Faint bubbling sounds rippled through the laboratory, echoed only by the tiniest clink of glassware against metal, the crackle of open flames, and the hiss of heated gases. Uncertain light flickered throughout the ancient, musty workshop, casting shadows that danced a macabre waltz on aged stone walls. The stench of smoke, herbs and something more exotic lingered on the air, curling in thick coils that choked the nostrils and crawled into the throat.
All around the dim room, workbenches were strewn with countless strange artefacts, an organised chaos of maddening proportions that no normal mind could parse. Books and parchments lay open, pinned by inkwells, other tomes, or unusual lumps of rock that glistened faintly in the dark. In the centre of the room, a sprawling array of glassware gleamed, polished to a fine shine even in the poor light. Lamps filled with Troll fat burned under round-bottomed alembics, flames that glowed orange, red and green caressing the rounded glass and crystal and set the contents bubbling.
Through all of this strange and unknowable equipment, a solitary figure moved with silent grace. Like a shadow given solid form, the lone figure stalked the length of the lab, pausing to examine a dusty tome, then adjust something in the glassware, then move to another part of the lab.
He was not a tall man, slim of figure and slight of build. Some might have looked at the pale skin, the sunken hollows of his eye sockets, and his small, almost emaciated frame, and though him an easy mark, maybe a man ravaged by sickness or a beggar close to starvation. But then one would catch the gleam of light in those eyes, set deep in the dark circles that retreated back into his skull, and see a fire there, a bright amber light that burned fiercely. Slit pupils like those of a cat glared out at the world, watching and analysing its every aspect, looking for any details that might pass by the eyes of others. The inhuman light of these brilliant orbs was mirrored by the gleam of silver on his belt, a medallion carved into the snarling visage of a cat, its emerald eyes seeming to stare with a life of their own.
His name was Kilian. A Witcher of Kaer Marter, the home of the renowned School of the Cat, one of the various divisions of the guild of mutant monster hunters. The young Witcher stood out among his peers, his unassuming stature often misleading, for what he lacked in physical aptitude he more than made up for in intellect and cunning. There were good reasons why Treysse, the ancient but sharp Grandmaster of the Cat School, had placed the young Witcher Master in charge of the castle's alchemy lab. Time and again, he'd proved his worth through his wits, his intuition, and his perceptive powers.
The Witcher leaned over a small lectern, fingers stained with numerous unmentionable substances running across the weathered pages gently as his eyes narrowed, focusing on a key line of text. A recipe, ancient, almost completely forgotten by the Guild, deemed too dangerous and experimental for common use. The Witcher's brows furrowed as he pursed his lips, tongue moving around an archaic dialect as he muttered under his breath.
"Take and make an paste from the Extract of Vodyan Ys Stones and blomes of Arenaria. Drawe ytte þurgh a straynour and adde þerto Calcium Equum to a þridde part..."
The Witcher's expression grew deeper as he wrestled with the strange wording, written in a hand far more ancient than any tome he had read before. A sudden clatter drew his gaze away, towards a small metal stand in the middle of one of his workbenches. There, a tripodal structure held a strange shape aloft, something formed of black crystal. The irregular facets of the gemstone gleamed with a light that seemed altogether unnatural, wisps of ethereal energy toying at its edges like smoke. As Kilian watched, the shape shifted, convulsing as inner layers contracted and expanded, a low thump emanating from it. The sound of a heartbeat, albeit one that was far deeper, more powerful, and more primal than anything an organic creature might possess.
Coming into possession of a Golem's heart had been no mean feat on Kilian's part, requiring a great many favours to be called in. But such prices were necessary, for the advancement of knowledge. The Witcher paused to watch the gemstone organ for a few seconds, a smirk of satisfaction crossing his lips.
Kilian leaned back, hand reaching up to tousle the dark hair that adorned his crown, the sides of his scalp shaved almost to the skin in a style favoured by the men of Cidaris and Bremervoord, kingdoms close to the place that Kilian had once called home. Not that 'home' had any sort of importance to him. He simply wore the style because it suited his fancy, as did his black and red cloth gambeson, with the matching baggy trousers.
The Witcher remained like this for a long moment, staring at the magically infused heart as if trying to extract some hidden meaning from it. His eyes narrowed, watching every wisp of ethereal energy that seeped from the cracked facets. Stained fingers reached up to stroke a clean-shaven chin.
