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The Wyvern Witcher

Story Arc One: Grim Up North

Chapter 1: Draconic emblem - part 1: The Stranger

Twenty-seven days! "Twenty-seven FUCKING days!" He repeated in his head in anger. "Well… I guess its twenty-eight FUCKING days now, since its past twelve in the night." He corrected himself internally, the right side of his lips forming something that could have been called a smile – if complete disgust, buildup anger, and alienation of the kind that others treat you as if you had the plaque, were feelings that were supposed to make one smile, that's what Urick's 'smile' would have been. He was in the North for that long…

AND HE HATED IT.

He hated the never-ending swamps and marshlands crawling with every kind of revolting filth he ever had the misfortune to read about in the School of the Wyvern's library. He hated the dark, foreboding forests where the stench of death was lingering so strongly that even an ordinary human could of have smelled it before he or she even enter it proper. He hated that every three-hundred miles he and Hlaith covered almost always ended up in a village with even more dim-witted, superstitious and violent 'people' than the previous one. He hated the non-stop swearing, open hostility, constant vulgarity, blatant hypocrisy, uninhibited racism, and pretty much everything that the Nordlings were so proud of. He also hated that village, and he hated that inn.

"Your drink." The waitress crudely slammed the tankard on the table as she spoke, spilling some of its contents on it, and turned to leave, rather hastily.

Before she took her third step however Urick spoke "Bring me one–no two, two more." He weighted his words carefully as not to betray his southern accent. After the last time he was unceremoniously chased away by a mob of angry peasants armed with torches and axes -the 'reward'- for taking care of the Hydra that terrorized them in the swamps of Angren, he made sure not to make his status as a citizen of the Imperial Provinces of Nilfgaard immediately apparent to the locals… to put it into civilized enough terms.

The waitress shot a condescending look at him and went on her merry way. Her face was pretty enough but that attitude of hers was really not at all endearing… Not that Urick would've said no to a passionate night with her if she was willing… He pushed those useless thoughts away and focused on his drink.

This Cintrian Faro should be tasteful enough, he thought -… hoped -… said to himself many times as he sniffed. Trying to ignore the undisputed fact that it smelled vile and looked suspiciously like urine…

He drank it anyway.

It was as distasteful as he expected, but at least, it wasn't horse piss, he would know, he had been served that as well. It's not like he drinks because he likes the taste anyway – all alcoholic beverages tasted pretty much the same in the Northern Realms -namely foul- compared to those in the Provinces. He drank so that he can fall asleep faster, which his mutations didn't make any easier despite the fact that since coming to the North he started drinking more heavily, mostly because he had a hard time adjusting to the new, and not-so-welcoming environment. Higher tolerance to toxicity, including inebriation, was definitely not a blessing at all if you live in these uncivilized lands he realized.

The only other patrons, sitting in the other end of the inn, occasionally glared at him – like right now! Urick didn't like their faces, especially the one with the horseshoe mustache that supposedly was a trend among Nordlings. He didn't like that trend either, he much preferred the Imperial styles, though he himself went clean-shaved like most of his southern brethren, as facial hair (beards especially) were considered hard on the eyes to Nilfgaardians, and you would find at least one Trueborn in any land under the Empire's control, but since coming here he allowed his facial hair to grow more to better blend in, to no avail. Urick avoided their hostile looks for the most part, but he was absolutely sure that would not make a difference in a few hours, or minutes, or even seconds! Losing his silver sword on that 'Leshen' contract on that shitty town Weeping Willow has been proved a huge loss since there wasn't a blacksmith here or in the last three settlements he passed by. Thankfully, he still had his steel one, resting by the right side of him in the bench, should–when, he corrected, things come to worse, he also kept his skinning knife on his person at all times, just to be sure, and the leather compartment on his left leg stored Tawny Own, Blizzard… and Scarlet Fury… "A bit of an overkill that one, but still, better safe than sorry."

When he came to this inn there were two more occupied tables, but the patrons of the first one immediately stood and left as soon as his bottom touched the wood, and the ones on the other one followed soon after, the only ones that stayed were the three thuggish-looking ones in the second to last table to the right, and that didn't bode well. Urick had learned his lesson by now. "Imagine if I didn't actually sit on the last table to the far left side!" He thought dejectedly, it didn't help that he chose the most sizable side exactly because he didn't actually want to cause any trouble again, as each time he went at an inn -not to stay, just to drink- it always ended up in a fight, with fists, or with something else. "Barbarians every single one of them…" He thought dejectedly.

