The Witcher: A Deep Mark

Author's Notes:

- This writing heavily references both the Witcher novels and the video game series. If you are unfamiliar with either, you may not get the full experience out of reading this fic.

- Chronologically, this story takes place after the events of The Witcher III: Wild Hunt and the second dlc (Blood and Wine), with the first dlc (Hearts of Stone) considered resolved before the ending of either. It relies on the "Ciri becomes a wicher" ending as a starting point.

- Contains swearing and violence. As can be expected of the Witcher's world.

Thanks for your attention and have fun reading!

Chapter 1.

Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, alias Ciri, strode through the forest path with casual carelessness, a heavily laden bag swung over her shoulder. For all the ruckus the villagers were raising over the Nekker infestation in the woods, the little wretches have proven far less a challenge than the larger monsters she has dealt with in the past. In all honesty, carrying proof of their demise all the way back was more of hassle than the actual combat. The tiny devils, even shorter than she was, tried their best to swarm her, even popping out of the ground like prematurely rotten daisies to tackle her by surprise. Not the wisest approach against a huntress who could rapidly teleport. Even the "chieftain" of the group - a big, gluttonous slab of lard such as it was - went down with a singular strike at the left neck artery and bled out whilst Ciri busied herself mopping up the rest of the rabble and tossing a few bombs around for good measure, destroying their dug-out dwellings and breeding holes.

Originally, she wanted to bring the heads as was the custom of her trade, but realizing the exact number of her victims in hindsight, she was forced to settle for cutting off the ears instead. It took longer than the actual battle itself. With her bag reeking of bloodsoaked hearing organs, her journey back to the village that agreed to hire her services was unhindered; the animals, at the very least, stayed their distance. Bandit threats have been unheard of in these parts recently, which made her walk all the more peaceful. Though, sincerely, she wagered it was the Nekkers who drove out outlaws in the first place. Now that she has done her job, sooner or later criminals will make this forest their hideout again... until some other monstrosity moves in... and then a witcher will be needed once more... ah, the circle of life - and the economy to support the future of witchers. She was humming to herself to pass her time, mimicking whatever tune she heard from birds in the distance.

It has been several months since she started walking the Path on her own, unsupervised by Geralt. She had been fairly productive, and on a couple of occasions, her spreading fame already got ahead of her. Initially, she had to put up with loads and heaps of skepticism, dismissal, or alternatively, folklore-bred superstition and ignorance. "No such thing of a female witcher", they said. Whenever she proved her detractors wrong? Full swing to the other direction: "Eww, a filthy mutant! And now they even kidnap women!" - or something along those lines. But the radiant faces and kind words of thankful clients, of mothers and fathers not having to fear for their children's lives - that was worth much more than mere silver or gold. It kept her on the Path, and she wagered that deep down, this is what drove Geralt himself throughout so many years. Well, this and the genuine excitement the Path offered to those who treaded it.

Nevertheless, she was conscious enough to know where she should stride and where she should not. She stayed up in the northern provinces, far from her father's nearly all-encompassing empire. Her biological father discovering her survival was the last thing she needed in her new life - not to mention the calamity that might bring upon the witcher and the sorceress who actually gave her attention and care in her youth. Currently, she was passing relatively near an abandoned, overgrown manor that once belonged to someone called Aeramas, a fair distance to the east from Oxenfurt. She might as well take a look at that later once she's paid, might be something worthwhile in there. At least the view will be amazing, she thought. In the meantime, however, she'd be going back to the village where she was a welcome traveler; as it turned out, Geralt himself passed by once, and since then witchers were appreciated. This was a scarcity, and she wouldn't refuse aid when the job was offered, even if the compense seemed otherwise paltry.

By the time she got back, night has dawned, and the Moon was shining like a silvery orb illuminating the hovels of the small community from above. When she finally reached her destination, she let go of the bag, which spilled some of its content across the hardened, breeze-chilled soil. What would await her was not relief, not a sense of satisfaction over a job well-done and compensation earned; but her jaw dropping in surprise, and the stench of ripe slaughter invading her nostrils. The village lay silent as the grave, save for the cawing of crows, content with the bountiful feast presented before them at this early evening.

