These are the chronicles of Kaer Marter, home to the Witcher School of the Cat, as told by the Witcher apprentice, Frederick of Asheberg.
The night air was still, motionless save for the shimmering heat of the dozen or so torches that encircled the courtyard of The castle and the heavy breathing of several dozen youngsters, all standing in haphazard lines on the cracked and worn stone slabs. Before them, rearing up into the shadows of the night like some primordial creature risen from the depths of the soil, stood the imposing bulk of Kaer Marter. Once an elven palace of impassable beauty, the weight of time and tragedy rested heavily upon its eaves, the tall and elegant spires and towers dark with grim knowledge of misdeeds past. This was no longer a place of culture and grace. Now, it was the abode of blood and magic, of peril and fire. The home of the ones called Witchers.
The foreboding aura of the castle was not lost on the newly recruited students gathered before it, waiting with tense dread for its inhabitants to reveal themselves. The unknown creatures who would come forth to claim them as their students.
In the midst of the throng, a fresh-faced youth glanced all about, anxiety thrumming through every fibre of his being. A shock of russet hair adorned his head, cut roughly by a village barber for no more than a few pennies. Beneath his brows, eyes of blue and green stared out at the world, taking in every detail with awe. A black shirt was draped across his portly form, matching trousers several sizes too large for him cascading down to pool around his feet awkwardly, obscuring the black leather boots he wore. A gambeson, much too small for him, awkwardly curled around his generous paunch, straining across his back as he fiddled with buckles on the front that refused to fasten. Pale skin glistened with sweat, for even though night had well and truly fallen, the heat radiating from the stone beneath the feet of all the students was intense, a testament to the heat of the day just ended. The young man folded his hands behind his back, making an awkward knot from his fingers. Frederick, for that was his name, tried to stabilise his breath, knowing that he looked like a flower trembling in the wind, all too easily swept away.
All eyes turned to the castle at a loud rattling noise, the wide doors groaning open as a single figure burst through, swift purpose in his gait. Practical leather armour defined his powerful frame, clearly well maintained and matched for neatness only by the neat moustache and tightly trimmed beard he sported. Dark eyes glared out at the assembled youngsters before him, his lips twisting with something approaching disgust. He muttered something under his breath, somewhere between a sigh and a curse, then stepped up to tower over the crowd, standing atop the steps leading up to the castle's main doors.
"Alright." His barking voice was fierce, but calm, measured. "Four rows."
There was a moment's hesitation as the students looked to one another. That soon ended, though, as the glowering man's voice roared like a thunderclap.
"NOW, for fuck's sake!" He began to pace as the youngsters scurried before him like deer before a wolf pack. "You're not ladies sitting around at court. When I command you to do something, you do it immediately and without question." He glared as the crowd bunched together, a confused mess. "I said ROWS! FOUR OF THEM! Are you stupid, or just useless? MOVE!"
The baffled mess somehow straightened out into something resembling a formation, students bumping against one another clumsily as they found their places. As they did so, Frederick found himself in the foremost row, gazing up at the Witcher, for he had no doubts that was who stood atop the steps, now no longer alone. Several figures stood at his side, all sporting gleaming medallions depicting snarling cats. They muttered among themselves, shaking their heads in equal parts amusement and disdain as they regarded their new arrivals. One, a young man with shadowy eyes and a scornful expression, stalked down the steps and approached the students. He began to drag his foot along the slabs, touching the points of each new recruit's toes and tracing a line across the front row. As he approached Frederick, his foot slammed into the youngster's, and his hooded eyes locked with Frederick's, dark venom gleaming in his gaze.
"You call that a straight line?" He asked, mockery in his voice. "Move. Back. And figure out what the fuck a straight line is supposed to look like."
Frederick tried to meet his gaze, but could only lock eyes with the Witcher for a fleeting moment before he felt his eyes twist downwards, his heart pounding as he shuffled his feet back the inch or so needed to meet the Witcher's demand.
The Witcher moved on, continuing to make disapproving noises as he forced the students into line. At the top of the steps, the other onlookers murmured their disdain. One, a slight woman with a light brown hood, looked upon the students with eyes like burning black coals, a sneer on her lips as she leaned to speak to one of her fellows.
"Pathetic. I wager not even one in twenty will survive the trials."
"Look how their lips tremble in fear." Another Witcher sneered. "That one. She looks as if she wants to cry."
