The dense overhead clouds had finally parted, allowing the orange glow of the low-hanging sun to peek through. It would have been a completely serene scene had it not been marred by the signs of conflict and the overwhelming stench of blood that wafted towards her on the breeze.

Ciri took a moment to calm her nerves. She needed her wits about her. She needed to stay in control. She slapped the sides of her face. A light blush rose to her cheeks where she struck them, but it had worked. Already Ciri could feel herself calming down.

She looked around the scene again. The horse - whom she guessed was named Roach as Geralt was nothing but predictable in that regard - had strayed from its initial position, the stench ultimately overcoming the calming spell it had been put under.

Her eyes wandered over the muddy tracks, and she had to put in a mild effort to ignore the occasional fresh hoof print. She followed the oldest footprints, which eventually lead her back to the abandoned building. "What am I going to do now?" Coën's voice echoed in her head.

Ciri faintly remembers her youthful protest of confusion. "How am I to know?"

"Watch my feet! How is my body weight distributed?" Her phantom teacher instructed. Ciri stepped out, letting her own prints fall atop the witcher's.

Geralt's tracks had been close together, light despite his weight sinking in the mud. Hesitant, but cautious. Ciri thought. A smeared print indicated a sudden shift in weight, and Ciri twisted her body to mimic the movement. Something had been aiming for his head. Geralt's prints indicated that he must have turned his body to face his unknown assailant. The weight of his footprints digging deeper into the mud where he must have braced himself for something.

Ciri strained her eyes to try and find other sets of tracks both near and far, but was recognizing nothing. Was Geralt fighting a spector? A Noonwraith? It would explain the lack of additional prints. Ciri raised her arms in mock combat, gripping an invisible sword in her hands. No, the location isn't quite right, neither is his stance. She stepped back, careful to match her feet with Geralt's larger steps. While Ciri couldn't detect the residual magic, the peculiar ripples in the mud indicated Geralt's use of Aard. Besides Aard wouldn't have been his first choice against a wraith.

A glint of gold caught her eye, and she bent to pick up the source. It was some sort of metal, paper thin and under the pressure of her fingers, it bent slightly. Faintly, she touched the cat-head medallion tied to her belt, but felt no vibrations from it. A frown slipped to her lips as she pocketed the thin blade-like sheet of metal. Its edge had indicated that it had been cut by a blade, more specifically, a witcher's blade. A harpy perhaps? They had been known to collect baubles of sorts from time to time. Ciri shook her head. No. If that had been the case, where were the tell-tale feathers that would have been left behind after such a struggle.

The wind picked up, stirring strands of hair pulled loose from her bun. Ciri tucked a mousy lock that had stuck to the gloss of her lips back behind an ear.

She continued following Geralt's tracks, mimicking his movements and imagined sword thrusts. More than once she found his movement confused, conflicted, and full of last-minute adjustments that resulted in messy footwork. Whatever Geralt had faced, it had managed to catch the battle-hardened witcher unawares, and that didn't happen often, if ever. She continued to trace his path to the battle's eventual end. Ciri knelt to inspect the tracks. Geralt had finished the unexpected duel kneeling. Why? Hoping to glean more information, she waved a tan-gloved hand over the mud.

Suddenly, Ciri felt the hairs on her neck prickle. She wheeled, trying to catch a glimpse of the eyes she felt upon her. But, as quickly as it started, the feeling vanished and Ciri saw nothing, not even scampering shadows. Biting her lower lip in growing frustration, she returned her focus to inspecting Geralt's skirmish, determined to return with something useful.

Half buried in the muck she found … something. A golden ball made of similar metal to the piece she had found earlier. She held it out in her fingers, inspecting the lines traced across it. A large but shallow groove spiraled its way around the orb and Ciri pulled the metal bit from her pocket. It fit; though without the pressure of Ciri's fingers holding it in place, the piece simply fell out. Absentmindedly, Ciri touched her witcher medallion again, but the silver cat head remained motionless.

Ciri stood, putting the ball and metal sliver back into a pouch. Hopefully, Yennefer can make more of it. She turned back to the shack, her eyes following the wavering trail of Geralt's most recent footprints, and pushed down the growing lump in her throat.

It was as bad as she remembered it, save for Geralt no longer lying along the dusty wooden slats of what once could have been a modest floor. She gathered up the witcher's precious silver sword and respectfully wiped the blade clean before placing it back in its sheath. Holding the sword tightly, she made sure to retrieve the steel blade as well, and after several quick adjustments to both of the sheaths' harnesses, they strung snuggly across her back. With her hands once again free, she set to collecting Geralt's silver-studded jerkin and leather gauntlets. Ciri went to retrieve the remains of his shirt, but hesitated over the bloodied linen. It was far too ruined to be of worth anymore. She left it.

Her emerald eyes swept once more over the wreckage. Her eyes passed over the shattered chair fragments near the fire pit that Geralt must have used for fuel. She was looking for something more significant. Anything she might have missed, but besides a cork and fragments of a broken potion vial there was nothing else that could have belonged to Geralt inside the shack.

She prepared to leave when she heard a snort and a whinny from outside. Roach. She had almost forgotten. Geralt wasn't known to keep the same horse long, but that didn't say anything about its tack, and saddle bag's contents. The latter of which, Ciri was sure Geralt would prefer to keep.

Ciri approached the mare slowly, cooing softly in an attempt to ease the skittish horse. She didn't know if she could teleport both herself and the horse, but it would be easier and weigh less on her conscience than just stripping Roach and leaving the bay to fend for itself. "It's all right," Ciri assured the horse. Its ears pivoted towards her, and a hoof stamped the earth warning Ciri against trying anything. "I'm not going to hurt you." Roach stared back with understanding black eyes. "Good." With a free hand Ciri let the horse sniff her before stroking Roach's soft nose. The tension in the bay's stance eased and the mare allowed Ciri to slip into the saddle. For a brief moment, a sad smile slipped onto her face as her legs barely reached the stirrups, reminding her once again why she had come. "That's good Roach," Ciri said as she patted the side of the horse. Now comes the hard part. She took a deep breath. With luck, the stable hands were on break. Ciri would hate having to explain how she got into the stables clutching a man's armor and swords atop a strange horse.


The shadow watched as a blue shimmer surrounded the human woman and horse. Seconds later both she and animal had vanished, taking with them the Saov Llestr. He whispered something to the magpie that sat atop his gnarled staff, and it took off into the sky. The wind caught his heavy cloak briefly revealing a snarl and pointed ear as his fist tightened around the rowan staff in his grip. He turned away, fading once more from sight.


Elder Speech Translations:

Should have added this a lot earlier... sorry. I'm dropping a hint here... (mainly because I had to mix some Welsh and Elder Speech found at wiki/Elder_Speech and google translate doesn't translate it nicely).


Saov Llestr - Soul Vessel.