Frederick found himself sorted into Master Toril's group, the young adept given the task of holding the torch close by while the Witcher led her half dozen followers. Even with the blazing torch in his hand, the former mage's apprentice was hard pressed to discern anything in the darkness of the forest. He squinted his eyes, but found it impossible to move with the certainty that Toril was capable of. As the Witcher raised a hand, guiding the young man around a deep rabbit hole that he had failed to spot, Frederick felt a compulsion to speak up.
"I can't see a blasted thing! How can you navigate in such gloom?"
Toril paused, turning to the adept. A small smile brushed across her features.
"Of course, I forget that you fresh-bloods don't have the same advantages that we do."
She leaned close to the adept, close enough that he could smell the scent of crushed leaves and damp mud on her cloak. Her eyes hovered a few scarce inches from his own, their glowing yellow light bright in the dark hollow of their sockets. As her gaze locked with his, he noted the long, vertical black slots of her pupils. The opening narrowed, then widened, then narrowed again. Frederick's own eyes widened in response as he realised these inhuman orbs were changing on command, not in response to the flickering of the torch. The smirk on Toril's features grew a little deeper as she moved away, clearly enjoying the adept's uncertainty and surprise at her inhuman attributes.
"Most, but not all, Witchers are granted extraordinary vision as an after-effect of the Trial of Grasses. It allows us to control our vision at will, within reason. We cannot see in pitch black conditions, at least not without the aid of a Cat potion, but we can see with great accuracy in lower light, pick out even minute details long after the sun has set. An overcast sky at night is to us as a blazing torch." She glanced back over her shoulder, yellow eyes flashing again. "Survive the Trial, adept, and you too shall have-"
The Witcher froze, a hand darting out in a firm, commanding gesture, bringing the adepts to a halt. As Frederick paused, shifting his grip on the torch in readiness, Hilda, Darren, Morold, Merinea and Krenai all gathered around him, watching Toril anxiously. Slowly, as though she feared that the motion would make too much noise, she lifted a hand to point off into the trees ahead.
A small, flickering light could be seen, a warm orange glow like a fallen star in the midst of the woods. A shadow shifted next to it, humanoid. As the adepts watched breathlessly, two more joined it, standing around what must have been a campfire.
Suddenly, a blood-curdling shriek tore through the night, a chilling, primal howl. One of the figures at the fire stiffened, head thrown back as their lungs let loose with all of their might. They collapsed to the ground, the other two figures decending upon them in an instant. Toril glanced to her students for but a moment, a decision made in an instant.
"Move up. Quickly!"
The adepts rushed through the trees, keeping low as they darted towards the fire, Frederick in their midst, keeping the torch aloft while trying not to set the woods alight. They charged out into the small clearing with the fire at its heart.
Frederick stumbled to a halt as his eyes adjusted to the bright light cast by the fire, taking in the sight of the... creatures around it. 'Creatures' was the only word he could use, for they had long since ceased to be anything resembling Human. Their bodies were misshapen, limbs elongated, fingers twisted and stretched like vicious claws. Rib cages buckled and bent under contorted muscles. Their faces were disfigured, monstrous. Eyes burned with a reddish-yellow glow, teeth like hooked fangs jutted out past torn, bloody lips. Layers of skin sloughed off in ragged sheets, almost as if melting away under intense heat.
The creatures spun at the arrival of the adepts, reaching for their belts and drawing blades, moving to stand defensively over their fallen comrade, writhing in the mud as he groaned in agony. As they brought their weapons to bear, Frederick realised he recognised them. The blades bore the same hilt as the ones from the castle armoury, clearly forged by the same blacksmith. As he took in this detail, a glimmer of silver around the neck of one of the creatures drew his eye, a dancing, flickering flash of metal. The adept shifted his grip on the torch, and the item came into focus. Frederick's breath caught in his throats as he realised what he was looking at- a medallion depicting a snarling, feral cat. The insignia of the School of the Cat. A Witcher's trinket.
"Assassins!" One of them snarled, his voice little more than a wild growl. "Killers sent to eliminate us!"
"Wait!" Darren stepped out from the group, hand raised in a placating gesture. "Hold on! We're not here to fight you!"
"Lies!" The taller of the two shouted, his eyes wild. "Lies from the monsters of Kaer Marter! You were sent here to kill us! Who sent you? Was it Meinard, trying to clean up his mess? Or was it Treysse, trying to atone for the sins he permits under his roof?"
