The hot summer sun beat down on the castle's training grounds mercilessly, the adepts going through their exercises sweating profusely under the raw, scorching heat and their instructors' harsh commands. In the distance, Master Toril could be heard barking sharply at her class, demanding that they retrieve her arrows. In another part of the castle, presumably the infamous dungeons, a loud boom echoed out, evidence of Vester's ongoing tutelage of his students.
Frederick watched all of this quietly, leaning back against the cool stone of the castle's walls, finding a slice of shade under the eaves of Kaer Marter. He folded his arms ponderously, golden eyes glancing about. Grunting, he shifted uncomfortably, his chainmail sitting heavily on his shoulders. After a full morning's training in full armour, his muscles pulsed under the tightly-knit metal rings.
Far above, the sun finally reached its zenith, sliding out from behind the castle's shadow and sending a blinding ray of light spearing into Frederick's eyes. The young Griffin School Witcher winced at the sudden brilliance as his eyes, so perfectly suited for the dark gloom of night, found the pure light of day to be almost oppressively bright. He lifted a hand to shield his gaze as a sudden, loud noise drew his attention to the large doors that formed the entrance to the castle.
Master Jaeger strode out of the castle, many of his potential 'Bear School' recruits following closely. Frederick even spotted a couple of Nightsabers in his retinue. The Skelliger Witcher had a determined gleam in his eyes, which normally only meant one thing- a gruelling physical challenge lay in store for anyone the towering Master could get his hands on. Frederick sighed inwardly. Master Dirk's Griffin training was already exhausting. The former mage's apprentice dreaded the thought of partaking in the Bear School's own brand of physical torture, too. looking about, he spotted an avenue of escape- the back door leading into the castle's conservatory, where servants tended to sweet-smelling orange trees throughout the year. Quickly, quietly, the Nightsaber slipped through the doorway unseen.
Inside, Frederick walked almost silently through the castle's dark hallways, taking but a moment to enjoy the sensation of the cooler air moving across his skin. Perhaps he could find a peaceful place within the castle's walls to pass some time.
The young Witcher quickly moved through the castle's dining hall and the tavern, each bustling with an array of servants, adepts and Witchers alike. Far too busy for his liking. In moments, he climbed to the upper floors, passing by the various rooms repurposed into classrooms, the many dormitories and the library, all abuzz with activity. Quiet, peaceful places were always a rarity in Kaer Marter. For a moment, Frederick considered the balconies overlooking the courtyard, but the sounds of Jaeger barking orders at his students on the flagstones below soon put paid to that idea
With a weary sigh, Frederick began climbing to the upper floor, just underneath the roof tiles of the castle. Perhaps he could find an abandoned storeroom to retreat into, somewhere he could finally be alone with his thoughts. He passed by over a dozen crammed rooms, each groaning with the detritus of centuries of occupants coming and going, each leaving its own trail of relics, papers and useless knick-knacks.
Finally, the young Nightsaber came across a door that he recognised, one he had passed through many months previously. He realised that the doorway before him led to a room that had been previously used by none other than Meinard of Mettina, the Witcher performing many strange and unfathomable experiments within. A momentary hesitation seized Frederick, his hand hovering over the door's handle. The old Witcher was dead, yes, but his legacy lived on within the castle's walls. Who could say what might remain within the old laboratory? The Nightsaber shivered, dispelling the thoughts. Meinard was gone. He'd find nothing in the abandoned lab but papers and specimen jars. Taking a deep breath, he gingerly turned the handle, stepping through the unlocked door.
The room beyond was surprisingly clean, not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. Frederick's brow rose at this. Was someone still using the lab? For a moment, an idea popped into the young adept's mind of a still-living Meinard creeping around the castle at night, performing his twisted experiments. Frederick shuddered, trying to shake the haunting thought loose. Closing the door behind himself, the Nightsaber moved deeper into the lab.
A large table occupied the centre of the lab, covered with a large sheet that had once been white, but was now yellowed with age and stained with a variety of colours, one being the reddish-brown of dried blood. A shape, only vaguely humanoid, lay under the sheet, inert. Frederick moved to lift the sheet, but the moment he stepped with a few feet of the table, the stench hit him with as much force as one of Master Jaeger's punches, forcing the Witcher to step back, bumping into a shelf laden with dozens of murky jars, the glassware jangling at the impact. Frederick recomposed himself, turning from the table and moving towards the furthest wall, where a large, round window looked out over the castle grounds. He ignored the smaller table filled with grisly implements that would have been more at home in a torture dungeon, and the desk littered with hundreds of leaves of paper detailing countless biological details that would take a mind of unparalleled clarity to comprehend. Instead, the Griffin adept wound his way through the room, finally finding himself at the window. Noting the sill was clear, the Witcher hopeful clambered up, finding a comfortable sitting position that allowed him to look out of the window at the adepts far below, running about on their countless training exercises.
