It was with some astonishment that I found the last remaining personal effects of a Witcher of the Griffin School in the possession of a simple farming family. The village of Boggevrieg claims that a Witcher saved their home from a marauding beast some two hundred years ago, perishing in the process. One of the villagers believes that it was his great-grandmother that the Witcher died protecting, after which the monster hunter's personal effects fell into her hands, passed down from generation to generation as a form of heirloom. With not a little persuasion, and a great deal of coin, they were convinced to part with the relics, a pair of swords, a set of leather and plate armour of archaic make, and a small collection of books.

It would seem that this Witcher, a Master of the Griffin School of that guild, was one Frederick of Asheberg. A self-titled 'Chronicler' of the guild, it would seem that he dedicated much of his life after the fall of the Schools to recording what knowledge he could, so that it could be passed on to future generations of monster hunters. Unfortunately, the more academically useful tomes, the 'Librum Monstrum, Bestiae et Fabulae' and the 'Librum Alchimia', were almost entirely destroyed by the damp conditions of Velen's swamplands.

The only book to have survived relatively unharmed is this very tome, a more personal project of the Witcher's. It is a Chronicle of the lives of a large number of his fellow hunters and huntresses, the Sorceresses he met on his travels, and a host of other allies and comrades he encountered on his travels. It seems as though he intended this book to be an immortalisation of those he held most dear, lest their memories be lost to the tides of time. Indeed, many of the individuals mentioned within these pages were not known to me before finding this tome, in spite of my dedicated research into the history of the Guild. There may be more knowledge of these mysterious monster hunters within these pages than in all the libraries of Oxenfurt.

Sadly, the Witcher never finished his greatest work, with these scant few pages at the end of the book remaining blank. I have therefore taken it upon myself to complete the tome, before submitting it to the Grand Library of the Oxenfurt Academy, where scholars for centuries to come may read and learn of the lives of these Witchers and their allies. There is one final tale to be told from the 'Golden Age' of the Guild. This is the tale of the Chronicler's End, and the final fate of Frederick, the Red Griffin of Asheberg.

-Benton de Vressig of Blaviken,

Scholar of Historical Studies, Oxenfurt Academy

~o~0~o~

Heavy breathing filled the clearing, the wet rasp of the Manticore's breath wheezing in and out as the enormous body sagged into the dirt. Claws scraped at loose soil as pools of reddish-black blood steamed in the leaf litter. A few moments later, and the monster had breathed its last, eyes filming over as its huge form went utterly still. Silence descended across the forest as the final breath seeped from the Manticore's slack maw.

Cautiously, timidly, the young woman rose from the hollow she had been hiding in. Damroka, a simple woman from the remote village of Boggevrieg, glanced around at the carnage with equal parts amazement and horror. Entire trees had been uprooted, cast aside as if by titanic hands, while deep troughs had been scoured in the earth. Flames still burned here and there, a few even patching the beast's hide. One tree trunk had seemingly exploded, flinders of shattered wood peppering the clearing and piercing the Manticore's hide.

Damroka picked her way through the chaos, stepping up to the fallen giant. She glanced to the sword still sticking out of the back of the beast, a silvered blade embedded deep in the creature's flesh. The blade had landed the killing blow, piercing down through the spinal cord and into the heart.

As the young farmer slowly found her way around the carcass, she spotted a shape moving through the chaos. On the far side of the clearing, a figure slumped against the bole of one of the few remaining intact trees. Wheezing, the fallen figure rolled onto his side, favouring a jagged, open wound that seeped sluggish crimson.

Damroka rushed to the side of the Witcher, kneeling in the dirt as she quickly scanned the countless injuries. The stricken hunter's hair was matted with blood, clinging wetly to his scalp in ragged clumps. His armour was torn and dented, the marks of several wickedly long claws, many bites, and a few devastating punctures from an enormous stinger easily spotted. The stinger, once attached to the Manticore's chitinous tail, had been hacked off with a few wild slashes of a dagger still clenched in the Witcher's gauntleted right hand. Now, the venomous barb lay in the dirt nearby, toxic fluid still dripping from the razor-sharp tip. There was no telling how much of the toxin had already seeped into the hunter's blood, but the bulging black veins pulsing around his throat were all too easy to see.

Worry grasping at her breast, Damroka leaned over the hunter, unsure what to do. She tore a strip of linen from her skirt, dabbing at some of the pooling scarlet to little effect. Feral yellow eyes flickered in response, the Witcher's gaze darting from side to side before settling on the woman beside him. Teeth flashed behind a fiery red beard run through with flecks of gold and silver. A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of a downturned mouth while creases of pain joined those of age and weariness at the corners of his eyes. An enormous, silvery-white scar gleamed on his cheek, running from brow to jaw.

"Rghh..." The low growl rumbled in the hunter's throat. "Did I get it?"

"I..." Damroka glanced over her shoulder at the now motionless mass. "I think so."

"Hrmmf..." The Witcher known as Frederick settled a little more, tension seeming to flow from his body. "Good. That was a tough bastard. Caught me off-guard a couple of times."

"Your wounds..." Damroka struggled to find the right words. "Is there anything we can do? You Witchers have potions..."

"Considering how many potions I had to take in preparation for this hunt, more doses would only do more harm than good." The Witcher dismissed. "Besides, I've nothing to combat the venom of a Manticore, and no time to brew an antidote."

"Why fight the beast, if you had nothing to protect yourself from its poison?" Damroka felt a lump tighten in her throat.

Frederick's eyes narrowed, the unfocused gaze sharpening as he lifted his head to look at her, although even this small motion seemed to take every ounce of effort he could muster.