"Enjoy your freedom, now that you have it, Nordlings. Because my countrymen will eventually come for you all, even if it takes years or decades, our armies WILL return…" Making disturbing thoughts has become quite a habit these past few days. Urick couldn't remember anymore why he averted his eyes in shame each time he spotted new shipments of captured Nordling slaves back in the Provinces. He judged without experiencing these people firsthand, foolishly feeling sorry for them. He was always naïve "They'll raze your homes to the ground! Trample your fields! Take everything you have, no matter how small: toys, hair, pearls, spoons, even your rotten teeth! They'll ransack your temples and crucify your priests, just outside as an example! Enslave every last one of you. Break your wills! Till the only thing you know how to tell in your language will be "Yes master" with the head held low! The men will hang on poles! And every 'badass' that his last words will be some variation of "Plough yourself Nilfgaardian" will be tortured, his tongue will be cut off, his balls chopped, and then fed to dogs! The women the-" –– "Hey, freak!" The innkeeper barked from behind the counter suddenly, interrupting his train of thought.

Urick's turn his head to look at the man, to his own displeasure. The mere sight of him forced the Witcher's emotionless mask to break and express disgust. The innkeeper was tall, fat, reeked of beer, had yellow teeth, and was hairy everywhere in his body besides his head, which shape reminded the Witcher of a phallus… Urick started suspecting that this comparison was due to his lack of sexual activity, which added to his bad mood.

"De fuck's dat face?!" The innkeeper slammed his right hand on the counter as he barked again, hard enough that one of the bottles resting on it started shaking till it reached the edge, and fell on the floor. Looking at it's broken shards and stamp, not to mention the unforgettably pleasurable aroma that stood out even amidst the miasma of stale alcohol that hung around in the air, Urick recognized the wasted alcoholic beverage as the White Wolf – a relatively new and expensive wine made in the duchy of Toussaint, said to be named by the Witcher hero Gerald of Rivia himself. Urick could never forget its smell or the taste. "Such a waste" he thought, but "Oops" he said.

"Fuck! Look what ya made me do!" The innkeeper's ugly face became red with anger, Urick could swear he almost saw froth coming out of his mouth, and he was completely sure it wasn't due to him gulping down beer, the shape of his head coupled with it painted a funny image in the Witcher's mind. A giggle escaped his mouth, he just couldn't help it.

"Ya laugh? LAUGH! Ya fucking laughing at me?! Ye gonna pay for dis from yer own pockets ye brigand, ye damn mutant! Fiooonaaaa! Get yer arse 'ere an clean dis damn mezz!" The innkeeper started panting when he was done screaming his lungs out, everyone in a range of three miles, and something, should of have heard him. They did. The Witcher heard voices outside complaining about the noise and that they wanted to sleep, the stupid mat that he had the misfortune to come across when he first came by the village was also barking. The innkeeper's hysterics coupled with his appearance and temperament would have made Urick burst out laughing in most cases…

But not in this one. "Hey, what the d'yaebl?!" He stood up "Why pay for a bottle of wine I didn't even order? You broke it, so you-" –– "SHUT DE FUCK UP!" The innkeeper's loud screaming drowned Urick's protests. "Ye've de fucking nerve to talk aback after ya losing me me patrons?!" He continued shouting, making weird gestures as well "Angus an Haren each take three snapses 'efore go back to them homes to plough der daughters, but because ye came about, dey left wit only one! I fucking lost over two-hundred orens cause of ya, ya fuckard! Fiooonaaaa! Ain't ya fucking heard me?!"

"Aright, aright." The waitress answered, somewhat tired, as she was picking the half-full/half-empty tankards from the table that the last patrons have left before they 'excused' themselves. "I'll come, just…" she placed the disc on the table, bending a little, she put both her hands on it to balance herself, she took two deep breaths "Just give me a moment." She finally said after a while, placing her hand in her abdomen, and later in her mouth, these gestures gave the impression that she was suppressing the urge to vomit. She was pale and didn't seem well, she started panting, and sweating… And the only thing that Urick could think while looking at her now was how much he wanted to fuck her. It was difficult not to make indecent thoughts about most of the waitresses and barmaids in the Northern Kingdoms since most of the time they were under twenty-five -this one couldn't be over twenty-two- with their dresses often offering a generous view of their 'ample charms' to patrons, which was obviously the intent. And this one was really 'charming' he had to admit: She was of average height and weight, with unkempt light brown hair that reached to her shoulders, matching eyes with thick eyebrows, an attractive if plain face, and a really, really nice, busty body – her drenching in her own sweat left absolutely nothing to the imagination, she wasn't wearing a bra even… The Witcher averted his eyes and sat down, lustful thoughts and a raging boner won't make things easier for him at this hour.

