enemies. They still downed the potions they had prepared in advance.
The seasoned Geralt chose the strength-enhancing Thunderbolt Potion, while Witt took Petri's Philter to make full use of his talent for Signs.
Watching Witt drink Petri's Philter, Geralt gave his left arm a firm squeeze while glancing back at Old Graz.
Witt nodded, understanding what Geralt meant.
During their silent exchange, the griffin, with a wingspan of about four meters, had already drawn close.
"That intense, rank stench of buckthorn really does have a fatal attraction for griffins."
The griffin swooped low over the flat ground, its gaze fixed firmly on its prey, the fake sheep. It never noticed two figures using the darkness and haystacks as cover to creep into a pit prepared nearby.
"Kraaah!!!"
A deafening roar tore through the quiet wilderness. The griffin beat its wings, raised its forequarters, and thrust out its sharp talons to seize the fake sheep.
The sheep remaining motionless did not puzzle the monster, which held every advantage, because almost no prey could move a muscle under its intimidation.
By the time it realized that beneath its talons lay not soft prey but nothing at all, it was already too late.
The unknown sent a tremor of fear through the male griffin's undeveloped mind. The dark brown mane on its neck stood on end, and it roared as it tried to fly away.
At that moment, as the griffin prepared to beat its wings and take flight, Witt and Geralt sprang out of the pit together.
Witt struck first. A wave of telekinetic force surged from his palm-the Aard Sign.
The invisible telekinetic impact upset the griffin's balance as it flapped its wings, sending it crashing from midair to the ground with an agonized whimper.
"Well done, Witt!" Geralt said, his hands never stopping. He cast a Sign as well, but what emerged was a huge fireball.
The fireball unleashed by the Igni Sign struck the fallen griffin and the fake sheep carefully prepared for it with perfect accuracy.
Flames instantly engulfed them both, and the gift blossomed brilliantly for it as well.
Boom!
The Enhanced Dancing Star Bomb hidden inside the fake sheep blasted a deep crater into the ground. Thick smoke enveloped the griffin and both witchers.
Stammelford's dust spread through the smoke. This magical powder, added to the Enhanced Dancing Star Bomb, disrupted the turbulent magic in the air, creating countless tiny magical vortices within its area of coverage.
This specially made magical powder was a powerful weapon against magical creatures and flying creatures alike.
The Enhanced Dancing Star Bomb had been prepared to deal with two griffins at once. Instead, the clever plan had backfired, leaving both witchers hamstrung.
Within the smoke covering dozens of meters, Witt cautiously felt his way toward the griffin. The dense smoke and magical vortices interfered with his vision and magical senses. Even though he sensed the griffin's life fading, he still chose to proceed cautiously.
Geralt was just as careful. With his wealth of monster-hunting experience, he knew never to underestimate the desperate final strike of a monster in its prime.
Riiip!
A sweeping blow carrying a fierce gust parted the smoke and came straight at Witt. The sudden attack left him no time to block.
But a golden radiance flashed, and the Quen Sign once again saved the somewhat rash young witcher. Cold sweat soaked his back.
Witt dared not hesitate. He hurriedly leaned backward, falling to the ground to dodge the second wind-lashed sweep.
As the enormous wing swept past his eyes, all that remained in Witt's mind was the lingering fear of his narrow escape.
"Damn it!" Having nearly fallen for it, he felt a fierce rage ignite within him.
Before the potion's effects wore off, Witt cast the Aard Sign again. This time, the smoke blocked Old Graz's view, and he could finally unleash himself without restraint.
Beneath Witt's gauntlet, the flame rune flickered with an unseen light, drawing the surrounding elemental fire into his palm and lending a scorching breath to this telekinetic blast.
This mental impact, filled with boundless rage, seemed to scorch Witt's consciousness as well, sending his mind reeling between blankness and searing pain. The painful torment only intensified his fury.
A gale swept across the fields, igniting the stalks on the ground and the cloud of Stammelford's dust, revealing before them the griffin, which had lost one sharp talon to the explosion.
Geralt knew this was no time to worry about Witt. The monster's heart still beat, and his silver sword had yet to drink its fill of beast blood.
Thunderbolt roared within him. The white-haired witcher's charge stirred another powerful storm that swept across the ground.
Yet even with both feet blasted apart, the beast had not abandoned hope of survival. Something seemed to be keeping it alive. It beat its wings with all its strength and rose unsteadily from the ground.
Geralt's powerful strike only managed to sever its remaining talon. Regaining its balance, the griffin flew away from the fields, leaving what had been its hunting ground behind and heading toward the forest.