"The pendulum of the mind oscillates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong."

― C.G. Jung

Novigrad / Mid Morning / Geralt of Rivia

"Gather 'round the stage, don't be shy. What I have 'ere today will make ye cry with joy! A potion! Ey, but not just any ill tasting concoction. I can guarantee ye, that this. This here tiny bottle is made from real, genuine magic. Made by a sorcerer himself, just before the hunters nicked him away. Twas' a wondrous prize. I can bet me own son that this here potion can give you the strength of an ox! A bloody ox, I say! And it cost naught more than a pint at the tavern! Now, who'd like a bottle?"

Silence, before a withered and putrid smelling drunk stepped up to the stall, digging inside a vest pocket with shaking fingers. With a hopeful gaze, he offered his hands weakly, before the man plucked the payment like a hungry vulture, replacing the weight with a small vial no more the size of a finger. Soon, a small crowd followed, waving filthy hands filled with coin as the jovial merchant provided them with his miracle of nature. Only one man did not join the fray. Catlike eyes lingered on the vial of crimson, weary and unwelcoming as they assessed it's precedence. A burly man, portly in both size and self-esteem, holding his sausage-like fingers around the nimble glass frame as he presented his prize. Other citizens about the market stopped to stare, none of which seemed impressed nor inspired by his speech. Still, a small crowd was enough. He'd eat well today.

Geralt did not stop to partake, nor did he attempt to stop the ludicrous display ahead. He'd grown accustomed to the deception and dishonesty of the citizens, as it seemed to plague the city at every hour. Even the men who adorned the symbol of religious fire were, indeed, corrupt down to their hearts, and stood idly as criminals partook in pillaging the city day in and day out. At one time, he might have stepped in to assist the situation, in a blinded need to bring moral justice. Now, staring into the eyes of a thousand profiteers, he realized the mistake. Change was inevitable, at least in this city. But it mattered not, for the only thing strong enough to purge the land an even higher form of sin. Soon, the man would become an example of the Eternal Fire's disdain for the dark arts, his body burned at the stake as proof.

But the local ramblings of both merchants and the Church was hardly the main concern of his evening. Hidden beneath the bridge linking Novigrad waited a package, delicately wrapped in red ribbon and a small sliver of parchment. No one seemed to know where it waited, nor did they seem concerned on the hooded Witcher venturing underneath it. And without another glance at the gullible crowd behind him, he dropped off the stone edge and into the mud below.

The current contract held a discretion unknown to most of his work. Business must be conducted under prying eyes. Never in person, and never in true words. The letter he had received by a paid courier made it astutely clear to follow this rule. The demand alone was enough to raise flags against the job. The other, more alarming piece of the puzzle was the outrageous cost; eight hundred crowns in order to recover a package, then slay a beast. It was a form of bribery and far more than enough to deter any monster hunter from investigating further, Witcher or not. It was hardly uncommon to be cheated or robbed in the business, and Novigrad had it's reputation to concur with the fact. Still, there was a promise under the pay. Something that, according to the anonymous writer, would interest only Geralt of Rivia alone.

And so he stood, knee deep in mud and manure, and trying not to take a whiff with his abnormally strong sense of smell. Tucked safely inside a floating crate rested the package, to which he picked up with a weary gentleness before running a hand down the smooth, rectangular surface. When nothing cuffed the edges, Geralt shifted the package into his arm, while the other hand reached into his pocket to pull a Xenovox to his chest.

"Ciri, I have it."

"Geralt!" A familiar and chipper voice echoed through the small box, still illuminating with whatever anomalous magic was veiled within, "What took so long? I'm still ducked behind an alley, in the Bits. Does it look odd?"

"No," he lightly shuffled the package in his hands, rubbing his thumb against the string, "doesn't feel very heavy. Don't see a note either. Must be inside it."

There was a silence on the other end. Before Ciri spoke up with a doubtful tone, "you don't think it's got some sort of trick to it?"

"My medallion didn't react, so doubtful. Seems he's just scared." But Gerlat gave the box a firm shake before speaking again, "Not sure what to expect though. Just make sure no one comes near the bridge when I open it."

There was a slight noise of confirmation before the light from within the Xenovox wisped away and Ciri disappeared from the other end, leaving Geralt to study the package yet again. Placing the device away and taking the hunting knife from his belt, he slowly strained the edges of ribbon from below, until there was a sharp snap and the remains fell away into a red pile of strands. The parchment didn't fold away completely, prompting the Witcher to peel back a loose edge with his thumb, until all that remained was a mahogany wood box. On the top, burned into the polished surface, was an intricate carving of a Griffin in mid-flight, complete with talons painted red.

