Prologue

On the Road to Vizima, Temeria, 1272

A crystal skull, the remnants of some magical spell, lay nestled in the dirt. It was the size of a human palm, and there were clear grooves in the shape of eye sockets, nostrils, and a sharp beak- a bird's skull. Its surface, though rough, was black as obsidian.

A steady wind blew through the blades of grass surrounding the skull, rustling the leaves of a nearby oak tree standing atop a small hill. At its base, two horses whinnied softly as they rested by a crackling fire.

Amongst the roots of the tree, two men lay fast asleep. One slept upright, his grey ponytail fluttering in the wind. The other lay on his side. His long hair, as white as the moon, was tied loosely behind his head. Many scars ran across his handsome face, the most noticeable running above his left eye and across his left cheek, almost joining into one long line. His chest rose in a steady rhythm, every breath causing the silver wolf medallion resting on his chest to jingle slightly.

The wind continued to blow through the camp. The horses snorted again, whipping their tails back and forth. Neither men stirred, their minds in a faraway place.

III

Kaer Morhen, Witcher Keep, Banks of the Gwennlech

In the top floor of a tower in Kaer Morhen, a fireplace projected a comfortable warmth around the room, the light dancing around the stone columns surrounding the fire pit. The sunlight from the open window stretched into the room, landing on the tub. In it sat the witcher Geralt of Rivia- known to most as The White Wolf, The Butcher of Blaviken, or Gwynbleidd in the Elder Speech- who propped his foot up before rubbing the bottom with his other foot.

Satisfied, Geralt languidly leaned his head back, his arms resting on the edges of the tub. Taking in the warmth of the sun shining on his head, the witcher closed his eyes and took a deep breath, enjoying the pleasant feeling of the steam filling his lungs, before releasing it again with a contented sigh. Ahhh…

For the first time since he could remember, Geralt felt relaxed. He was not sleeping in the dirt or ankle deep in some forgotten bog. There were no monsters in some backwater land that would be better left to whatever foul bit of nature that lived in such places. He was not worried about having enough coin in his purse, nor on constant high alert for attacks from monsters or bandits. He took another deep breath.

On the opposite side of the tub a lobster, red with tinges of yellow, hooked a sharp claw around the edge.

Geralt's heightened witcher senses, which gave him the enhanced sight, hearing, smell, touch, and perception needed to track down anything he wanted to, dulled as he began to drift off. I could stay like this all day.

The lobster pulled itself over the tub and slipped into the water in between Geralt's propped up legs.

Yes, submerged in a bath, Geralt could stay in this position all day and forget about the world. The only thing that could make this situation better would be if-

Geralt shot up and bit back a yelp. Something sharp had poked his nether regions! Clenching his hands a few times to calm down and bite back the first few things that came to mind, he opened his eyes and turned toward the only other person in the room.

"You know I don't find that amusing," he chided, with his deep, vibrating voice. He plucked the lobster out of the water and gave it a baleful glare, before lobbing it onto the floor. As soon as it hit the floor, it disappeared in a puff of smoke and light.

The source of the interrupting lobster was lying on her side on a reclining chair, with her legs crossed and held up by a stool. In her hands was an open book, though he hardly noticed, for the only article of clothing she wore was the towel on her head, and his eyes were drawn to the curves of her familiar cream colored skin, from her thin shoulders to her long legs, before landing squarely on her derriere.

Yennefer of Vengerberg turned her toweled head slightly in Geralt's direction. "It wasn't meant to amuse, but to prod you to hurry," she returned, her voice smooth as fine wine, "It's midday already."

Geralt blinked back to attention. Once her words registered, he let out an exasperated groan and sank further into the tub.

"You promised Ciri you'd train with her," she reminded, "Go, before Vesemir bores her to death with those etchings."

Heaving a great sigh, Geralt regretfully rose out of the tub and wrapped a towel around his waist. Criss-crossing all over his muscled body was a large collection of scars gained through years of monster hunts and other conflicts.

He walked over to the small dining table, where his trousers were slung over the back of a chair. While pulling them on, he took a look at the food spread. "You're running out of juice," he noted.

"I know," Yennefer replied, still reading her book, "You might bring me some more once you're done training."

Geralt chuckled lightly. Trust Yen to see it that way.