"Oh, she will." The slight Witcher chuckled, an ugly noise in the night. "I will make sure of that."
Ignoring his fellows and their taunts, the first Witcher scanned the newly formed ranks with a neutral expression.
"Okay, finally!" He declared. "Took you long enough. If we'd been mustering for battle, the enemy would have overrun us and taken the castle by now. For the future, when I tell you to get in formation, you fucking do it! We are Witchers, we do not make requests, and you..." He placed his hands on his hips, head swivelling to meet the eyes of some of the young hopefuls. "You are students, you are not in a position to question orders or refuse commands. If I catch you disobeying one of the masters, I will make your life so miserable that the pyres of the Eternal Flame would be a relief in comparison. Now..."
He began pacing, his movements subtle, quick, precise. While in motion, he gave off the impression of a predator on the hunt. The students waited, watching him cautiously, until he spoke again, his voice cutting through the night like a knife.
"Welcome to Kaer Marter, home of the School of the Cat. I am Master Bastian. It will be my job, over the next few months, to transform your sorry arses into ruthless killing machines, the perfect weapon for hunting and slaying the monsters that plague our lands." His voice dropped. "I definitely have my work cut out." He straightened, voice rising again. "But I will not be doing this alone. With me are several masters of the Witcher trade, veterans of the School of the Cat. It is their task to instruct each of you in the individual skills that a Witcher must master."
At this, the first of his colleagues stepped forward, a woman of powerful stature, hand resting idly on the hilt of a blade at her hip, although the way the fingers curled around the pommel of the sword warned that the weapon was one she was all too familiar with, an extension of herself that would prove to be deadly in her hands. She surveyed the students with stony eyes, nestled beneath auburn locks. Her voice, although soft, held a power behind it that demanded the attention of all present.
"I am Master Elinor. It will be my task to teach you the ways of the blade, to ensure that your blows strike clean and true. If you will listen, and do as I command, you will perhaps survive your first hunt. If not, you will die, and the ghouls shall take your corpse."
She stepped back, allowing another Witcher, the slight figure in the hood, to step forward. A trinket of some kind adorned her brow, gleaming silver against the tresses of red that framed her graceful yet hardened features. Those burning black eyes blazed as she spoke in a voice so low that many struggled to hear it.
"I am Vreni, Master of Signs here at Kaer Marter. I will teach you to commune with the powers that flow beneath the surface of this world, and give you the tools to gain mastery over them. You will listen to my instruction, or those same powers will gain mastery over you and burn you up."
The next Witcher stepped forward, and he was perhaps the most unimposing of the gathered figures. He leaned heavily on a cane, walking with a pronounced limp. This man wore no armour, sported no weapon, and instead favoured clothing more in the style of a nobleman or a scholar. A number of students creased their brows in confusion, uncertain of what to make of this new figure. All confusion passed instantly, however, when the Master began speaking, his voice sharp, as resolute as the stone beneath his feet, his eyes piercing as they darted about through the gathering. As he spoke, mouth twisting sharply beneath a razor-sharp moustache that was clearly carefully maintained, his voice commanded the attention of all present, a strength behind it that his elegant appearance hid away.
"I am Master Lennart. My lessons shall arm you for the battles where you will face the most dangerous monsters of all, the men who claim to be human but could not be further from it. If you cannot heed my warnings, then you should RUN!" His voice rose sharply, making the faint of heart jump anxiously. "Or you will die. That is all."
As Master Lennart stepped back, the fourth Master, the same one with the dark eyes who had confronted Frederick about getting in line, spoke up. Unlike his colleagues, he lounged lazily over the back of one of the marble lions that guarded either side of the steps, he stifled a languorous yawn.
"I am Kilian. I am versed in the ways of alchemy and potion-making. I'll show you how to blow shit up." He shrugged, going back to laying across the statue, watching the students with a sardonic smile. Bastian glared at him for a moment, but received no response, so turned to the next of the group.
This next Witcher stood with one hand on his hip, watching the proceedings with open scorn. He scratched idly at his chest through his open shirt, mouth twisting with distaste as he examined the front row of students. His beard twitched as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, clearly bored.
"I am Algir. My classes will teach of the monsters that you must face in the wilds, their biology, their strengths, their weaknesses. Without my teachings, any hunt you depart on will be a death sentence for you. So fucking pay attention!"