He opened the lid with dismay, but the inner chamber was empty. Lined in velvet felt, the only object within was a delicately folded letter with a crudely created wax seal. There was a name written on the front; heavy-handed but still delicately written. Geralt of Rivia - Witcher.

Opening the cuff, the script read:

I apologize for the inconvenience of letters and parchment, but it's impartible that these meetings remain anonymous. I have many enemies and few friends, both of whom would bound to the opportunity to sever my ties to Novigrad. Were they to find out my situation, I fear I would be exploited and robbed of my glory. And so I continue to write to you with patient gratitude and pray you find your sum to be enough to continue.

The monster you seek lies within a manor past the village of Frischlow. I know not its name, however, I concur with the owner that it is more than a ghoul or drowner. Ronaldo has insisted to stay within his home, for fear that bandits will pick it clean if he draws too far away. He claims to have very expensive tastes in garden decor. He fears it attracts attention.

When you arrive, speak to Ronaldo and collect your crowns. He will direct you towards the monster after you have spoken. He is a trusted friend and a better ally. I ask that you take his word, however strange it may be.

There was a slight smudge at the end, as though there was more to say. But the letter ended abruptly, and Geralt was left staring at his prize with disgust. Would have been more useful if the coin rested inside and not in someone else's hands.

He palmed the box once again, tucking the letter within his things to glance at the surface once again. There was a peculiarity in its beauty; detailed and perfected with each stroke, and yet still course and unfinished. The Griffin had some form of representation. Just one unknown to Geralt at the time. Perhaps it was the beast haunting the manor.

"Ciri."

The Xenovox glowed again, "Well? Don't keep me waiting-"

Geralt spoke quickly, "I wouldn't wanna keep your hopes up. It's a box with another note."

There was a long moan from the other end. Eventually, Ciri piqued up. "And the note?"

"A location to meet a friend. The contract is apparently there. But not the contractor."

"Got it. We can meet in between at the crossroads-"

"No. This is a different contract. I need you to go back to Kaer Morhen. The others should be back by now. Eskel has an idea of what's going on already."

There was a silence on the other end. "I'm being sent home now? Like a child?"

Geralt sighed but kept his voice calm. "This isn't about your abilities, Ciri. This is about making sure this isn't a mistake. Eskel thinks we're being targeted specifically."

Another bout of long silence. Geralt spoke again.

"Ciri?"

"I understand. I'll make my way there now. Be careful."

"Yeah. You too."

He stepped away from the bridge, immediately shielding his eyes from the sun. Novigrad hadn't changed during his rendezvous. And neither had the smell. After sloshing out of the water, earning a few coy stares from a noble couple, Geralt strode away from the populated streets and towards the Westward gates. Before stepping past the walls, his eyes lingered on the various alleyways. Through the sight of street performers, lowly peasants, and livestock, he could just barely glimpse a head of ashen hair darting through the crowd and into a corner before disappearing from sight. Moments later, a small burst of emerald green magic dissipated in the air, followed by a soft, but very powerful blast of immeasurable force. But when the crowds dispersed to gather about the anomaly, the alley was empty and void of any life. No one had seen the young woman slip away.

Novigrad / Afternoon / Geralt of Rivia

One would expect a garden to smell of earth and soil; a gentle scent of flowers and ripe fruits with the occasional essence of honey and fresh dew from the evening rain. However, Geralt had to step no further than a foot to smell the pungent odor of decay that wafted from the weeds. Whatever garden that once stood beneath the wicker arches had long since been abandoned. The cobble walkway offered little space to move, vines growing thick upon the stones now wedged under mounds of dirt. They offered little protection from the protruding thorns and bristles that seemed intent to cut the skin, but even after stepping past the front gate and into the flower beds, there was naught a bud in sight. Stalks of grey was all that remained of what he could only assume was a pleasant place to be. And after a brief examination of the many bundles of wilted lilies and shriveled poppies, Geralt found the source of the revolting stench. One freshly butchered Grave Hag, covered in maggots and rotting under the sweltering sun.

He made a slight huff under his breath. "Leaving the body out to decay. Attracts alot of animals."

Leaning down, he lightly prodded the corpse with his knife. But there didn't seem to be any surface injuries. A closer look at the mouth proved him right; blood caked her lips and still guttered from within. Internal injuries. Something blunt.

