When the witcher woke, he was in dire need of a strong drink. He groaned, still not willing to open his eyes. Every single one of his newly acquired bruises made sure to let him know they were there, and even his old injuries added to the all-encompassing ache. Geralt's only reprieve came from the small knowledge that the pain in his arm had lessened to a dull throb. The witcher didn't know how well he could trust this Cregennan, but the spirit had managed to help – though Geralt could have done without the runic burns now permanently adorning his left wrist.

The wind whistled through the cracks amid Kaer Morhen's fortress walls. Its halls empty save for himself, at least until the coming winter when Eskel and Lambert would hopefully return. Geralt lay there, eyes closed amid the broken fragments of a wooden table and the scattered remains of what had laid upon its rough surface: paper, books, and cracked clay jars whose powdered contents smelled fiercely of sulfur. He groaned. Yennefer wasn't going to be happy. Even if he still had his horse, there was no way he was going to make it from the Blue Mountains back to the Nilfgaardian capital within his given week. Especially, since its end was noon tomorrow.

A startled lark chirped angrily from its nest amid the crumbled ruins of an ancient windowsill high above.

Its shrill cry eventually moved Geralt from his rather uncomfortable spot and into the kitchen adjacent to the grand hall where he had appeared.

He scavenged the kitchen's nearly barren pantries, finding only a small bottle of White Gull. The mildly hallucinogenic alcohol would do. Geralt leaned up against the long wooden bench that ran across the kitchen's center, not caring to put in the extra effort to sit down at it properly, and uncorked the strong-smelling witcher concoction. The liquid burned as it went down his throat, but left behind a pleasant tingling sensation. He took another draught, and mulled it over in his mouth before swallowing.

Geralt would have to replace his steel sword, not to mention what he had left in Roach's saddle bags. Fortunately, Kaer Morhen and its surrounding mountain sides was a good place to do so. "Sorry." A voice whispered in his head. The bottle in hand halted its progress to the witcher's lips. He looked around the sparsely equipped kitchen, half expecting to see the ghostly visage of who had spoken.

"Is this going to be a regular thing?" Geralt addressed the empty room. The witcher waited, drinking more of the White Gull, but seemed to have gotten no response, at least not immediately.

"It is… harder… to speak to you through the enchantment… than I had anticipated…" The voice was breathy as if its owner had just run a marathon.

Slightly annoyed at the burning sensation that had started there, Geralt's eyes drifted to the marks now glowing on his wrist. "What did you do?"

"Only what I had to…"

"Which is?" Pressed the witcher. Harsh experience had taught Geralt to wary of mages, and to have one literally in his head was even worse.

"I understand your… distrust. But I… assure you that I only did what I had to, to keep… us alive…"

You mean, you only did what you could to keep yourself alive. The witcher thought bitterly. I wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for you.

Geralt didn't know if the spirit could hear his thoughts, but judging from the silence that followed, he suspected Cregennan could.

"Yes. It is my fault… that you are now… involved," came Cregennan's eventual reply.

"What was supposed to happen? The elf said you were trying to take my body…?" Geralt finished the last bitter drops of the White Gull and placed the empty glass bottle on the table beside him.

"That had… been… my intent…"

The witcher crossed his arms over his chest. "What changed?"

"I… had not anticipated… that I would be… discovered by a witcher… I had assumed you to be… merely a bandit. My mistake… had been to cast a… polymorph spell… to turn your body into… mine as you struck the Saov Llestr…"

"And that caused those black marks."

"Yes. The spell's… progression… is too slow. My form has… proven… to not have… the resistance necessary to compensate…"

Geralt looked at his arm again. Faded black marks stained its flesh, and he understood. The screams of children, long since dead, filled his ears. Each child eventually silenced as the witchers' secret mutagens claimed their brief lives. Out of the ten children who had begun the witcher training, he had been one of the lucky three who had survived the final trials.

"Why not move to another host?" The witcher didn't wish the spirit on another, but he was nothing if not curious as to why the spirit continued to remain.

Cregennan seemed to laugh, though it was nothing more than a hollow echo. "That would… have been easier, yes… but I fear I had naught… the opportunity. I was disoriented… when I first gained… control. And your sorceresses… only further… muted my… influence with their magic…"

"And now?"

"The… runes I burned into your… flesh to halt the… transformative process, prevents me… from garnering enough of my… self… to depart."

"Then I'm stuck with you."

"An unfortunate… side effect, but… Yes."