His last words cracked through the air like the snap of a whip before he turned to nod his head to Bastian, who turned to the last of the masters, seated at the foot of the steps. At first, this final Witcher did not respond, until a sharp jab of Bastian's foot roused him from the daze he had slipped into.
This final master looked more like a bear than a man, almost seven foot in height, with powerfully built arms and legs to match his tall frame. Muscular and grim of face, it was obvious to all present that he was a Skelliger, fit to be a leader of one of their infamous raiding parties. Long, unkempt hair the colour of straw cascaded down past his shoulders, matched by the untamed beard that covered most of his face. A tattoo covered his right temple, a triangular symbol that many would assume to be Druidic in origin, while in his hand sat a massive horn, cut from a bull or an of of enormous proportions. The liquid in this drinking vessel steamed in the night, a few droplets of thick foam running down the side to meet the Witcher's fingers. His other hand fondled the haft of a war axe, runic symbols playing their way up the handle towards the burnished steel head of the weapon, well worn and notched as evidence of many prior battles, even while the blade itself was wickedly sharp.
The Skelliger stood, his black armour creaking. His voice, heavily accented, slurred a little as he took another gulp from his horn.
"I am Njall, of Ard Skellig." He rumbled. "I was born to the storms and the sea, a child of the rage of my people. The ways of battle are in my blood. The killing of monsters is in my blood. Obey me, and follow my example, and these ways shall become a part of you as well. I will make you strong, and if you will learn. If you will not... then you are dead anyway. I care not."
The Skelliger sat back down, turning his attention once more to his mead. All eyes turned back to Bastian, and then to the figure who emerged from the castle behind him, striding forward in silence. Many intakes of breath could be heard as the newcomer stepped forward, acknowledging Bastian with barely a nod before his eyes turned to the students. The way that the other Witchers acted around him, it was clear that he held much respect in the eyes of his fellows. Even the languid Master Kilian straightened up at his approach.
Piercing black eyes glimmered darkly beneath brows heavy with the weight of experience, hair once black as night now streaked through with dashes of grey. A well-trimmed beard and moustache encircled a strict mouth, lips pressed together with grim determination as the nostrils of a sharp and defined nose flared, testing the night air. His posture was straight as an arrow, his arms folded in front of himself imposingly. Red and black armour gleamed spotlessly in the torchlight, the fur collar of a red lined cape shifting ever so slightly in the gentle movements of the air. Here stood a Witcher with years, decades of experience, every lesson earned through many trials, and paid for in blood and sweat, but never tears. The terrible eyes and grim expression flickered to Frederick for but a moment before moving on to the next student, but it was enough to send shivers down his spine. In those eyes lay the warnings of a thousand difficult decisions, of hundreds of regrets, of a life dedicated to a cause no matter the pain and suffering endured. When he spoke up, his voice cracked with age, but still fielded enough power to command the ears of all around himself. His tone was soft, but beneath the surface there was a hardness, like steel.
"Greetings. I am Treysse, Grand Master of the School of the Cat. This is my school, and you are my students. Over the next few months, you will be trained to become Witchers. You will try to come to understand our ways and master our arts. You will try, but many of you will fail. Many of you..." His eyes swept over the crowd again, stony, emotionless. "will die. I care not. I am not here to weep over the corpses of weaklings. I am here to find the strong, and make them stronger. Of those of you who do survive, many will come to despise me and my staff. Again, I care not. We are not your friends. We are not here to ensure that you have a good time. We will not waste our efforts on those destined to fail."
"In time, if you survive..." He raised a finger. "If. Then you shall become one of us. A monster hunter. A Witcher. It is not a life of comfort, nor is it the easy path. Many will hate you for the choices you must make, some of them among the ranks of your fellow Witchers. This matters not. For the path Witchers walk along is not the path of good or evil, nor is it the path of fame and renown. It is the path of doing what is right, regardless of what its costs us. When you set off on the hunt, you will be alone, and you must decide what is right for yourselves, but know this..."
Tension boiled in the air as the Grand Master paused.
"If you ever bring disgrace upon this School or the Witcher's within, then death will be the least of your worries, for the suffering that I shall bring down upon you shall be swift and inescapable. It shall make drowning in ghoul shit and being torn apart by drowners seem like a luxury in comparison."