Walking over to the dresser, he took out a shirt and began pulling it on. Hearing Yennefer shut her book and rise to walk over to her bedside table, Geralt chanced a look behind him. He caught her just as she undid her head towel, which allowed her soft, raven locks to escape and tumble past her shoulders. She shook her head from side to side before looking over her shoulder, an enigmatic smile gracing her lips.

Smiling to himself, Geralt turned around and continued putting on his shirt, then grabbed his wolf medallion. As he slipped the chain around his neck, he smelled a familiar, pleasant scent, at once tart and sweet. Peering more closely at the dresser top, he spotted a familiar turquoise blue bottle- Yennefer's perfume bottle. Leaning in, he squeezed the top and took a longer whiff.

"Lilacs and gooseberries, of course," he said to himself. It's always been her favorite scent, it smells just like her.

Yennefer, well familiar with his habit of voicing thoughts out loud, had picked up his words. "Geralt, stop fingering my toiletries."

Unashamed, he casually backed away from the dresser. A distant high pitched grunt reached his ears from outside. Walking out onto the balcony to investigate, his senses were immediately caught by the day that greeted him. Sunlight blanketed the forested valley stretched out in front of him, with winding dirt paths and shining rivers cutting small trails through the dark-green trees. Shit- mountain pass is beautiful as ever.

Focusing his ears once more, Geralt looked down and saw the source of the grunts. There's Ciri on the pendulum- but no Vesemir. Interesting.

Geralt walked back inside and went over to Yennefer, who stood in front of her mirror and clasped her diamond-encrusted obsidian star pendant on the velvet choker around her neck.

He looked at over at her outfit for the day, which was laid out on the bed. "Got any clothes that aren't black and white?"

"Mhm. Undergarments."

Glancing at the set of black, paisley panties and bra she was wearing, Geralt somehow doubted her. He stopped just behind her and lightly placed his hands on her waist. Giving her cheek a kiss and resting his chin over her shoulder, he glanced at the mirror and caught her bright violet eyes with his own cat-like yellow. "You see, I thought Ciri could stand to wait a little longer," he teased.

She rolled her eyes. "It's uninstructive," she said, "Not to mention unreasonable."

"I don't want to be reasonable."

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Aha! So that's the way the wind blows…"

She sat down in front of the mirror and pulled out a hairbrush. "Go and train with her. Then come back. It'll give me a chance to put my face on."

Leaning against the table, Geralt remarked, "Of all the women I've known, you're the only one who does that before…"

She turned to face him again, an eyebrow arched as if she had just remembered someone she needed to give a thrashing to. "You've known many?"

Geralt, realizing his blunder, smiled innocently. "What's it matter? Only ever thought of you…"

Yennefer smiled indulgently, and turned back to her mirror.

Accepting that it could have been worse, Geralt looked around for a change of subject. He glanced at her jewelry box. "Hmm...nothing but silver."

Another raised eyebrow. "Gold clashes with my complexion. You should know that, witcher."

"Right."

"Isn't there something you should be doing?"

Acknowledging her point, Geralt stood from the dresser. Trying one last time, he turned toward Yennefer. "So...later then?"

She only tilted her head slightly, "Mhm, see you later," she said imperiously.

Shrugging internally, Geralt took a step toward the door when Yennefer reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him down to her lips and giving him a hard, but tender kiss. Before he could truly reciprocate, she pushed him away and went back to brushing her hair, not giving him a second look.

Still surprised but also pleased, Geralt slowly backed up, his feet taking him toward the door. His eyes were reluctant to leave her form, a fond smile on his face. Finally rousing the mental power to leave the room, he turned toward his desk and grabbed the key to the lower level.

Rounding the final corner into the lower level, Geralt took in the sight before him with amusement.

His old friend and mentor Vesemir, the oldest witcher of the Wolf School, slayer of innumerable monsters and trainer of countless young witchers over the course of a long life, as well as one of the best warriors Geralt had ever known, was snoring in his chair. At his outstretched feet, a dozens of books were scattered around- some stacked, some strewn about, one even left open on the wolf pelt rug. A half-eaten apple, and a doodle of a ghoul on a piece of scrap paper completed the image of a lesson cut short. Old witcher's fast asleep...Ciri took her chance to escape, of course.

Geralt walked past Vesemir's still slumbering form and out onto the balcony. Looking down into the courtyard, he spotted his ward still moving back and forth on the pendulum.