"Neither!" Hilda stepped forward. "We have no wish to kill you!" With slow, careful movements, the Skelliger lowered her weapon, laying it on the ground. "Just slow down, and maybe we can help you."
"No, Nononono..." The tall one, presumably the leader of the troupe, began to pace back and forth. "No... you LIE!"
The shout bounces between the trees, disturbing a roosting bird somewhere nearby. The monstrous creature raises his sword.
"We're telling the truth!" Hilda insists. "We want to help. Tell me, who are you?"
The tall creature, the leader of the not-Witchers, began to pace back and forth, clutching at his head.
"He- he promised us- he said we would grow stronger, that we would-" He groaned, clutching at his side. "That his potions could help us to survive, to improve our chances. He- he.."
A scream fought to escape from his throat, caught behind a cage of clenched teeth. He doubled over, arms wrapped around his stomach. He retched, struggling to keep something down. Mouthfuls of wet matter hit the ground with a loud smack, gobbets of lumpy phlegm that glistened in the faint torchlight. He straightened, his eyes blazing with fury.
"He lied to us!" He screamed. "He tore us open, ripped us apart, and for what?! To become monsters, to die and be reborn and die again, ripped apart in agony. His words are venom! Lies to corrupt us all!"
"Who are you talking about?" Darren asked. "Who lied to you?"
"Meinard!" The single word was almost a roar, the creature's voice creaking as he lowered his fists to his sides. "The bastard killed us all, and made our bodies into these... things!"
He spun to face Hilda, arm outstretched to point a threatening finger. The Witcher adepts tensed, suspecting an attack, some gripping their weapons more tightly. Frederick shifted his grip on his own blade.
"He made us into beasts for his own sick amusement!" He growled. "Nothing but blood and fire and madness, scraping at the insides of our minds."
"Alright, just keep calm." Darren held out his hand in a warning gesture, his other rising to point towards his fellow Nightsabers. "We all just need to stay calm." His hand moved to point to his chest. "We want to help you. Tell us what we can do to help."
"You want to help?" The tall one wheezed. Slowly, he resumed his pacing. "Fine. You can help. Bring us Meinard."
"What?" Darren asked, taking a step back as the not-Witcher stalked past him, glaring at him before turning his gaze to Hilda.
"You heard me." The creature growled. "Bring us Meinard. The Monster of Mettina must answer for his crimes. Bring him to us."
"I don't think that would be a-" Hilda began.
"BRING HIM TO US, NOW!" The not-Witcher lunged forward, hands darting out to grab Hilda by the shoulders. His face hovered inches from hers. Frederick stepped up next to the Skelliger, his sword's point coming up to aim at the creature's heart. The monster, all too aware of the weapons turning to point at him, hissed threateningly.
"Bring him to us, or we will come to the castle and take him by force. Maybe he can put us back to the way we were, or maybe not. Either way, we will find absolution, and revenge." He shoved at Hilda, sending the Skelliger stumbling backwards a few steps. His finger jabbed the air again, underlining his words. "Do not return here without him."
"What about your friend?" Morold asked, pointing to the man writhing on the ground.
"We will tend to him." The tall creature nodded to his still standing comrade, the pair kneeling next to their stricken friend. "Leave us, now."
The adepts hesitated, just a moment, before Toril, who had been silent up until this point, standing at the back of the group, cleared her throat.
"Come on, students. We should not linger."
The Master turned, leading the way away from the campfire. Frederick, sparing a glance over his shoulder, hurried to keep pace with the Witcher. He turned to face forwards again as Toril spoke out.
"You spared them. I hope you will not regret that in the coming days."
"You disagree with our choice?" Frederick asked. "Why didn't you interfere?"
"This hunt is meant to test you, all of you." Toril answered. "Just because we did not plan for this encounter does not mean it cannot be used to measure your worth." She carefully stepped around a fallen log. "You have made your decision. My thoughts on the matter do not factor into it. Just... be prepared to live with your decision. You have let some dangerous monsters run free in these woods."
"Not monsters." Frederick interjected. "They were Witchers. Just because Meinard experimented on them doesn't change that."
Toril silently shook her head, a wry grin on her lips.
"You have much to learn, adept. I just hope your lack of knowledge doesn't cost you in the long run."