Breathing deeply, Frederick settled into his new-found niche, leaning back in the cradle of the curving windowsill. he closed his eyes, bringing to mind some of the meditative techniques that Dirk had taught him as part of his Griffin School training. Thoughts of balance, of clarity and serenity, of peace, bubbled up in his mind. As they did so, his consciousness drifted, becoming aware of the larger world around himself. He sighed, feeling every muscle in his body relax a little as he attuned himself to the primal, arcane energies of his surroundings. Frederick relaxed, mind closing to the rest of the world.
The sound awoke him with a start, a sudden creak, followed by the click of a latch sliding into place. The Nightsaber started awake, instantly on alert as his eyes snapped open. Outside, the sun was considerably lower in the sky. what had felt like but a few moments of meditation to Frederick had clearly been far longer, possibly even a few hours. He turned his head from the window, not moving any other muscles as he tried to spot the source of the sound.
A figure moved in the lab, stepping away from the door. A lantern burned in their hand, bright in the gloom of the lab. As the figure stepped forward, Frederick recognised the outline of one of his fellow adepts, the Wolf School student known as Jutte. She had once been a student of Meinard, a deep resentment for Frederick and his fellow Nightsabers festering in her heart, but over time her feelings had shifted, to the point where she had even worked with the Nightsabers, saving Master Elinor's life with her knowledge of potioncraft and alchemy. She had even gone so far as to become part of the Nightsaber group, having found, if not a sense of friendship and camaraderie among them, then at least one of co-operation and mutual benefit. Still, Frederick knew little about her, aside from her cold, calculating demeanour and grim practicality. Barely moving a muscle, Frederick tried to stay as still as possible, pressing down into the windowsill to reduce his profile in an attempt to remain unseen. Jutte paid him no heed, either failing to notice him there, or simply not caring about his presence.
The young Witcheress, clad in a dark red velvet coat that, in the dim light of the lab, almost had the appearance of blood, walked around the large table, seemingly unperturbed by the smell. She grabbed a few pages from the desk, nudging the smaller table with the tools closer to the centre of the room. Absorbed in reading the notes in her hand, she idly organised the tools with her free hand, laying them out in a specific order.
Laying the notes down, the young woman slipped out of her coat, revealing a simple white shirt underneath, a black corset strictly laced around her midsection, emphasising her natural shape. She reached up, brushing a few locks of mahogany hair away from her face. Frederick found his breath catching in his throat. He couldn't deny, the young Witcher was indeed beautiful. Her deep hazel eyes narrowed shrewdly as she glanced about, a long, jagged scar running down the right side of her face. at her breast, her wolf's head medallion gleamed in the semi-light.
Jutte cast her coat on the desk, rolling up her sleeves as she drew close to the table. With a practised move, she whipped the sheet off the table, revealing the shape underneath. A beast, possibly a Fleder, lay on the table, skin bloating a little, one arm and both legs strapped down to the table with thick leather bonds. Something oily coated its skin, perhaps some kind of solution to aid in preservation, giving it a slick sheen. Fangs gleamed from a slack-jawed mouth, while long, serrated claws adorned its hands and feet. Dead, soulless eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling.
Jutte reached out towards her array of tools, still not sparing the razor-sharp implements a glance. Gentle fingers moved towards an array of a dozen almost identical knives, very purposeful in their movements as they selected one specific blade. She lifted the knife before her eyes, thumb delicately testing the length of the edge before gently prodding at the tip until she drew a ruby-red droplet of her own blood. A satisfied nod, and a subtle, upwards twist of her full lips was all the signal she gave of her satisfaction before she leaned over the table, setting to work.
She lifted one of the Fleder's arms, the one not strapped down, her knife slipping beneath the outer layers of the skin around the wrist joint and tracing their way around the circumference of the wrist, making a complete circuit. the merest tip of the blade pierced the skin, gliding through it smoothly to make a neat, professional incision. Rivulets of dark, almost black blood seeped from the wound, staining Jutte's fingertips. Her initial cut done, the Witcheress then did the same thing around the elbow joint, then traced a long, straight line down the forearm on the inside of the wrist, down to the hollow of the elbow. Blood continued to leak from the incisions, collecting in pools on the table. Carefully putting her blade away, the young Witcher student reached down to her belt, pulling a small phial from it. A strange, brown-coloured liquid moved about sluggishly inside the phial, glittering in the light of the lantern. She popped the cork, allowing a few droplets of the liquid to splash down on the incisions. Almost immediately, the bleeding ceased as she put the odd mixture aside, watching the effects with satisfaction in her grim smirk. This done, she set about removing the hide of the forearm with practised ease, clearly no stranger to the procedure.