"Guess she prefers practice to theory…"

"Hm?...What?"

Geralt turned to back to Vesemir. "Time to wake up, master," he said dryly, "These lessons so boring they put you to sleep too?"

Vesemir sat up. "Dammit… Had her taking notes on 'Ghouls and Alghouls'," He rubbed the side of his head, "Wanted to rest my eyes a bit."

"Huh. Making her slog through that brick? No wonder she took off."

"John of Brugge lacks flair, true, but he's reliable. Not like the hogwash they print nowadays."

Vesemir stood from his chair and joined Geralt at the balcony. "She's tackling the pendulums, right?" he asked rhetorically, clearly hearing the same grunts as his fellow witcher. He looked down at Ciri and sighed. "How many times do I have to tell her? Don't train alone, it only embeds your errors!"

He turned toward Geralt. "Bring our young damsel to the lower courtyard. She wants to practice? She'll get to practice!"

"Don't get mad at her," Geralt rebuked lightly.

"Why the hell not? The whippersnapper refuses to do as she's told."

"You like that about her."

"Hmph, fine. I suppose I'm partly to blame. But this has to end. Now." Vesemir furrowed his brow. "Killing monsters is not something to be taken lightly. Ciri must understand that if she's to become one of us. Now go. I'll meet you below."

Nodding, Geralt pushed off of the balcony and headed for the stairs.

III

Geralt walked up the wood steps leading to the fortress' outer wall and stopped in front of Ciri, who was still practicing on the pendulum.

Comprised of a row of vertical, narrow wooden posts and a support structure holding the pendulum itself as it swung back in forth perpendicular to the line of posts, the training device tested every aspect of a witcher's skill set.

Their swordsmanship. Ciri swung her wooden sword in the practiced motions of a witcher- quick, slashing strikes against one side of the pendulum before pivoting around to strike the other side, and then back again, finishing in a deep crouch to lend both power to the sword strike and transition into the next dodge.

Their acrobatics. Simulating a backwards dodge, she pirouetted twice on top of the posts.

"Wrong," Geralt instructed.

Their balance. Ciri had swung around too hard on the second pirouette and her feet had landed on the edges of the posts. Geralt had seen the miscue halfway through the first pirouette. She wobbled on the edge as she tried to regain her balance.

Geralt did not let up. "Now I see why you were so eager to practice. Strike."

Jumping back into a rhythm, Ciri twirled her sword around her body before executing a few more strikes, then finishing the combination with another spin toward the pendulum.

Their timing. She had struck the swinging log as it moved in the opposite direction of her strike. The force of the hit instantly numbed her hand, causing her to drop her sword. Sticking a foot out, she caught the sword and flipped it up, catching it behind her back and turning into another move in one smooth motion.

Geralt facepalmed. "You're not in the circus. Pirouette."

A few more strikes. "Wrong. Footwork."

A couple more dodges. "Enough," Geralt said, crossing his arms. "Get down."

Ciri turned toward him. "With a flip?"

"What do you think?"

Executing a perfect back flip, she landed and faced Geralt.

"All right, take off the blindfold."

Their instincts. For a witcher, their movements had to be second nature to them in order to maintain the speed, strength, and precision necessary to slay any monster that came their way. In the heat of battle, there could no second guessing- they had to stay calm and composed. That's what training with a blindfold reinforced.

Pulling off her blindfold revealed Ciri's olive green eyes, which she blinked a few times. Though only a young child, her hair was ashen grey, just a few shades darker than Geralt's own white. Splotches of freckles dusted her nose and cheeks.

"You've got work to do. Your reflexes are still slow."

"Maybe for a witcher," she replied defensively.

"Think drowners or strigas will go easy on you because you haven't undergone the mutations?" he asked rhetorically.

Though fully knowing the answer, Ciri seemed to give it a moment of thought before puffing her chest out and placing her hands on her hips. She gave Geralt an exaggerated nod, a faux look of deep contemplation on her face.

"Though in your shoes I'd fear Vesemir more than any striga. Disobeying his instructions... unwise," Geralt continued seriously.

As soon as Ciri heard Vesemir's name she deflated and looked down, acknowledging her misdeed. "Well, yes, but...that book was horribly dull!" she tried.

"I know," Geralt said, crouching down to look her in the eyes, "And you know that's no excuse."

