CHAPTER 1

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Gwent was a fairly easy game, especially for a School of the Griffon Witcher named Jerma. It was a game of cards that pitted two individuals against each other. It required intellect, patience, and a master poker face. Then, one would only need the perfect set of cards to trump the opponent. Everything a person who knows how to read should have; except for his current opponent.

A young ashen haired woman donned in a blue Witcher armor grumbled and leaned back in her chair, frustrated and impatient for the fifth time in a sitting. Jerma, wearing his own Griffon gear, laughed and collected his cards. She rolled her emerald eyes, pushed a strand of her ashen hair behind her ear, and then proceeded to brush her own cards back into her hand.

"Quitting so early?" Jerma said smugly, leaning back in his chair. "You still haven't won my card yet!"

The ashen haired woman huffed and muttered something under her breath, it could have been something along the lines of "Snapping trout shouts germs." Or it could have been "Shut the fuck up, Jerma." Jerma chuckled at the latter.

"I would win, if you stopped using your rotten deck." She said, folding her arms across her leather vest and surveying the inn for the fifth time in a sitting.

Ever since they had settled here earlier, the inn was always bustling with drunkards, peasants, and prostitutes. Conversations ensued about various topics, including but not limited to, politics, warfare, agriculture, and exciting adventures. The fireplace was constantly stoked and it gave the oak tables a cozy orange glow, much different to the humid spring weather outside. Horses neighed softly in the stables adjacent to the inn and a small group of farmers standing in the moonlight talked about an upcoming storm.

"So, Ciri," Jerma began, stopping momentarily to take a sip from his mug. He had loaded it with something sweet, reminiscent of his journeys with a particular female bard from Toussaint. Jerma raised his chocolate eyebrows and leaned forward, cards in hand. "Ready for another round? I might even let you win this one."

"Bollocks." Ciri said. A challenge never ceased to appeal to her, and the Witcheress never sought to do anything less than to win. She shuffled her deck and drew ten cards, hiding them from his wandering eye. Her face became composed and emotionless, but inside, Jerma knew, she was devising a fool proof plan to trump him. The Witcher smiled and drew his own ten cards, ten fortuitous cards. He tossed a coin on the table; heads for Ciri and tails for him.

It mattered naught if it landed on heads for Ciri. She was yet again, brutally defeated by Jerma. She growled and tossed her remaining cards on the table in frustration. He was quick to laugh and reassemble his own cards. He had learned from a rather shady merchant in Cintra that the easiest way to win against any opponent was to play a mixture of Scorch cards, Reinforcement cards, and Spies. The smirking Witcher tied his cards together with a bright green band and placed it back into his pouch. Then he took a sip from his drink and rested his elbows on the table, waiting for Ciri to burst a vein in her temple.

"Scoia'tael trumps Northern Realms any day." Jerma said. The ashen haired woman refused to acknowledge him, however, and instead brooded over her frustration by staring at the innkeeper who was flirting with a group of curvaceous women from the neighboring village.

Jerma sighed. "Apologies, Ciri. Didn't mean to hurt your feeling like that."

Hearing this, Ciri turned her head and gave him a quizzical stare. Her emerald eyes marked with eyeshadow made the stare ever the more penetrating. Sometimes, it even made Jerma uncomfortable. A single scar ran down her left cheek and a medallion hung from her neck, almost obscured by the blue turtleneck. The medallion bared its teeth, a cat hissing at an intruder. Strangely, the School of the Cat Witchers had died out completely over the years, either hunted by witch hunters, or prosecuted by the law. Yet somehow Ciri was from the Cat school, and she looked fairly young as well.

"Didn't hurt my feelings, Jerma. Just thinking."

"About what?"

"The contract we took together." Ciri made no effort to conceal the worry in her voice. Jerma glanced around, his right temple starting to ache like a beating drum. He rubbed a finger on it.

"That? Ciri, it's just a witch. Can't be any more than a hag… or a ghoul." Jerma took a final sip from his mug, before swishing around the empty cup.

A wrinkle formed between Ciri's eyebrows and her lips pursed together. "That's just it: I don't feel like it's an ordinary contract. It feels off, different from the others. Think that might be strange? Maybe it's some dark magic being practiced in the area."

"Huh, never thought about it that way. My temple has been beating against my skull for the past couple days, but I doubt it's related to the contract."

Ciri shrugged.

"Do you think it's related to the people from Haakland?" Jerma asked. Ciri blinked and raised a brow in confusion. "Have you not heard? Nilfgaard is waging another war in its step to domination. The country of Haakland is their opponent this time. Don't know how they're going to win, they're in societal disarray."

Ciri took a drink from her cup. "Please, enlighten me."

Jerma folded his arms on the table edge. "Haakland is located east of the Blue Mountains. In fact, a small amount of Haakland inhabits the Blue Mountains. Wise old healers, alchemists, researchers, and the like. They have this… symbiosis with the elves that live there. Nilfgaard currently fights their way through the rocky landscape. Poor sods can't even get to the other side without meeting a fate worse than death. The place has so many abysses and traps, to the point where it doesn't feel like a mountain anymore, but a mage's high security abode."

"Sounds dangerous." Ciri commented.