The recipe was flawed, that much he could tell. From the notes that had accompanied the tome, Kilian had picked up that, while some of the results of the tests had been promising, there had been some unpleasant side effects. If he could only find a way to stabilise the-
Inspiration struck, an idea that coursed through him like lightning. He straightened quickly, twisting to look at a table brimming with strange jars of all shapes and sizes. He dove upon them, picking through until he found what he wanted. Two jars, one filled with a thick, golden substance that was almost but not entirely solid, and the other holding two long white fangs, the canines of a Mula. He snatched the two jars up, bustling over to the nearest open space on his workbenches. A pestle and mortal was quickly found, and one of the fangs removed from the second jar, while being added to a few spoonfuls of the golden fluid.
It was all so clear now, Kilian thought to himself as he began to grind up the pearly white fang. The Vitriol contained in a Mula's fang, a perfect tether to the elemental energies of Earth, combined with the sap of an Archespore, rich in Albedo to unify the effects of the potion. A way to tap into the magical properties of the heart without-
He spun, moving back towards the heart. Without even looking, he picked up a few tools from where they lay in a neat array, a set of tweezers and a small awl, razor sharp. He leaned in close to the heart, slits of his eyes narrowing as he focused on a miniscule crack. The awl was inserted into the fracture, and a quick twist of the Witcher's wrist split it further, breaking off a fragment no larger than his fingernail, the tweezers deftly catching the flake of magically imbued gemstone in mid-air. Not even pausing for breath, the Witcher moved back to his mortar, adding the fragment to his mixture.
The young alchemist continued his work, grinding the materials into a grainy paste as he added a few more ingredients. The petals of a Shaerrawed Rose, full of the vibrant energies of Rebis, the roots of a Pringrape, robust with Quebrith for boosting bodily functions, and a few drops of an Alghoul's bile, a potent source of the element Nigredo, the alchemical nature of decomposition, so vital in breaking down natural barriers in the body and attaining to new heights of potential. In seconds, the air around him filled with a sour, earthy aroma, something between petrichor and crushed bitter-dock leaves. The smirk on Kilian's features grew a little deeper as he inhaled, feeling the energies of his creation begin to tease at his senses. Almost done. He pulled a phial from his belt, the clear liquid within gleaming almost as if emitting its own light. White Gull, a favoured component of any Witcher's alchemical arsenal, and ideal as a base for potions, especially ones as unstable as this…
He added a few drops to the mixture, watching as the dark paste in the mortar began to change colour, the ingredients beginning to react with one another. Quickly, he added the paste to a cauldron, moving it over one of the open flames in the lab. In moments, steam began to arise from the ingredients, strange colours dancing in the fumes. First a wisp of bright red danced on the air, then deep violet, and finally a light blue, like a summer's sky. Seeing this, Kilian added yet more White Gull, giving the mixture a final stir before removing it from the flames. Producing a new, empty phial, the Witcher prepared a scrap of linen, placing it over the neck of the glass container. He quickly strained the mixture through the thin fabric, filtering out any impurities, then put the cauldron aside, raising the phial up to his eye as he inspected his latest creation.
The liquid in the phial was dark, almost black, and yet mingled through with glimmering emerald. If one could reduce the scales of a Forest Wyvern down to a pure liquid, it would have looked like this. The occasional flash of sky blue danced inside it, bouncing off remaining particles in the mixture like tiny spears of lightning. Kilian could feel the energy in it, a pulsing power that wanted to be unleashed. And yet, the phial felt cold to the touch, like ice against his skin.
Placing a cork in the phial, Kilian stepped away from the workbenches, looking to a door in the far wall of the lab. Beyond, a staircase descended, deep underground into the catacombs. Without hesitation, the Cat Witcher moved towards the yawning maw of shadow. It was time for a test.
~o~0~o~
Utter darkness reigned in the catacombs deep beneath Kaer Marter. Dug out many centuries ago by the Elves, some of the twisting passages had been used to inter the dead, while others had been intended as a refuge in times of war. Now, they were Kilian's domain. He was where he could test out certain procedures without being interrupted, and where he could keep his… subjects.