"Whad? Whad?! Did ya fell ill or did some fuckard gat ya wid child ya ho? Well too bad! You ain't going nowhere till we've done an empty! An tomorrow don't ya dare…" the innkeeper swallowed, deeply, before continuing "…come." He finally said "Yes! Don't ya dare come! Nor after tomorrow! Or de day after! I don wanna get any illness in case ya've gat any!" The innkeeper's decibels were in considerably lowered volume, if he didn't know better Urick would of have thought that he actually gave a damn about the waitresses' wellbeing. He probably just imagined it, not that he cared thought. He just wanted his drink, preferably sooner rather than later.

"Witchfucker!" The innkeeper barked again, he quite obviously couldn't speak like an ordinary… "Person", Urick cringed at his own thought. "Ya finished de last of our Cintrian Faro so we gonna serve ya Temerian Rye. Dis is still bloody Temeria after all." He continued, at least he wasn't screaming his lungs out much this time around.

"YA HEARD ME?!" The innkeeper screamed his lungs out again.

The Witcher cursed at himself internally. He also cursed at the fucking Northern Realms, at the cock-headed innkeeper, at that stupid dog outside, at the shitty Weeping Willow, at all of damned Ysgith, at this village that he didn't know nor bothered to learn its name, at the next village because he knew it was going to be shit as well, at every feline in the world, at every Grave Hag, at every Water Hag, and at every Sorceress in existence as he was gulping down the 'Cintrian Faro', intending to finish it in a single round!

Once the tankard was empty the Witcher slammed it loudly on the table immediately, frowning all the while. He wiped out the last traces of beer from his mouth with the back of his left hand and leaned his back closer to the wooden wall that was behind him, with his arms tightly crossed to his chest, his head held low. He was angry but knew there was no point in complaining, and that he won't find justice here or anywhere else in these barbarous lands. "Insane Troll logic is apparently the norm here it seems." The Witcher thought, teeth clenching under his tightly sealed lips. There wasn't anyone here to dispense justice anyway. No guardsmen working for a local lord were around or anything, and even if there was one in the region, which this village fell under his jurisdiction, he probably had no idea about it. This was a small and remote village after all. Urick must of have had counted fifteen huts, more or less–most likely less, It was surprising there was even an inn in this village that actually had rooms to lend… well, one room anyway. He should probably consider himself lucky that it was available, and that he had the money to pay for it, his own drinks, and the broken White Wolf. It was true that his expenses have considerably been reduced since coming here, as it was way easier to stock up on alchemical ingredients – to either sell or brew potions with. In comparison to the South, the North was a Witcher's treasure trove when it came to that he had to admit, and actually looked forward to explore nature's gifts here, as well as the Conjunction's, bring some samples back to The Wyvern's Keep. Not to mention there was no lack of gangs of outlaws littering it, that for some reason thinking attacking a Witcher is a good idea, his purse always felt a little bit heavier after each such event.

Urick raised his head only to see that the waitress had sat down on the very table she was taking care off just moments ago to catch her own breath, one could say literally as she seemed to have difficulties breathing, panting heavily, eyes closed, and sweating heavily… "I just want to tear that dress to pieces and fuck you on that table till morning." He said in a whisper–less than a whisper, as he rested his head on his left fist. The fact that the waitress was facing his way wasn't helping, slightly bend, with her breasts touching the table, so drenched in sweat that her nipples were visible under her dress. "I soooo want to bite those nipples…" His imagination ran wild, even if his face didn't show it.

The waitress opened her eyes slightly once she seemed a little bit better, then completely, as she caught Urick staring at her.

The Witcher didn't avert his eyes this time around. He didn't want to. Since coming to the North it has been nothing but abuse (both physical and verbal), cheating, and attempts at his life – by the ones he protected even! He knew he won't bed her as her behavior eirlier made abundantly clear to him that she despised his kind. But a damn pleasurable sight was the least he could ask for!

