Candles flickered uncertainly in the great banquet hall of Kaer Tiele, their scant light serving only to further highlight the dark shadows that clung to the ancient, mouldering stone of the stronghold. Beneath their glow, the hall's denizens noisily went about devouring the fare laid before them, a somewhat modest spread of cooked meats, stew, bread and strong cheeses. Mead and wine flowed freely between the hundred or so assembled Witchers, lifting their spirits even as the weight of the circumstances that had brought them together weighed upon all of their minds. True, many of them were fugitives of the state, the foremost among them was now a 'guest' of the Temerian king, and their last stronghold, the palatial Kaer Marter, was now occupied by the very Temerians the Witchers had dedicated their lives to protecting, but still the mood remained jovial, upbeat. A trio of bards. moved about amongst the monster hunters, spreading cheer with their song. An imperious Elven Sorceress glided smoothly between the long tables, a respectful, awestruck silence following her wherever she moved.

Frederick, the first Witcher of Asheberg and member of the School of the Griffin, watched all of this with a measure of incredulous curiosity. After everything they had been through these past few years, from the Kaer Marter Massacre, to the siege they had just barely survived, to the attack on Kaer Tiele itself, he found it hard to summon any joy at the sight of all of his friends and allies gathered together once more. Especially after what... after what he had seen in his visions.

He suppressed a shudder, trying to banish the memories of that night, in the Druids' Circle with Kartos, his flesh bathed in the cool waters of the Faerie Pools, his mind enlightened by the herbs of the Wandering Ways, essence purged by fire and strengthened by stone. The Rites of the Elements had been gruelling, almost too much even for a Witcher to bear, and yet nothing could have prepared him for what he would witness next. A fortress, the very one he sat in now, engulfed by flames. His friends, the Nightsabers, laying slain at his feet, their dead eyes pleading, accusing, helpless. Dirk's voice- no, his screams, echoing across the courtyard, then suddenly, violently cut short. And, finally, him. Gildarts Pran of Maribor, emerging from the flames, the markings on his face glowing with brilliant power. Disdain and arrogance exuding from every pore. A cruel sneer, a laughing challenge, a flare of power, and then, nothing. Nothing but blackness, death, and the sorrowful howl of a lone wolf.

The young Witcher started as a hand slapped down on his shoulder, the powerful presence of Njall by his side rousing him from his fearful thoughts. He managed a smile as he turned to greet his old Master, before that smile slipped a little on catching sight of his current mentor, the Witcher known as Dirk of Riverdell. Frederick managed to keep his lip from curling in irritation, his greeting of the Griffin Master stiff and formal. Pushing aside his irritations for the moment, Frederick turned to the food before him, able to find some comfort in a meal that consisted of more than mere moss and stewed mushrooms.

No sooner had the Nightsabers, Hilda, Morold and Petir among their number, gathered around a table to begin sharing tales of their exploits, than a servant bustled up to the group, his furtive stance causing him to stand out all the more. All around the feasting hall, keen yellow eyes flickered to the nervous shape, ears straining to listen in as the servant whispered anxiously in Dirk's ear.

The Griffin Master sat in silence for a long moment, expression almost as unreadable as the Griffin medallion that hung from his neck. His eyes narrowed just a hair as the corner of his lip turned downwards. He paused for a long moment, then slowly, purposefully, stood up, eyes darting to each Nightsaber around the table. His gaze paused for a long moment on Frederick. When he spoke, his words were clipped, terse.

"All of you, with me." Not a request, a command. Even Frederick, with his simmering resentment burning in his gut, did not think to contradict the Witcher.

The Nightsabers, without a word, stood to follow. All around the Hall, other Witchers stood, discreetly removing themselves from their groups. Special care was taken to avoid the attention of Commissar Strenger and his retinue. As the Nightsabers quickly followed Dirk, they soon found themselves at the heart of a cluster of about twenty or so Witcher adepts, of varying Schools and experience. Frederick even caught sight of a few fresh-faced individuals, clearly not having endured the rigours of the Trial of the Grasses yet, presumably swept along by older, more seasoned adepts. The Red Griffin withheld his judgement on such a decision, stern though it was. Whatever had Dirk so unnerved, it was not to be taken lightly. Silently, Frederick eased his way through the group to stand at his Master's shoulder.