"Ugh. I'm sorry. It won't happen again," Ciri acceded, mock sufferingly.

Geralt nodded, satisfied. "Better not. Vesemir said if it does, he'll make you eat a bowl of slugs," he said, smirking, "Covered in salt."

"Ewww!" Ciri laughed, shaking her head.

Geralt chuckled. "Exactly. So you'd best behave." He nodded his head to his right. "Come on, we'll practice with the others down below."

Ciri turned her attention toward the lower courtyard. "Shall we run the walls?" she asked excitedly.

"Of course. This a witcher's school or an elven bath house?" Geralt asked, grinning challengingly.

Her only response was to sprint off toward the first ladder. "Beat you to the bottom!"

"Hah, only if you fall!" Geralt yelled back, rushing after her a moment later.

With only the one ladder to take them to the top, Ciri was able to dash up a few platforms by the time Geralt climbed it.

"Run into trouble?" Ciri yelled over her shoulder, "Should I turn back and help you?!"

"What did I tell you about breathing?" Geralt shouted back, "Through your mouth, in rhythm with your steps."

Ciri's next few breaths were loud and huffy, coming out more as small shouts.

"Ciri. Cut it out."

She ran down a few steps and clambered over the edge of a platform, Geralt gaining quickly.

They reached a gap between the platforms. Ciri tore across the thin gangplank. Geralt simply leapt over the gap, rushing ahead of Ciri.

"Hey! You said we couldn't do that," Ciri protested.

"I said you couldn't do that," Geralt said cheekily.

Jumping down the last couple of platforms, Geralt swung his legs over the final ladder and slid down. Taking a moment to dust off his trousers, he began slowly walking toward the lower courtyard. He heard Ciri's lighter feet step off the ladder and run over to join him.

"I win."

"Your legs are longer!" Ciri complained, huffing in some air. "I'll show you yet- just need to grow a bit!"

"That's no excuse."

Ciri blew a raspberry at Geralt and jumped down from the last platform leading to the courtyard, where Vesemir waited, silently sharpening his blade with a whetstone. "Oh no...Vesemir's got that look."

"What did you expect?"

The two of them approached Vesemir, one relaxed, the other apprehensive. Ciri looked up at Geralt, silently pleading for some help. Geralt gently nodded toward his old instructor, silently telling her to get it over with. Ciri stepped forward with a sigh.

Off to the side sat their fellow witchers, Eskel and Lambert, who watched Ciri with expressions of equal parts pity and amusement. Ciri smiled weakly at them before turning to Vesemir, who walked up to her, hands on his hips.

"Anything to say for yourself, young lady?" Vesemir asked expectantly.

Ciri stared off to the right before rousing the courage to look up to him. "I'm very sorry, Uncle Vesemir," she said contritely.

"Young blood craves action, I understand," Vesemir chastised, "But when you fight a beast, knowledge counts as much as your silver sword. At the very least, you ought to be able to tell a ghoul from an alghoul-"

"'-by markings, like unto the panthera tigris that in Zerrakania dwells, and by the sickly paleness of its visage'," Ciri quoted confidently.

Geralt, impressed, was amused to see Vesemir's face slacken, his lecture stopped in its tracks by Ciri's unexpected knowledge.

Vesemir recovered quickly. "Hmm. So you did read the chapter. Still, you should've asked if…"

Ciri cocked her head to the side. "But you were asleep, Uncle Vesemir," she sweetly pointed out.

Geralt decided to step in. "Don't try to weasel your way out of this," he rebuked lightly.

"'A witcher must always know how to trick his opponent.' You said so yourself," she reasoned.

"Might've," Geralt calmly admitted, ignoring Eskel and Lambert making faces over her shoulder, "But don't use my words of wisdom on Vesemir, got it? That's playing with fire."

"Fine, we've talked enough," Vesemir soothed. "Geralt, you're with me. Lambert with Eskel. Ciri with the dummy."

"Huh...again!?" Ciri protested.

"Stop groaning and grab a sword!" Vesemir commanded.

Pouting, Ciri dragged her feet over to the training dummy in the corner while Eskel and Lambert stood and pulled out their swords. Vesemir turned toward Geralt. "Shall we review the fundamentals?"

Geralt nodded. "Should hone the basics. Even skilled masters need to hone the fundamentals... and Ciri's barely a novice."