Great. Geralt wiped his hand down his face, from temples to chin, and sighed. "What of your elf friend?"

"Skj'aera… is hardly my… ally, nor is he yours… especially… after the… humiliation you've dealt… him. He… will follow us. It is… only a matter of time… before he traces where… the portal sent us."

"Then we face him."

"Foolish. You'd only be−" Cregennan's voice trickled away, and with it went the runes' glow and the burning sensation from around Geralt's wrist.

"Cregennan?" Geralt asked the empty air. Regardless of how long he waited there was no answer. The presence he had felt was gone.

Once again, Geralt was left with his own thoughts. Mostly he doubted how much he could actually trust Cregennan. Something just didn't seem to fit. If it truly was Cregennan's will that drove the metal sphere he had found over a week now, then why had he tried to and nearly succeed in killing the witcher? Absentmindedly, he touched the healing scar that covered his right shoulder.

Geralt didn't completely buy Cregennan mistaking him for a bandit. Even if Cregennan had, once Geralt used his magic it would have been clear that he wasn't. If anything he would have been mistaken for… a sorcerer. An elven sorcerer. Dammit. What has he gotten himself into? Cregennan must have been trying to kill him, and using magic just aggravated the spirit further during his battle.

But another question remained. Why did Cregennan change his mind and try to meld with Geralt instead?

Pushing away from the kitchen's table, he headed back into the hall, trying to ignore the lark that had started trilling at him again. The noise stopped when the witcher cast Aard in the bird's general direction. After shaking out its ruffled feathers, it looked at him rather indignantly and settled quietly back into its nest.

Geralt knelt beside the large trunk where he kept the various gear he acquired while traveling the Path. He pawed past the assortment of monster trophies, trinkets, runestones, and armor, eventually getting to the ever-growing collection of swords stored along the trunk's bottom. His hands closed around the only sabre in the box. The sword's previous owner had called it Iris, and Geralt – never good at naming things – kept the name as is.

He drew the sabre from its sheath and inspected its razor edge. It was strangely unmarred by its time in the chest, and a peculiar numbness radiated from the blade, deadening feeling in the fingers that held it. The sabre was a hungry one, and even through the thick leather of his glove the witcher could feel it trying to draw on his vitality to enhance its own strength. The once immortal Olgierd might have at one time had plenty of life to feed it, but Geralt was only mortal, and as such, chose to store the enchanted blade safely away. Using the blade was a gamble, but its added power may prove to be the winning factor in his inevitable confrontation.

Geralt did not share Cregennan's fear of Skj'aera, and while the witcher hated to admit it, earlier he had been caught unprepared. He was not going to let happen again. Now, in this peaceful lull, was the time to ready for the coming battle. It was time to oil his blades. To brew potions that could be drunk on a moment's notice which would heal or temporarily enhance his nearly superhuman abilities. He would face this just as he would for any other challenge, and he would face it alone.

The witcher removed the empty scabbard from his back and tossed it to the side; replacing it instead with the sabre's open-ended sheath. He stood and slid the sabre into place, where it settled into the sheath with an angry snap. The sabre's draining ability stifled by the metal and leather now encasing it.

He turned his attention towards the broken table he had arrived on, and the surrounding wooden shelves lined with the preserved ingredients Geralt would need for various potions he would be concocting. He grabbed a handful of empty vials and pulled several clay jars from their spots, setting them aside on an intact table nearby.

The witcher needed Dwarven Spirits, and lots of the vibrant green alcohol to act as a base for the potions he was to brew.

Despite Geralt's earlier fruitless search of the kitchen, searching through Eskel's own chest bore at least meager results. The less than ideal amount of Dwarven Spirit meant the witcher had to prioritize the potions he had initially thought of preparing.

Geralt scratched at the stubble on his chin and finally decided on Blizzard, Swallow, and the Forktail Decoction. While tempted to create Tawny Owl to boost his stamina, the potential concentration of toxins in his system could prove fatal and without excess Spirit to create the neutralizing potion, White Honey, it wasn't worth the trade off. Hopefully, the reflex-enhancing Blizzard potion would make the stamina he had for the fight last.