"Dirk." It was a quiet announcement of his presence, although he was sure the Master was aware of him. "I seem to recall you asking me to confide in you if ever I was about to do something stupid, reckless or dangerous. Care to extend the same courtesy to me?"

The older Griffin stalked on a few more steps, not even deigning to glance sidelong at Frederick. When he finally spoke, it was in a low tone that the others could not hear.

"There has been a sighting of some monsters close by the castle. Too close. The peasant folk who reported it claim to have heard growls, howling in the night, massacred corpses. The signs, the trail of destruction described... it is all too familiar."

"Should we not alert the others at the castle?" Frederick asked. "Organise some defences? We have many young adepts here now, not ready to face anything bigger than a Ghoul or Mucknixer on their own. And as for the non-Witchers..."

"I know, Frederick, but with the Commissar here, and the eyes of Temeria upon us, we must be careful. We cannot be seen to fly into a panic at the slightest hint of a beast at our gates. Lennart wishes for us to appear strong on all fronts, unassailable. We need to deal with this quietly, and quickly."

Frederick could only nod, instead turning his attention to the uneven ground before him as the group made their way out of the castle, crossing the moat in quick succession and heading for the motley band of tents that had sprouted on the land before the fortress, home to the Commissar's men, and a few unfortunate Witchers unable to find a billet within the castle itself.

The dark night closed in around the Witchers, a few of the more seasoned ones having the sense to have brought torches with them to pierce the murk. Frederick, on the leading line of the troupe, needed no such aid, his feral yellow eyes well adapted to the gloomiest of conditions. He moved to keep ahead of the flames, looking to preserve his night vision as best as he could. At his side, Dirk unsheathed his sword, the silvered edge almost sparkling in the night. The young Griffin suppressed a groan as his hand moved towards the empty scabbard on his belt, his blade put aside as a show of good faith on arriving at the castle. Silently cursing such momentary forgetfulness, he instead reached up to his medallion, feeling the sharp points of the Griffin's beak and feathers elicit brief sparks of pain that coursed through his system, awakening deeper senses. As the brush underfoot thickened, the group slowed, until Frederick finally heard it.

The noise was deep, throaty, guttural. It reached down deep into the minds of all that heard it, playing upon ancient, animalistic instincts. Half roar, half howl, it betrayed the presence of a truly immense beast somewhere in the shadows. Soon, a cacophony of lesser howls, more mundane in nature, rose to join it, a chorus of beastly notes rising to the full moon far above.

The Witchers tensed, glancing all about in trepidation. Blades slithered out of sheathes, arrows nocked on bowstrings, and fists clenched in anticipation. Frederick, calling upon the teachings of Kartos and his Circle, eased his breathing, partially closing his eyes as he opened up deeper, more ancient senses. Calling upon the elemental teachings of his Druid allies, he reached out, communing with the world around himself. He could feel the minds of the Witchers closest to him, their thoughts tense, electric bundles of worry and nerves. He could sense Dirk by his side, a pillar of granite in the cluster of anxiety, although something darker, colder, lurked deep beneath the surface. Finally, he sensed the wider forest, spreading out around him in all directions. Vibrant rivers of arcane power surged beneath the soil, congregating nearby in potent places of power, rich pools of magic that a Witcher, or any arcanist for that matter, could easily draw upon. It was only as he found these, his mind brushing the surface of their reserves gently, respectfully asking for their aid, that his mind truly opened up, allowing him to perceive everything around him as clearly as one would during the bright midday sun. At last, he saw what he was looking for.

Dark shapes, like raging pillars of fire and smoke, loped through the trees, the life energy of the land recoiling from them in revulsion. Something deep within these beasts, which could perhaps at one time have been considered hounds, had corrupted them beyond any understanding. That corruption boiled within them, driving them to further extremes of rage and insanity with every moment. To exist was torment for them, their physical forms twisting to match their warped minds. A tendril of potent energy trailed out from the mind of each beast, all reaching back to weave together in the hands of something the likes of which Frederick had never seen. Morbidly curious, Frederick focused his mind.

Almost as if sensing his scrutiny, the creature shifted its focus, looking to the front line of the Witchers. Before the young Griffin could even shout a warning, the werewolf let loose a truly terrifying howl, and charged straight at the Witchers, at Dirk, at Frederick.