He turned to face his fellow Witchers, nodding grimly.
"Master Bastian, break them."
As the other Witcher stepped forth, the Grand Master strode to the doors, turning on his heel to watch the proceedings.
Bastian stopped at the top of the steps, looking about with a cruel grin.
"I don't know what cruel destiny or cursed fate brought you here. I don't know why some of you have been forsaken by the gods or abandoned by your families. But I know one thing- you are in my world now, and that is a world of pain, of sacrifice, of misery. I will make you suffer, ever moment of every day until you drop, and then I will revive you so we can do it all over again. You will exercise until you know no more than the sweat dripping into your eyes and the fire blazing within your muscles. Now drop."
Students scrambled to get down on the ground, some kneeling, others lying on their bellies, still others propping themselves on hands and knees. Frederick placed his hands square in front of himself, fingers spread wide as his knees pushed painfully into the hard stone. Already his breathing felt tight as Master Bastian barked out once more.
"We'll start with some push-ups. You will keep doing them for as long as I command. If I demand that you keep doing them for an hour, you will keep doing them for an hour. If I tell you to keep going for six months, you'd fucking better still be going six months from now. Now MOVE! Let's see some goddamned sweat out there!"
The silence of the courtyard was rapidly replaced with the frenzied gasps of the students, the gathered throng dissolving into a pool of rippling bodies, waves of motion as they lowered themselves to the ground and thrust back up again. Some would plummet to the ground, smacking against the slabs with a meaty slap, then thrust themselves up again with a sharp push from their hands and a rapid exhalation. Others were more measured, more constant, their rhythm smooth and practiced. Some would drop, then lay gasping for a second or two before shaking hands would slowly hoist them upwards again, rivers of sweat already streaming from red faces with blown out cheeks and puckered lips. Frederick started out well, he assumed, a nice, even pace, but after a mere ten or so of the motions, the fire kindled within his arms. His breath became ragged, desperate. Already he could feel a few drops of sweat winding their way through the roots of his hair, tickling at the back of his ears, and circling around his eyes. And then he saw boots striding past him.
"What a sad bunch." It was the one called Kilian. "What do the recruiters think to achieve by sending such weaklings our way?"
"They don't care what they send to us." Bastian spat. "They don't have to train them, to find some kind of pearl among this pile of pig shit. They don't have to burn the bodies when their 'prospectives' turn out to be a useless bunch of layabouts."
"Hey, brothers! Look at this one!"
The voice was obviously Algir's. To Frederick's dismay, the boots had stopped immediately in front of him. One, presumably Algir, crouched down, a pair of knees hovering close to the ground as the Witcher leaned in for a closer look.
"Fat wrists and fat fingers." The Witcher observed, his voice leering, mocking. "I doubt he has endured a single day's hard work. Probably spends all of his days at the whorehouses."
"Have you gone daft, Algir?" This voice was female, though Frederick dared not look up and see to whom it belonged. "With stamina like that? He wouldn't keep it together long enough to handle a woman. His cock probably withered and dropped off years ago from not being used." Her laugh was cruel, piercing the air. "No... this whelp spends all his time at the banquet table, stuffing his fat little face. Isn't that right, whelp?"
Frederick did not answer, instead pouring every fibre of his being into keeping going. Up and down. Up and down. If he stopped, with the masters watching him so closely, he knew he would be sure to pay for it, an example to the other students. His face boiled red, not just from the strain of his exercises, but also from the shame of the Witcher's words. He continued on in silence, save for his gasping, frantic breaths.
There was a long pause, then a snort, equal parts amusement and irritation, before one of the sets of boots marched off. Algir, still kneeling close to Frederick's head, chuckled.
"Smart move, little fat whelp." He sneered. "I like you. But that won't save you from the training. Keep going. Faster!"
A hand pushed down on Frederick's back, shoving him into the cooling stone. With a laugh, the Witcher was gone, proceeding down the line as the youngster tried to regain his balance. He lifted his head laboriously, sweat blurring his vision. He was aware of a final pair of massive boots standing before him, their owner gazing down at him, but he couldn't lift his head to see who. Finally, as the youngster resumed his exercises, the enormous boots turned and walked away, following the other Witchers. There was a gulping sound, a few droplets of steaming, sweet-smelling liquid splashed across the slabs, and the silent observer was gone. The torturous exercises continued.