So maybe Ronaldo was here. He just neglected the garden. Eventually, Geralt stood, leaving the body to finish it's decaying state. Her resting place was just ahead of a marble statue that greeted the Witcher with jaded eyes. A robed woman with a mischievous grin. It had a manner of grace to its unchanging features, to which he approached calmly to examine. Stone locks of curled hair bellowed down from the heart-shaped face and gentle lips, and her hood wrapped longingly around her shoulders and down to her hips, opening to reveal her curvaceous legs. And while the marble was scarred and weathered from a lack of care, it was still clear that every limb was crafted with delicate hands. A very obvious and unorthodox attempt to mimic beauty from memory. There was a familiarity in its appearance. Much like the work of a Dwarven woodcutter from not too long ago… Strangely, it seemed to be the only piece of the home that time had been kind towards. Seems this was what Ronaldo was so fond of. As if bandits could even carry the heaping stone to begin with.

His eyes then drifted towards the manor, where the vines had also wound themselves into every crack, crevice, and cranny possible. The once pristine white stone beneath the branches seemed to be stained by years of neglect, allowing mold and water damage to take hold of the foundation. Shutters of a gentle maroon tone lined the windows, all of which were open and exposed the dark, decrepit rooms within. More cobblestone paved the way to the front doors that were made of shockingly high-quality wood. And on the mahogany handles, carved into the frame, was the peculiar symbol of a woman, with oddly detailed features poking out from the surface.

It, too, looked like the garden of corpse flowers, seeming to break under the burden of forgotten existence. However, the carved woman seemed just as preserved as the statue before him. And just as… interesting. But there was something that didn't quite settle with Geralt.

"Magic…" his voice rang mute in the deserted grasslands, but it mattered little. Turning from the door with a slight shake of his head, he returned to the statue with a measured glare. Quietly, he lifted the Xenovox from his pocket, only to find it's familiar glow vanquished. With his brow furrowed, he thumbed the device in his hand, feeling for any sort of tear or bruise, but the bobble was just as untarnished as before stepping into the garden. His eyes lifted once again to the garden, but he was still alone.

"Defensive. Blocked off from the outside."

The contract seemed to have left out the obvious bits. Magical traps. Or perhaps something very similar. Not uncommon for mages and scholars, albeit Velen rarely harbored the sort of men to do it. Nor did the manor appear to be anything but a perpetually glorified home, and nothing of mystic descent. Still, if so, it could easily be concurred that there was something in the garden keeping forces at bay. But it was difficult to find a source of invisible energy, let alone one purposely hidden within mundane objects. Either way, no contacting Ciri for a while, not at least before finishing the contract. She'd be furious.

Geralt paused for a long moment, before finally approaching the front steps. He hesitated, giving a weary sigh. Then gave it a hard tap with the woman's body against the door. As expected, nothing came of the pleasantries. He then laid a hand against the frame, letting the door creak open with little resistance. The afternoon light filtered through almost immediately, giving a swift view of the inside before the lumination disappeared in moments. However, the quick glance concluded that the foyer was massive in comparison to the manor's proportions. Staircases of mahogany wrapped around the vestibule, leading to a shambled hallway in the center in which paintings lined the walls, both large in stature and in wealth. Mounted in the center of the room was a single, massive statue of yet another seductive woman in drapes. Even in the darkness, her eyes appeared jaded, like the others. Ronaldo certainly had a type...

He paused. Beneath the foyer statue was yet another body, this time of a human. Middle-aged for sure. Tan, robust, with a scraggly beard of brown and grey. His clothes matched that of a nobleman, although the blood from his mouth stained the color red. and a single silver chain was tangled around his throat, the pendant obviously ripped away before it was used to strangle him to death. Geralt knelt beside him, tentatively lifting the head. But it was obvious there was no way to save what was left of him.

He shook his head in dismay. "Shit."