As the thought entered his head, almost as if sensing the Witcher's mind, a faint growling echoes out from the shadowy depths, a hungry bellow that reverberated off the walls of the ancient tunnels. Kilian was not deterred. After countless years of using potions such as Cat and De Vries' Extract, the Cat Master's eyes had adapted to be far more sensitive in the darkness than even those of his fellow Witchers, so a journey through the depths was no issue for him, and he was hardly one to bolt at the first sounds of a hungry Necrophage.
The Witcher pressed on until, finally, he turned a corner in the passages to find himself in a larger cavern. There, ahead of him, a hulking shape loomed in the darkness, eyes gleaming as it scraped long claws across the stone floor. An Elven sarcophagus set into the wall of the cavern had been broken open, one of the bones of its occupant now clenched between the jaws of the lurching form.
A Cemetaur. A Necrophage, but a large one. Usually very dangerous, especially when hungry, and extremely territorial. This one must have recently burrowed its way into the tunnel network, looking to establish a new domain for itself. The old Elven bones would only keep it satisfied for so long.
Seeing the monster before him, Kilian dropped into a long crouch. As if sensing his gaze, the Necrophage spun, eyes piercing the darkness as it glared at him. A massive maw drooped open, exposing jagged teeth, while the long arms reached wide, clawed hands extending as it bellowed a challenge.
Knowing he only had a few seconds, Kilian popped the cork on his phial, lifting the newly created potion to his lips.
The taste of the elixir hit him instantly, a bitter, sour taste that assaulted his taste-buds as he forced himself to swallow. The smell clogged his nostrils, preventing him from gagging as he clenched his throat shut tightly. A second later, the effects of the potion struck him. All of his muscles convulsed, pulling together and expanding in an instant as he rocked back on his feet. Fire filled his veins, swiftly followed by fierce pain coursing through his nervous system. The Witcher suppressed a groan, clenching his eyes shut for just a heartbeat. Noise clamoured in his ears, and waves of nausea assaulted him. With a monumental act of will, he forced his eyes back open, and urged his mind to calm itself, even as his body tried to tell him that it was dying, the toxicity of the potion ravaging his system.
As his eyes cracked open once more, the air around the Witcher seemed to crystallise. Clarity pierced his mind, every detail of his surroundings becoming incredibly sharp. Awareness filled him, awareness of every moment of his muscles, of every sound that echoed through the catacombs, and of every twitching motion of his monstrous foe, now seemingly sluggish as it launched itself towards him. As the power of the potion filled him, Kilian could only think that the Necrophage, previously such a threat, now seemed pitifully, comically slow to him.
A chuckle danced in his chest before, clenching his bare fists and moving faster than the eye could follow, the Cat Witcher launched himself at the monster.
~o~0~o~
Kilian climbed up the steps with a weary sigh, stepping back into the lab and wincing as the light of the candles and the flames of his equipment struck his sensitive eyes. He grunted, turning away from the light for a moment and raising a hand to shield his vision, then paused, staring at the back of his hand.
The veins bulged under his skin, thick and black as toxic fluids coursed through them. He could feel his flesh burning, his body taxed to its limits by the elixir. Even as the benefits were fading, he could feel the after-effects beginning to overtake him. His body would need some time to recover. Perhaps a dose of Catnip before retiring for the evening…
He dismissed the thought, quickly pulling himself back to the present. He needed to finish taking down his observations before such distractions could waylay him. He moved back to the lectern where the ancient manuscript still lay, picking up a quill from close by and dipping it into one of his inkwells.
The potion had worked even better than expected. Upon imbibing it, he'd experienced heightened sensory input and reflexes, moving faster and striking more accurately than before. Now, the Cemetaur lay unconscious, bound in one of the cells that Kilian used in the catacombs to store creatures for future experimentation. Satisfied with a successful experiment, Kilian quickly finished writing up his notes, and closed the tome.
As the Cat Witcher stood from his work, a shiver passed through him. A sudden chill passed through his flesh, goosebumps rising on the backs of his arms and hands. His lungs tightened, heart pulsing for just a moment. A side-effect of the potion leaving his bloodstream, he concluded.
As the thought struck him, a fanciful notion flit through his mind. He opened the book once again, quickly writing a title at the top of the page. Yes, that would be a perfect name for this potion. He'd continue working on it, trying to make the physical toll it exacted on the body not so grave. Perhaps, in time, this 'Blizzard' potion would become a useful tool in the arsenal of every Witcher. Until then, well, Kilian would continue to perfect his craft, and keep experimenting.