The waitress obviously didn't agree. She placed the last tankard that was left on the table on the disk, with a sour expression and rather aggressive movements, stood up, picked up the piece of cloth that was on the disc, and started wiping the table with it, purposely facing away from him with her back turned.

"And they say that once a Witcher comes around, "Hide your women!" because he'll seduced them. Yeah, right. I'm going to punch the lights out of the next idiot who spout such rubbish." Urick sighed, heavily.

"Hey, Fiona" The patron right of the one Urick didn't like said. That one was bald and fat, but nothing close to innkeeper's bulk, he was also much shorter "Bring us another round." He gestured.

"Aright." Fiona answered, her voice was low. She took her disc as she finished, and went by the counter to place it. "Boss, another three of…" her voice trailed.

"Temerian Rye!" The innkeeper completed her sentence in his signature loud volume "Dat's all douse shitebirds would 'ave." He bended slightly forward and turn his head to the left towards the patrons "Yer happy, ya shitebirds?!"

The patrons all nodded and agreed.

The innkeeper went then to the room behind the counter, probably to fetch the drinks. As soon as he was gone, the unpleasant-looking patrons make equally unpleasant faces, some of them swore softly as well, but of course as a mutant, Urick could hear them. The Witcher made a pleasant face though, as he would finally have his much-needed medicine.

After a few minutes passed, the waitress took her disc in her hands and walked towards the thuggish patrons.

As she stretched her arm to pick the bald one's tankard however, he grabbed her suddenly and force her to his own knees, her disc fell on the wooden floor, sideways and rolled - all the way down - to the other side of the inn until it hit the wall and landed flat - right beside Urick, the Witcher's eyes widened slightly in surprise, looking at it now he saw that the disc had flower pattern.

"Just look at little Fiona, all grown up." The bald one said in a tone that implied familiarity. He started fondling the waitress' breasts.

The patron that was facing back from Urick stood up and went closer "Aye" he said as he stood at the waitresses' right. Looking at his full profile now the Witcher thought himself lucky that he didn't took a glimpse at his face any earlier. The man's entire nose was missing. "Like yesterday I remember" he continued and just like his fellow started fondling her as well "When you were six and scattering about, taking rolls down the piles of hay, showing your panty to us all, shameless since then." He laughed at the end and started pulling her skirt upwards, slowly revealing a pair of shapely legs as well, much to the Witcher's pleasure.

Apparently Urick wasn't the only one desperate to get his cock wet. It passed through his mind to go help the waitress but ignored that idea as quickly as it came to him. These weren't Imperial lands. But more importantly he wasn't so foolish to think that by 'saving' her he would be rewarded with her spreading her legs wide for him, unfortunately. As they say back home 'In the North, no good deed ever goes unpunished.' so he decided to simply sit where he was and enjoy the show, and make use of any inspiring images to 'sharpen his sword' later if this Temerian Rye proved inefficient on its intended purpose.

The waitress acted as if she was uncomfortable. "Please, I am… I am working now, I…" despite her words she didn't exactly put much effort into pulling herself away from them, but then again she seemed unwell, and if those men were regulars then they probably did that every night. Her pathetically weak protests didn't dissuade the perverted patrons in the slightest.

The mustached one came closer, clearly intending to feel her as well. They pushed her bodice down, confirming the Witcher's original estimation of the young woman's assets: a beautiful pair of really well-developed round breasts that could make even a Sorceress green with envy.

"Wait… what are you do- Ah!" The waitresses' second attempt at a 'protest' was interrupted as the bald one started suckling at her left breast and replaced with a groan. Urick could see that her right nipple was hard already.

To the Witcher's eyes' pleasure the noseless man had pushed her skirt completely up, generously revealing her underwear to him. He started suckling at her right breast.

They moved her a little closer to the center of the bench, still on the bald one's knees, so that all three of them could have an easier time feeling her. The noseless one came closer by her and started licking her nipple, slowly cycling it with the tip of his tongue.

The mustached one's was stroking her left thigh, his hand moving upwards, clearly heading for her sensitive area. The waitress tried to push it away once it came too close but without any significant force to actually stay away, the patron slipped his hand inside her panty. "Please… s-sstop, I… Stop it!…" She insisted on playing prude, but she soon started moaning in pleasure. "Fucking 'ell, you wet already?" Mustached one said, smiling creepily as his fingers were moving inside the young woman's underwear. Urick's eyes were etched there, thanks to his enhanced eyesight he could see perfectly even from this relative distance. The waitresses' underwear soon became soaking wet from her juices.