Without a shred of hope, he searched the coat pockets to confirm what he already knew. And indeed, he pulled his gloved hands away to present the emptiness within. No coin, and no letter either. Ronaldo was dead, and the contract was at an impasse. Whether it was a coincidence or intentional obstruction didn't matter. The result was the same. Giving a sigh, Geralt stood-

Only to have an axe soar past his vision, striking the door behind him in a ricochet of splinters. He immediately dropped down, rolling away from the entryway and pulling the steel sword from his back as another rusted axe sliced precariously close to his arm. This one clattered against the wall, hitting the floor unceremoniously, the handle cracking on impact. Glancing up, his eyes traced the projectile towards the stairs, eyes dilating as his vision caught hold of the bandits that flooded the room. Various men of native origin gather about the stairs, most bundled beneath layers of garments worn with age and grime, as they scatter in numbers, some hurling axes like throwing knives and others reaching for crossbows and daggers at their sheathes with tenacity. Broken language fills the air; particularly the shouts of a burly man who stands at the railing to observe. Wearing an iron cuirass with a dented helm, he observes assault as the other men continue to strike the wall below. For a moment, Geralt catches his gaze.

The leader makes one single slash across his throat with his hand, a smile curling at his lips. Geralt glared, unimpressed with the theatrics. He once again reached for his sword, but the others are prepared this time. An arrow strikes his chest plate, but only nicks the surface before clattering to the floor. As he moves towards the door, more and more bolts rain from the sky, pummeling the floor in a cloud of dust and debris, but none hit their mark, and the chieftain once again barks threats in irritation. Some move to exchange crossbows for swords, while the others precariously fumble down the staircase with blades raised.

With a flick of the arm, his sword severes a limb from the closest bandit. Blood splattered the steps, and the man instantly fell backward, his temple hitting the floor with a sickening crunch. There's little hesitation as the others follow suit, and two men shriek as the blade shanks through both chests, pulling away smoothly. His companions attempt to outflank him, but his movements are too swift, and before a dagger can whip past his ear, the Witcher had severed 4 arms, two legs, and a misshapen head, the ladder of the three falling with a thud before rolling a short distance down the hall. But even with the foyer painted in blood, the stairs still flooded with bandits.

Geralt paused, sword still raised but waiting. His eyes flickered between faces, each position, and each escape. Even with the majority of the men incapacitated, his steps venture closer and closer towards mistakes. Trapped in the corner, his motions were akin to a wolf caught away from the pack, baring his teeth with desperation as the distance closed between them. Not many options…

He wavered once again, meeting the captain's gaze. There was a curl of a smile, and then he lunged, ax raised to gut his throat without hesitation-

"Aâ'anval"

There's a peculiar sound, like a rupture- then silence. And suddenly, the vision of the captain dissipates, and with a blur of motion, his body is launched across the foyer and into the wall with a deafening crack. For a moment, the entire room stares at the atrocious remains of the man, blood guttering from his mouth as his eyes flutter shut. And in just moments the entire room is in an upheaval of panic, searching for the culprit in desperation.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Geralt slipped to the side, carefully avoiding the center of the room. And sure enough, his instincts were valid, as a cautious glance behind him gave full sight of the danger.

The once immobile statue of the woman was moving. Like thunder cracking stone, the clamor of it's movements caused his ears to pop and the various men to shout out in shock. The entire slab of stone seemed to walk with a faceless force from within, taking each step with slow sturs. And yet, just as it seemed to be too slow to function, the arm of the woman reached out and swept aside a nearly a dozen men in a single gesture. Most died on impact. However, the few remaining could do nothing more than choke on unheard cries. Once again, the statue quivered and began to walk.

This time, Geralt didn't wait to see her decent, and instead bounded for the leftward stairs while the other men flailed in his footsteps. Soon, a small horde of men were climbing on top of one another to escape the riot below. While mounting the steps, a bandit shouldered him, seeking shelter against the wall that the Witcher was blocking. Then another, stopping in the middle to jiggle loose a jutted dagger from his belt-

Geralt paused to stare at the man, his gnarled teeth and putrid face. A pair of bloodshot blue eyes gawk back from beneath the helm. As if reading into his next move, he instantly flings his hands forward in surrender, but the motion is ignored. Geralt laid a single hand against his chest, pushing him down the steps.

The effect was as expected, and the last few bandits tumble to the bottom in a heap of sobs and wails. It didn't take much more for the statue to take heed, already at a steady trek to the stairs. The mass of limbs is nothing against the marble hands. And not long after, the woman had their remains crushed to a mangled pile of flesh and bone, indistinguishable as humans.

He was expecting to run, but the statue didn't pick up from there. For a very long, indefinable moment, the manor stayed still. Before life once again floured through her features, and the marble sculpture flickered into consciousness. But she did not venture up the stairs, and instead, the statue levied itself back into place and resumed it's eternity of static existence. Almost immediately, the thunderous booming ceased.

And Geralt was alone with a man, waiting patiently beside the railing as he approached.