Ciri drew her silver sword, having decided to take a closer look. A few fireplaces and torches have been knocked over, but at this time of year, during the decay of autumn, ever nearing the brink of winter, they did not have the strength or fuel to spread anywhere. Yet signs of fighting were all over the place, as were corpses of women and men, many of them unarmed, blood and viscera staining the floor of their homes. Ciri examined the wounds and miscellaneous tidbits of damage done to woodwork. They all bore the same kinds of injury; gaping wide-torn marks, done with brutal precision much like a sword would cut, yet mangling flesh and timber alike as if a beast rent through them with a single oversized hooked claw. Was this the work of marauders? She looked to the footprints, as much as she could make them out in the ground surface; her only aid were the bloodstains in determining the number of the attackers.

Just one. Only one.

As she came to this realization, she was feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. The possibilities as to who or what could have carried out this slaughter were fairly limited. Perhaps a higher vampire, or alternatively, someone extremely masterful with a weapon - a fellow witcher? Ciri remembered Geralt telling him of someone from the Cat school wiping out a village single-handedly. Ciri steadied herself, reaffirming her grip on the handle before going in further between the sad, empty houses. - "Just great." - she sighed. She felt like she was getting the hang of the trade, these peasants were actually receptive of her. There was even a bypassing young bard with an orange-colored, feathered hat who reminded her of Dandelion, singing some song of praise about a previous undertaking of hers back in Ursten. And there was the barkeep's daughter too, around her age, who looked at her like some infatuated puppy, giving her a free round, wishing her the best of luck.

And now lo and behold: some butchery-bent lunatic just absolutely had to kill them all while she wasn't there! It was all too infuriating. - "Melitele help me, when I find out who did this, I'm going to..." - Ciri whispered in a hissing tone, but didn't finish muttering her promise of excessive violence; she took notice as some crows flew away, and as their annoying voices left her hearing range, some other sounds crept closer to her. She faintly heard the trampling of a pair of thick leather boots. Good. She wouldn't have to keep tracking the bastard. He was coming to her instead. She tightened her hold on her sword, and gracefully, step by step, approached the direction where she suspected the culprit was trampling.

A tune was carried in the faint wind; Ciri couldn't make it out first, but then the voice of the man became clearer with every step. It was a deep baritone, oddly soothing, calm and reserved; not something one would expect of a serial killer.

"Wolves asleep amidst the trees, bats all a'swaying in the breeze..."

Ciri couldn't help but pause for a second. She knew that song. She turned right after the next wall she passed by, grinding her teeth behind closed lips in anticipation. A few more spaces, and she'll be out in the open - much like her would-be opponent, or so she wagered.

"But one soul lies anxious, wide awake..."

She stepped out to the open, well-trodden main street, the moonlight shining down brightly. And there he was, as expected; he was a lean man clad largely in black leather: boots, gloves, gambeson, worn over a beige shirt and some ugly green trousers. His hair and beard were sickly gray, his face sunken, with a couple of dreadful icy eyes, and a large, beak-like nose protruding forth. He carried with him some long iron chains with cuffs, wrapped and folded over his chest. At his side, he had a sword in a sheath, and his gloves and shoulder pads featured some crude metallic spikes, blatantly explicit of their bearer's sinister nature. And most peculiar of all: he had a medallion - very much like that of a witcher, but of no school that Ciri recognized.

Was he a witcher? That seemed implausible, considering the man clearly had normal, if fearsome eyes rather than the puss peepers that the witcher Trials resulted in. At any rate, he was holding one hand up, index finger extended, spinning an orange silk cap with a feather that Ciri immediately knew belonged to that kindly bard, now most likely counted amongst the fallen. The man seemed unphased by Ciri's sudden appearance; he continued his walk with paced-out, disciplined steps, almost theatrical with his body gestures as he finished the first part of his song:

"...fearing all manner of ghouls, hags and wraiths."

With that, he stopped, letting the headwear rest in his hand, putting a faint smile on his face. Ciri got the message; he was the show-off type. He wanted her to address him. The distance between them was fairly large, thirty foot or some more; he couldn't charge her without her expecting it. With that in mind, she lowered her blade, placed one hand on her hip before speaking up: - "Nice poem. But outdated and unbefitting. Witchers fear nothing." - the man stayed silent, apart from nodding ever so slightly, with a humoured glint in his eyes. Ciri pressed further: - "Who are you?"

The man seemed contemplative for a drawn-out moment. - "The ghost of Leo Bonhart. I came for your soul and titties. Boo-hoo!" - he said, chuckling mildly.

Ciri was not amused one bit, rolling her eyes in an irritated manner. - "Oh ha-ha. So funny I can barely laugh." - she kept a momentary silence as well before continuing: - "This massacre is your handywork, I assume?"