They reviewed the basic styles of attack for Ciri: Addan Anye, fast and light attacks; and Temerian Devil, slow and heavier attacks. Following a demonstration on proper dodging and rolling, Geralt and Vesemir showcased the correct angles for parrying.

"What am I supposed to parry?" Ciri yelled, "All I'm fighting is a stupid dummy!"

"Pretend now, live later!" Vesemir barked.

Counter-attacking drew similarly sarcastic remarks from Ciri.

Vesemir and Geralt followed with the five witcher signs: Quen, a protective energy shield; Igni, a blast of fire; Aard, a telekinetic blast; Axii, the hypnosis sign; and Yrden, a magical trap. All used in their off hand, signs were simple spells which aided witchers in and out of combat.

After a few rounds of sparring the two witchers sheathed their swords. Ciri struck the dummy twice, the second swing clubbing the helmet clean off and over the wall. "Hah!" she crooned. Seizing a chance to have some fun, Ciri dropped her sword and began climbing after the wayward headgear.

"Woah, you really showed him, kid!" Lambert cracked.

Ciri reached the top of the wall. "Ciri, get down here," Geralt shouted out.

"Huh, the little she-devil," Vesemir grinned conspiratorially, "Soon as she's back, we'll set her to polishing all of the swords of Kaer Morhen."

With a grin of his own, Geralt walked over to the spot Ciri disappeared to. "Find that helmet yet?" he called. He received no response.

Confused, Geralt tried again. "Ciri?!" Yet again, there was no answer.

Growling in annoyance, Geralt vowed to find every sword in Kaer Morhen. He shook his head, before freezing, picking up an all too familiar smell. Blood. Human blood.

Turning to locate the source, Geralt zoned in on the practice dummy. Warily, he approached it and observed it. Immediately, he noticed the entire front of the headpiece was soaked a dark red. What the…

Geralt turned sharply toward Eskel and Lambert, who stood chatting only a few paces away. They should have noticed this too. And yet, they continued speaking to each other, showing no indication anything was wrong.

Whipping back toward the dummy, Geralt glanced at the insides exposed by the tear in the cloth. That's... skin. Almost paralyzed with disbelief, he slowly reached a hand toward the tear, and pulled.

Geralt stepped back, barely able to comprehend what he was seeing. It was a face- undeniably human- cut up and bloodied, one dull, grey-blue eye staring right back at him.

He turned, a yell for Vesemir on his lips, before all sound died in his throat.

The cold. In an instant, Geralt felt the bite of an unnatural frost, the thick layer of snow falling around him, the cold encasing everyone around him. Eskel. Lambert. Vesemir. Ciri.

Everything had grown dark except for a hole in the sky emitting a pale, sickly light. And pouring out that hole was a huge, ghostly longship, its body made of sharp bony plates so black it seemed to suck the light back into it.

Two warhorses screamed out, the neighs echoing unnaturally. Three huge, humanoid figures stood on the wall, covered in skeletal armor as black as their ship. The one in the middle towered over the other two and wore a grotesque crown for a helmet, the points caved inwards like a grasping claw. He turned around, the front of his helmet nothing more than a skull- two gaping holes for eyes staring down at Geralt.

"I've long awaited this, and you, White Wolf", the figure intoned, his voice guttural, malevolent.

One of the warriors stepped up to Ciri's frozen form and lifted his sword. Geralt stood there, unable to do anything but watch, as the warrior swung his sword down.

"NOOOOOOO!"

His vision faded to black, Ciri's screams echoing in his head.

III

A/N: And we're off! This story will be a novelization of the events of The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt. For my own sake, and I hope to your enjoyment, this novelization will examine the deeper thought process that my version of Geralt would have gone through as TW3 plays out, and shake things up here and there. This story and its characters are inspired by the gameverse and bookverse, and any slight differences from what you experienced yourself are mine alone.

While I understand that the books and games cannot be considered completely separate entities, CDProjektRed was marvelously successful at straddling the line between honoring its influences while crafting an alternative and personal path for Geralt and The Witcher universe that anyone could leap into and enjoy, fans both old and new. As such, Geralt will be a bit more like the Geralt I role-played throughout the game and at times, the Geralt I wish we could have been in select circumstances. Thank you for reading, and I'll see you soon!

-HyperS