"It was the right thing to do. That beast would have torn through your home without breaking stride. Your entire village, and everyone you've ever known, would have been killed." He sighed, his head dropping back against the coarse bark of the tree once more. "I had a duty to step in."

"I thought Witchers only hunted beasts when there was coin to be had."

"Not all of us." The hunter wheezed. "Some fight for better things than gold or glory. Luckily, I had some of the best possible teachers to set me on my path."

"Should we try and find them? Tell them what happened?"

"Ah, they're all gone now. The purge killed most of us, monsters and time have taken care of the rest. Those few that remain are scattered to the farthest parts of the world. Clinging to survival here and there."

A heavy sigh rushed from his lips as he reached up to the chain around his neck, grasping at the silver medallion there. His hand quivered as he lifted the medallion to dangle before his gaze, the fierce Griffin's head gleaming in the faint sunlight, reflected by a sudden sparkle of light in the Witcher's wizened eyes. A faint smile tugged at his lips.

"You should have seen it." His voice creaked with emotion. "Kaer Marter, standing proud on the banks of the Pontar. The sun shining down, the wind in the trees, Severin's songs echoing out from the tavern… it was a sight to behold!"

"Severin?"

"A bard who frequently passed his nights in our castle's banquet hall." Frederick's smile grew yet warmed. "A good man… and a good friend. I remember a song he would often perform, the Parting Glass. Do you know it?"

Damroka nodded, reaching out to grasp the Witcher's trembling hand. She could feel the cold tremors coursing through his body.

"My mother used to sing it to me." She smiled warmly. "A beautiful tune."

"I wonder… could you sing it to me?" The Witcher's eyes met hers again, before flitting away, almost embarrassed at the request. "It's been so long since I last saw the halls of Kaer Marter, heard them echo with song."

Damroka hesitated just a moment before nodding her assent, gently clearing her throat as she shifted her stance a little. In an instant, the words came flooding back to her, and her soft, lilting voice soon danced between the trees.

"Of all the money, that e'er I had,

I spent it all in good company.

And all the harm I've ever done,

Alas, it was to none but me.

And all I've done for want of wit,

To memory now I can't recall.

So fill to me, the parting glass,

Good night and joy be with you all..."

Frederick felt his lips tighten as the smile spread across his features, golden eyes watching the woman with rapt attention as she gently sang out. A flicker of movement behind her caught his attention, the sway of the leaves as the wind tugged at the branches, and beyond that a sapphire blue sky. And in that sky, his mind went back. Back to a castle in Temeria, beneath a bright sun. Youth flooded his limbs once more, energy and strength he hadn't known in many years. Sounds filled his ears, the chanting of adepts going through their training drills, Masters barking their orders, somewhere close by Reinicke was taunting his students with some silly game. And over it all, the faint sounds of singing and celebration from the tavern.

The young Griffin now sat leaning against the trunk of a tree, watching the comings and goings of the fortress of the Witchers. A shadow fell across him, a tall figure glancing down at the student. Frederick glanced up to meet the glowing yellow eyes of Master Jodok, the lanky, long-haired Witcher meeting his stare with a warm smile.

Damroka noticed the tears dancing in the corners of the Witcher's eyes, but pressed on with her performance, recognising the comfort and joy that filled those features.

"Of all the comrades, that e'er I had,

They're sorry for my going away..."

The older Witcher reached down, extending a hand to the adept. Frederick accepted the grip, rising to his feet. The pair met each other's gaze for a long, silent moment, before embracing in a warm, powerful gesture. Frederick felt a laugh of joy deep in his chest, all the pain and loss of the past forgotten. When they parted, the old Master nodded approvingly.

"A Witcher to the end. From the moment I first met you, I knew you'd go far." Jodok smiled again. "A life lived fully and truly to the duties of a Witcher. I'm proud of you, Frederick."

"I'd never have found my path without your help." Frederick replied.

"Sure you would have." The older Witcher winked. "Maybe not so quickly, but you'd have got there in the end." He turned, nodding towards the castle. "Come on, the others will be waiting."

Frederick fell in step behind the Wolf Master, glancing past him to see a sea of familiar faces. Dirk, Njall, Algir, Jaeger, Gedymin, Elinor… too many to count. His fellow Nightsabers, the other students of the School of the Griffin, the Frostwolves that he had gown so close to. Severin, grin broad as he strummed on his lute. Bertram, arms at his sides in an expansive gesture as he laughed a deep laugh.

And there, in amongst them all, a flash of red. A simple velvet dress, cascade of fiery hair and piercing emerald eyes. Liva smiled at the young Witcher, her gaze shining with light that threatened to eclipse even the sun. His heart soaring in his breast, Frederick raced towards her, scooping her up in a tight embrace, the pair spinning as those around them cheered and laughed.

Then, at last complete and at peace, surrounded by his friends and loved ones, Frederick passed through the doors of Kaer Marter, the words of the song fading behind him as he slipped into the days long gone.

"But since it fell into my lot,

That I should rise and you should not.

I'll gently rise and softly call

Goodnight and joy be to you all.

So fill to me the parting glass,

And drink a health whate'er befalls,

Then gently rise and softly call

Goodnight and joy be to you all..."

Damroka felt the Witcher fade away in the second-to-last verse, the grasp of his hand loosening as all tension left his muscles. She looked to his eyes, peaceful, happy as they stared glassily into the sky. Still she held his hand, pushing through the tightness of sorrow that gripped her chest as she continued with the final verse.

"So fill to me the parting glass,

And gather as the evening falls,

then gently rise and softly call,

Goodnight and joy be to you all.

Goodnight and joy be to you all…"