"Guilty as charged." - the man shrugged, entirely relaxed. - "It was in self-defense, mind you. I killed only those who raised arms. The rest, I let flee."

"How noble of you." - Ciri scoffed, her voice filled with contemptuous mockery. - "I can't imagine though why they would had been so disapproving of your presence."

The man dropped the one-time bard's fancy hat down to the dirt. - "Simple, really. They asked me what the hell I wanted. Now, miss, I'm an honest man, so I told them I was looking for a witcheress. They asked me why. I told them I wanted to catch her and slap this iron cuff around her neck. They objected with clubs and pitchforks. The rest..." - he extended his hand, waving it about, calling Ciri's attention to the miserable, abandoned wood-planked huts - "Well, it escalated quickly and ended abruptly, as the saying goes."

Ciri frowned, anger swelling within her. So, he not merely killed wantonly. Whoever he was, he was actively out for blood, hunting her specifically; and these folks, instead of selling her out behind her back, stood up for her, only to be cut down like helpless sheep, facing a ravenous predator. - "Normally, a witcher should not kill humans." - she stated as she took up a basic opening stance, with her sword pointing towards the butcher. - "But for you, I'll make an exception."

"If that's the case, switch weapons, lady." - the man raised her awareness to the fact she had her silver sword in her hand. - "That sword is for monsters."

He folded his arms, patiently waiting. Ciri, albeit begrudgingly, sheathed her silver sword and simultaneously drew the steel one with her other hand. Her eyebrows were twitching as she shifted her stance to a defensive one, wordlessly demanding the asshole to make the opening move. He, however, would not comply. - "Ladies should go first. We both know how this ends, so let me make it easier on you." - he turned around, arms stretched out, hands empty: - "Here, my back is exposed. How's that?"

Ciri's so far suppressed fury was reaching a boiling point. - "Rest assured, when you die, you'll be facing me." - she declared, and with long steps, she began to rush, then lunge, preparing to shift across the layers of the material realm to teleport, so she'd make good on her promise and skewer the madman from the front before he'd even begin to turn around...

...except that didn't come to pass. She stayed airborne as she leapt, her lunge insufficient to cover the distance between the man and her before gravity reclaimed its dominion over her. Frightened by her sudden loss of power, she shifted hold of her sword and turned the lunge into a rolling manouver, only for the man to turn about, dropping to one knee as he did, with his other leg extended, doing a swift swooping motion. His move didn't hit Ciri, but some of the dust and dirt his wide-footed boot kicked up landed in her face. She got back to her feet yelping, as her eyes watered themselves in instinctual response to the stingy foreign materials invading her sight; she was making short leaps backwards to distance herself until she got her eyesight back, wildly swinging her sword around.

She got imbalanced as she felt something hard hitting her on the head; most likely a tossed stone. Next thing she knew, she tripped, her sword dropping from her loosening grip. The man did not waste the opportunity; he closed the distance with ease and began wrestling her down. Ciri would not go down easily; she kicked the man first with her knee first, right in the stomach. He let out a grunt, but gritting his teeth, he kept up his offense and retaliated with a short kick of his own. Ciri felt the air forced out of her lungs as she dropped to the ground, but she didn't give up. She pushed her left elbow up, meeting the man's jaw. He dropped on his behind as he lost balance himself. Ciri's sight was still a hazy mess, but she could make out the sword she dropped. She reached out; just one swing, and she'd either give him a nasty cut or force him to back off...

The man was having none of it. Using his longer limbs, he hurled himself towards Ciri, holding her arm down with one hand and grabbing into her hair next. Ciri lashed out, swinging her head up in the man's nose, her hair ring ripping in the process. The man disregarded her attempts to break free of his hold, grunting angrily as he grabbed to her hair once again and wrenched her face down to the ground, then knelt with one leg upon her hand. She made one last counterattack with her free left hand, trying to backhand her attacker, but she simply couldn't muster enough momentum to be forceful. Fed up with her, the man raised her head by the hair and slammed it against the earth once. Twice. Thrice...

What started out in Ciri's heart as righteous anger was turning to a kind of sensation she thought she would never feel again, for she got superb at repressing it: she was afraid and vulnerable. The man forced her down, and unfolding the chains from his vest, he soon made good on his threat, cuffing her neck, her hair hurting as its long wave got caught in the metal's merciless embrace. She was defeated, crying out in pain.

The man was more annoyed than tired after his endeavor. - "That's it, little swallow. Let it all out." - he said, spitting on her. - "But don't worry; you'll soon have company. And you'll have the honor of watching the White Wolf expire before you."