He started a fire in the large pit shared between the kitchen and the grand hall and set three small pots to warm at its edge. With a mortar and pestle he ground down the individual ingredients. For Blizzard: the large white myrtle petals and the stone-like golem's heart. For Swallow: the vibrant yellow celandine flowers, and dried Drowner brain. And for the Forktail Decoction: the orange tight-clustered flowers of Moley arrow, Bryonia stems, and the namesake Forktail mutagen that Geralt had acquired personally from the 'dragon' contract he took up on the Skellige Isles. He distributed the respective collections of ingredients into the three pots, topping each with what was left of the Dwarven Spirit.

The potions would need to boil for an hour, giving Geralt time to raid the ruined mess of the fortress's armory. He didn't have time to construct the bombs he wanted, but hopefully a few remained among the wreckage.

The last time any thought had been given towards clearing the rubble was when the witchers' were under siege from the Wild Hunt, and even then the final decision had been to instead strengthen the crumbling walls. The witcher sighed when he finally reached it because the armory had fallen further into a worse state than Geralt remembered.

Brown rats scurried underfoot, and a dozen eyes watched him from the crevices formed by the fallen stone and broken shelving. A crate lay unmolested from the ceiling's collapse, yet was nearly unreachable thanks to a gaping hole leading to the main floor below. Knowing his luck, it likely contained what he was looking for. Geralt cleared a small path to the edge of the hole, and lined himself up with the far wall. His muscles tensed then released as he rushed towards the empty space.

It occurred to him that the ancient wood, in dire need of repair, might not hold his weight. But Geralt didn't have much time to ponder as he soared over the gap. The floorboards groaned then snapped, the wood unable to withstand the shock of his landing. His hands shot out, finding purchase on a large support beam, his arms snapping taut. The beam bowed and creaked, but ultimately held his weight. The witcher breathed, "I'm getting too old for this," and hauled himself back up.

Tentatively, Geralt edged towards the crate, pausing occasionally when the floor threatened to break under him. Using the edge of his hunting knife, the witcher pried up the crate's nailed-on lid. Pushing aside the straw, he found what he was looking for. Several varieties of explosives had been carefully packed together. He found several grapeshot bombs, a dimeritium bomb and a Northern Wind. He had expected the shrapnel filled Grapeshot, but the magic blocking Dimeritium and the freezing Northern Wind had been a pleasant surprise. Now came the issue of getting them across the gap. Tossing the box across wasn't an option, and the thought of leaping over with somewhat sensitive bombs in his pockets didn't strike him as a good option either.

Scratching by his ear caught his attention. The quivering whiskers of a mouse poked through the gap in the masonry, and Geralt found his answer. On this side of the wall he wouldn't have to worry about the ceiling collapsing on him if he used Aard to break the wall – there wasn't much left to fall on him. He formed the sign and the kinetic force blew out the loose stonework. Distraught squeaks fell on deaf ears as the witcher stepped over the rubble with his cargo in hand.

He returned to the hall where the potions were coming to a slow boil. Setting the box down a safe distance from the spitting fire, Geralt returned to the potions. With iron tongs he pulled the pots away and set them down on the floor. He watched the mixtures cool, eventually corking the contents in small glass vials that he tucked into loops stitched into the lining of his jerkin. The bombs he placed into specialized pockets, two along each hip. The extra Grapeshot bombs that he had no room for, he left nestled on top of the straw for easier retrieval later. The witcher was as prepared as he was going to be, and he hoped it would be enough.

For the time being, he would not sleep, at least not fully. In their brief conversation, Cregennan had given Geralt no indication of how much time they had, but from the spirit's urgency it could be anywhere from mere hours to a few days before they were tracked to the witcher's fortress. Geralt would wait, more specifically, meditate. It would leave him in a waking sleep allowing him to react at any sign of his surroundings changing, but still preserving his energies. The witcher knelt against the stone floor, feeling the dwindling fire against his back. He closed his eyes and waited, allowing his mind to drift.


Cregennan opened his eyes, and stood stiffly. His control over the witcher's body had been lessened somewhat by the runes. He had been forced to wait for the witcher's consciousness to lessen, and as much as the magic at work was preventing both his and the witcher's mutual destruction, their continued hindering effects were proving to be a nuisance. Like what happened earlier, any attempts the spirit made to displace the witcher otherwise had proven impossible and left him completely drained.

The spirit shook his borrowed head. So much more was at stake than just the witcher's pride. If Skj'aera came alone, the witcher may have been able to fight toe to toe, possibly even win. But Skj'aera wouldn't be coming at them alone, not after his previous failure. For now, while Cregennan had control, they would flee. For the sake of all humans past, present, and future, he must not be caught.