The Witcher's lips formed a wide smile as the patrons started taking off her panty… but his smile melted as quickly as it formed as the sight confirmed to him a rumor that he desperately hoped it was just that – a rumor. Northern women weren't shaving the hair in their sensitive areas. "Oh fuck." He said under his breath "Well, I guess beggars can't be choosers, could've been worse." He thought to himself as his 'sword' softened somewhat.

The bald one pulled his penis out, fully erect, and moved the young woman closer… but as its head started touched her vagina, the waitress stopped moaning, she gasped, and quickly pull herself away before it managed to get inside her. She started thrashing around, visibly panicking "No. Stop! Lem'me go!" She protested, struggling to free herself. The perverted patrons weren't dissuaded at all. Not even now. They tighter their hold on her, their expressions also hardened, they obviously won't take 'no' for an answer.

The Witcher was sure about two things right about now. That the waitress wasn't pretending, and that he would live to regret his choice. His hand grabbed the hilt of his sword.

But the blade only managed to get inches outside of its scabbard however, as the innkeeper's voice roared through the entire inn all of a sudden, drawing the attention of everyone inside on the spot. "WHAD DA FUUUUUUCKK, ARE YA DOING?!" The Witcher's hand was still holding the hilt of his sword as the echo of the innkeeper's voice stopped. The perverted patrons had frozen in place. The people outside started yelling for silence, again. And the dog outside was barking, also again.

"Ged ya hands ov yer ya fucking degenereds!" The innkeeper said and pulled out a sizable cleaver from behind the counter. "Or I'll chop ya balls and fed em to Flaffy! Understand?" He added poignantly, his very last word was delivered in a lower volume but there was a touch of malevolence in it that wasn't there before, no mattered how much he yelled.

The perverted patrons immediately let go of the waitress. While they didn't protest, displeasure was written all over their faces.

The Witcher let go of his sword's hilt, the blade slipped back into the scabbard.

After stood properly and arranged her clothes so that they cover her properly, the waitress started looking around. "Where on Mother's did it…"

Aware that she meant her serving disc, Urick took it from the floor and return it to her the same way he received it – rolling down the other side of the inn.

The waitress spotted it -mostly by sound by the looks of it- and bended down with rather delicate movements. She caught the disc right between her open palms. "Perfect pass." Urick thought, almost surprised that it came to her in a perfectly straight line without changing direction or fall flat midway.

The waitress stood up, her head lowered, looking at the disc. She flipped it in her hands in a somewhat uncharacteristic -one could say even playful- way to hold it properly.

She raised her eyes to look at Urick… and smiled… a little, and only for a moment, but she did… "Yeah, keep your hopes up, you idiot." The Witcher berated himself internally.

"Fiona, wad da fucks ya standing dere for. Fetch dem mugs and ged yer arse 'ere!" The innkeeper ordered.

"Mhm" Fiona nodded and started picking up the tankards from the table, trying her best to avoid looking at the patrons. Once she was done she returned to the counter and smacked her disc on it with an audible metallic sound, one of tankards started shaking and it would have fell if she didn't grabbed it in time to keep it still. She let out a sigh.

The innkeeper frowned, and, after a few seconds, he threw at her face a woolen… something? It was too small to be a winter coat – it looked more like a blanket, it had strands, and a big button somewhat close to one end of it. Urick had never seen something like that before, so he wasn't sure how to refer to it as. It was colorful, and seemed to be hand-knitted.

Fiona took the woolen-something out of her face and held it up in front of her with both hands, a curious look on her face.

"Cover ya selv ya damb ho." The innkeeper said, grimacing in obvious displeasure, his face was ugly as it was but it looked even more ugly right now than when he was frowning. "And take de mop and ztart cleaning de floor dis is an inn, not de bordello ya've worken. Com'on be quick aboudit!" He continued, gesturing her to make haste.

Fiona threw the woolen-something over her shoulders, covering herself with it. It seemed that it meant to cover the upper part of her body, as it was reaching down to her belly, almost, it covered her forearms. The Witcher may have not liked the fact that it covered her chest completely, thus depriving him of the only sight he wished to look upon, but he had to admit, she looked good in it, in a reserved kind of way.

She turned her head to her left to look at the Witcher. "Oh, I almost forgot." She said, and walked towards him.

As she moved her right arm to pick his tankard, her face contorted in a pained expression, she touched the table's surface instead and put her left hand on her abdomen. She started clenching her teeth in pain, lowering her head.