Frederick knew he should have been revolted by the procedure. Even after month's of training in the Witcher's craft, and having taken part in more than a few dissections, he had yet to be desensitised to the brutal nature of some aspects of their work. And yet, there was something about watching the young mutagenist work that was almost mesmerising, strangely soothing.
Jutte finished slicing through the gauzy membrane that affixed the skin to the muscles of the Fleder's arm, removing a large sheet of grey, leathery hide, almost square in shape. With bloodstained fingers, she quickly ran the flat of her knife across the inside of the skin, scraping away a few stringy remnants of fat and tissue, before turning to the shelf of jars at her back. Sharp eyes quickly scanned the neat labels, until finally she found her prize, a jar filled with a crystalline powder coloured with a mixture of yellow and blue. Unsealing the jar, she swiftly poured a dose of the substance onto the interior of the sheet of hide she had procured, wrapping the hide tightly and binding it with some string. She then carefully placed the roll of freshly acquired Fleder hide aside, presumably to cure for an appropriate amount of time.
The Witcheress moved back to the table, repeating the procedure for the upper arm, and then the opposite leg. Once she had carefully removed the skin from almost half of the beast, stemming the bleeding wherever it occurred using the thick, brown liquid in her phial, she gently, almost reverently returned her knife to its place among its kin, selecting another tool, this time, a long, needle-like awl, with equal care and respect.
Taking the device in one hand, the Witcheress leaned in close to the Fleder, hovering over its now exposed arm muscles. Tender fingers brushed at the bicep, gently pressing into the mottled, red and grey flesh to hold it in place. Then, with the speed and vicious intent of a cobra, the awl darted in, jabbing the muscle.
The reaction was instantaneous. A sudden, low growl ripped from the Fleder's throat as the beast, which Frederick had assumed to be dead up until now, thrashed against its restraints, eyes refocusing as its teeth gnashed in its foaming maw, its free arm slashing through the air wildly. Frederick felt an urge to leap up and dash to the table, to subdue the beast before it could harm the mutagenist, but Jutte was faster, her movements fluid as she responded to the threat. She dodged back, out of its reach, then circled around the table, narrowed eyes watching every move of the beast. Raising her free hand, she murmured a quick phrase, her feral yellow eyes glowing just a fraction more brightly as she cast the Axii Sign, and the Fleder stilled. Jutte moved in close again, this time fastening down the loose arm, then repeating the experiment with less danger to herself. each time she jabbed the beast, selecting a different spot on the flayed arm, she would pause to watch it squirm in agony, then take note of the way it moved, how the muscles responded to the pain reflexes, how the tendons moved as it fought its restraints. Each time she made an observation, she would lean over the desk, calmly writing out her findings in a neat script even as the vampire howled behind her.. Then, she did the same its exposed leg. Once she was done, she put the awl aside, drawing another phial from her belt and forcing the Fleder to drink it. The beast sagged down on the table, still enough almost to be mistaken for dead once again, but a tiny rise and fall of its chest betrayed the vestiges of continued life.
The Witcheress went back to her work, using a variety of tools on her victim as she methodically, meticulously harvested each and every part of the creature, continuing her experiments on the weakening beast. After a time, even Jutte's alchemical decoctions could not keep the life in the monster, and the Fleder finally collapsed with a gasp, the last signs of life draining from it. Once the creature no longer drew breath, Jutte's work became much faster, all while still maintaining the dispassionate discipline that Frederick had begun to admire. All the while, the Nightsaber kept silent, watching her work from the darkening window. He took note of the shallow crease in her brow as she studied the Fleder's fangs before plucking them out. He observed, fascinated, the focused glare in her eyes as she held the beast's heart in her hand, watching its final few beats with as much emotion as she would watch the leaves swirl around in a teacup.
At last, long after the day had fled and the midnight hour had passed, Jutte completed her work, nothing remaining of the Fleder save for an array of neatly arranged jars, a flask for each of the bodily fluids that had been successfully harvested, and a large pot boiling over a brazier that she had lit, every last bone thrown in there to be boiled clean. She turned to the desk, rearranging the notes there before beginning to compile some of her own, quill scratching across the parchment swiftly, but in a controlled manner. Even then, as she hunched over her writings, Frederick couldn't help but admire her air of determined focus, her resolve and her professional aura.
Finally, many hours after the rest of the castle's denizens had turned in for the night, Jutte rose from the desk, leaving the laboratory. Behind her, wreathed in the darkness, Frederick released a quiet, contented sigh as he rose from his little niche, carefully leaving the room shortly afterwards. Quickly, he made his way to his chambers, settling down on the bed with his mind racing, his consciousness dominated by thoughts of a young mutagenist with dark brown hair and piercing eyes.