"Fiona, whad de fuck are ya doing?" The innkeeper demanded.

The waitress gave no answer. Instead, she boldly sat on the bench opposite of Urick's table. She clenched her abdomen then with both hands, visibly in pain. Her eyes shut, sweat started running down her forehead.

Urick decided to intervene this time. "Give her a few minutes. She is in pain." He said, bracing himself for a rebuke, from the innkeeper, or the waitress herself.

"Useless ho. Dat's out of yer wages!" The innkeeper said, frowning, and took out a bottle from the counter, doubtlessly the Temerian Rye. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and filled the tankards that lay on the disc in front of him, rather messily, throwing some of the liquor on the floor and making the mess caused by the broken White Wolf look even worse than before. Urick wondered if that was his intention.

He took all three tankards in his hands, two on the left and one on the right – he didn't bother taking the disc, and went to give them to the unpleasant patrons. Not a single one of them was happy to see him, and the feeling was mutual, as he soon started to verbally abuse them as one of them supposedly gave him 'the evil eye'.

Urick sighed, heavily, very heavily. "Never have I expected there would be a time that I would actually miss the Imperial Provinces… I never felt at home back there, but here… Here I really am a stranger."

/Learn about the town of Weeping Willow and its secrets in the story: Last of the Ravens - Story Arc 1: Weeping Willow

The Wyvern Witcher - Codex

Bonus Story: Enchantress Maleila's Guide – Alchemy – Mutagenic Potions

"When it comes to alchemy, it's not a question of ethics but of intentions – The deadliest of poisons can become life-saving medicines, and vice-versa, at the hands of those who know the appropriate dosage."

~ Jürgen, Alchemy Instructor of the School of the Manticore.

Mutagenic Potions, or simply Decoctions as they are called by the mutated monster hunters themselves, are an alchemical product developed by the Schools after decades of experimentation and research on the various monster species stranded in our world after the Conjunction of the Spheres. Unlike their simple Potions whose effects usually last for few minutes, and typically need to be consumed when entering a hostile area or right before battle, Decoctions' effects can last for a whole day at least, and the abilities they provide are much more powerful. However, Decoctions have very high toxicity and will overburden a Witch or Witcher's system upon consumption, this usually prevents any further elixirs from being imbibed before or during a fight until their effect expires*. Furthermore, unlike the weaker brews, which are much easier to make since they require only a sample of a monster's blood, essence, or the appropriate organ, Decoctions require Mutagens in their creation -usually those harvested from rare and powerful monsters- and a fight to the death with a superior representative of the non-sapient (or semi-sapient) invaders often leaves little room for thoughts for preservation of the adversary's body. Despite the higher risk involved in their creation, one Decoction is well worth two or more of the basic Potions, and one could consider them a testament of a mutated monster hunter's skill and ability because of the precision (which sometimes can be surgical) required to obtain the necessary Mutagens.

*It is interesting to note that unlike Potions, which can leave traces of toxicity on the mutant's body after their effects expire, a Mutagenic Potion's toxicity will be instantly cleansed from the body once its effect ends. Some Witches and Witchers have noted that after consuming a particular Decoction for years they started to develop permanent -if inferior- versions of the abilities the strong elixirs provide. This leads me to believe that Decoctions further mutate a Witch or Witcher's organism, if ever so slightly, making their name even more appropriate.

Each School had developed their own unique formulae, and while today most knowledge is pretty much 'shared' by every mutated monster hunter on the Path since they often come across their fallen brethren and any still-recoverable valuables they might have, they have been kept a close guarded secret for years, if not decades or centuries. Below is a list of the few a have managed to uncover during my subsequent visits in some of the Schools:

Reliever's Decoction

Produced in: The School of the Wolf

Ingredients: Dwarven Spirit*, four Red Mutagens, four Blue Mutagens, four Green Mutagens, and the Essence of a wraith

*It is made by mixing simple Mahakaman ale with white myrtle petals. It serves as the alchemical base for most Mutagenic Potions.

Toxicity: Very high

Effects and/or abilities granted: The elixir provides the Witch/Witcher with an arcane aura -unseen to the naked eye- that greatly increases damage dealt and decreases damage taken against all kinds of specters regardless of source.

Side effects and/or Drawbacks: The aura radiated by the mutant is rather intense, and can mess with their medallion's ability to detect magical threats. While Witchers made in the Sign-oriented Schools -like the Griffin or the Fox, as well as the Witches of the School of the Raven- are more likely to encounter this problem, any mutated monster hunter with more magical powers than normal should keep this in mind when investigate haunted areas and have White Honey available.

The School of the Wolf has a long history of fighting specters and dispelling curses as such they have produced various ways in dealing with those threats more quickly and effectively, including: Specter Oil, the Moon Dust Bomb and this mixture that they often call "Peacemaker", amusingly enough.

Queen Hydra Decoction

Produced in: The School of the Manticore

Ingredients: Dwarven Spirit, Queen Hydra Mutagen, Berbercane fruit, Moleyarrow, and Ribleaf

Toxicity: Very high

Effects and/or abilities granted: A metabolism altering elixir that significantly extends the duration of all Potions. For every Potion consumed beforehand the duration of the next one extends even further.

Side effects and/or Drawbacks: Its effect doesn't apply to Mutagenic Potions.

The alchemist-mages of the School of the Manticore have long developed specialized formulae meant to maximize the benefits of mutations. And this potion is in no way different. Because of the high toxicity tolerance required for the effective use of this Decoction, it is chiefly utilized by Witchers whose Trial of the Grasses had provided with an even stronger immune system, or those that have years enough on the Path to develop the tolerance necessary to drink it.

Incubus Decoction

Produced in: The School of the Griffin

Ingredients: Dwarven Spirit, Incubus Mutagen, Allspice root, Ginatia petals, Honeysuckle, and Mandrake root

Toxicity: Very High

Effects and/or abilities granted: An intriguing combat potion which effect triggers only when the body's adrenaline reaches high levels. Even among Mutagenic Potions it has an extraordinary long duration. Within the course of a fight, the strength of physical blows, regeneration of stamina, and resistances to pain, bleeding, and even poisoning, grows till they reach a maximum threshold allowed by the mutant's body.

Side effects and/or Drawbacks: The drinker of this Decoction may experience some… 'involuntary stimulation', a few nights after usage.

During the early days of monster hunting many Witchers dedicated their lives in exterminating as many specimens of the monster known as Incubus as they could. Those of the School of the Griffin in particular took great zeal in this endeavor before moving to the dragonhunting that cemented their reputation. This Decoction is only one of the many alchemical creations the Griffins had produced from the ingredients harvested from the Hybrids after decades of research.

A note attached below the entry – What I always found curious was how much thorough the mutated monster hunter were in this particular hunt, especially since Succubi are generally given the benefit of the doubt by them. Yet any of the elder Witchers I have questioned in regards to this subject were evasive at best and aggressively dismissive at worst (without even going into details). The Raven Witches had little to add on the matter as well, besides a few rather suggestive comments which I never managed to discern the meaning of. Their bestiaries make mention of them, and they keep the recipes of the alchemical creations that require their organs recorded, yet they were no entries describing the creatures themselves in detail.

Accursed One's Decoction

Produced in: Unknown

Ingredients: Dwarven Spirit, one Mutagen harvested each from three different Therianthropes* when in bestial form, six Red Mutagens, six Purple Mutagens, six Yellow Mutagens, Devil's claw, part of a human heart, and a sample of elven blood.

*A Therianthrope is a Human or any other member of the known sapient races who, due to his or her genetics or a curse, can shapeshift into an animal, or into a half-human/half-animal, like Werewolves or Werecats.

Toxicity: Severe

Effects and/or abilities granted: Upon consumption the mutant's adrenaline is instantly raised to maximum and doesn't drop until the Decoction expires. During its duration, the Witch/Witcher is also granted infinite stamina. And all senses, physical strength, reflexes, regeneration, and resistance to pain and injuries, are all massively increased.

Side effects and/or Drawbacks: The Decoction suppresses the effects of any other elixir consumed after it. The mutant loses any distinction between friend and foe and will attack and kill anything that comes to their perception – be it defenseless women, elderly folk, children, or their own friends and lovers. Once it expires, the Decoction will either kill the Witch/Witcher outright, or, in the case of strong tolerance, paralyze the body either permanently or for a few days, leaving him/her vulnerable.

This mixture is considered 'evil' even by the mutated monster hunters themselves, who are notorious for lacking a clear distinction between it and good. It has gone through many renames over the years: Bloodlust, Svalblod's Blessing, Scarlet Fury, The Last Dance, but apparently "Accursed One's" was deemed the most appropriate name.