"It is. Yet hope is not lost yet. Some Nilfgaardians scouts have broken through to the other side and documented what they discovered. The peasants and politicians there are in the middle of a war with their neighboring country, Zubuk. The cause? Bloody Nilfgaard itself. The empire is dividing the two and making them choose a side. Either you support joining the empire of Nilfgaard with Haakland in the Shining Blue, or you oppose joining Nilfgaard with Zubuk in the Flaming Phoenix. I won't lie, Ciri, but it's pretty ugly. Word is that the Flaming Phoenixes have modified golems with wheels and cogs, and they fire bolts from their arms. The Shining Blue on the other hand, have the entirety of Nilfgaard as their allies. They help the soldiers traverse the mountains and mount posts there. Not a single night goes by without a screeching roar, or bloodshed."

"Emhyr's persistent as ever…" Ciri muttered, voicing her annoyance at the very name.

"What of it?"

"Oh nothing." Ciri waved off. "Just every time I run into a Nilfgaardian, they immediately try to persuade me into becoming the empress of Nilfgaard. At first it was humorous, but now you can't imagine the pain I have to go through."

Jerma rubbed his temple again, a jolt of pain spreading through his skull. It pained him so much that he swore, much to Ciri's distaste. A headache was common after drinking, but Jerma was hardly past his second mug, and the beverage wasn't alcoholic. The Witcheress in front of him gave him a worried look.

"You alright? If it hurts too much we can call it a night." Ciri briefly broke eye contact with him to glance at a passing maid who collected their cups and dishes.

"Yeah." Jerma said. "Some sleep should help."

"We'll stop by a doctor tomorrow and have him diagnose your condition."

"Aye. Tomorrow it is. Let's retire for the night." Jerma stood and pushed his chair in. Ciri followed him and pocketed her cards.

His slumber was restless and a nightmare plagued his dreams. Jerma only remembered fragments of it. The Witcher woke up in a cold sweat, his clothes sticking to his chest and his body perspiring. His medallion was warm on his skin, it vibrated faintly on his chest. A sign of magical energy in the nearby area. As Jerma lay there, he felt the vibrations slowly ebb away into silence. He thought of the dream, but could not remember the details.

Jerma awoke to the dark blue hue of the morning. Ciri slept in the bed next to him. Deciding there was nothing of pressing matters to see to, he stood and got dressed. He buckled on his leather tunic and weaved his Griffon medallion over the various buckles. Then he pulled his reinforced boots up his leg, donned his swords, and walked out quietly.

The usually bustling inn was empty in the morning. Drunkards sat at the tables trying to stave off sleep and keep the content of their stomach from exiting their mouths. Maids were furious at work to clean off the tables and steal any extra cash they could find. The innkeeper cleaned the dishes and cups. Jerma nodded to him, who acknowledged the Witcher's presence.

"Master Witcher, need any provisions before ye take off?"

"I'll be fine. Just going out for a walk." Jerma dismissed with a wave of his hand.

As Jerma neared the door, the innkeeper called out to him. "Watch out for the northern fields of Vas Rivet, Witcher! Been a skirmish between a Nilfgaardian patrol and some bandits. Strange beasts occupy the land and battles are still being waged – easy money for you, right?"

Jerma smiled and nodded, giving the innkeeper a wave before stepping out into the early morning darkness. He smelled the morning dew and stretched his arms, beginning to walk down the village and towards the north.

Jagged teeth to the east represented the Blue Mountains. A group of towers could be seen past the dense forestry to the west, marking the location of Ard Carraigh. The towers glared out into the world with a single orange eye that helped travelers find their way in any situation. A few apple trees dotted the grassy plains to the north and south, flocks of deer bounding about with freedom. Farmers who had awoken early to spectate the battles were sorely disappointed as Nilfgaardian troops scrambled left and right to fulfil basic duties.

Nilfgaard had hastily set up a command center during the night and a shy number of men hung about. Other tents stood erect a couple of meters away from the command post, each looking empty in the morning. A black flag whipped in the air, emblazoned with the Nilfgaardian symbol of the Great Sun; a golden sword piecing the sun.

A sentry tensed up at the sight of Jerma, and immediately relaxed when the Witcher came up for pleasantries. A quick conversation arose between the two, with Jerma asking for his commander's whereabouts. He stuck a thumb back towards a large and box shaped tent. Jerma thanked him. Inside, a Nilfgaardian commander, dressed not in armor, but in an elegant black doublet paired with sleek breeches of the same color, finished with white frills on the neck, greeted him. He did not seem like a commander, nor did he look fit for leadership in wartime, but more of a foreign ambassador.

"Witcher." The commander nodded in greeting. He spoke with an audible Nilfgaardian accent. "What brings you?"

"Heard you might have a job for me." Jerma said. The Witcher looked around; the tent itself was cluttered and various weaponry lay inside of storage boxes. An overturned crate pooled out bolts and arrows to be used by marksmen. The recent battle must have made one of them tip the box in haste.

"A job for a Witcher?" The commander paused to think about it for a moment before continuing. "Nothing of particular interest at the moment. Come back later, we might have something akin to your… particular talents."

Jerma nodded. "The medic here? I need to see him."

"The medic is down the hill from here. In a tent with a bright red cross mounted on it." The commander pointed in the general direction, then muttered to himself. "A graduate from Oxenfurt, came out of nowhere to aid us."

The medical tent was exactly the same as the others, except for the wooden cross painted red outside of the door. The stench of blood and raw meat lingered in the air. Jerma's nose involuntarily sniffed for anything other than blood, finding nothing but the scent of herbal medicine. The sun peeked its early dawn rays out, bathing everything in a bright orange glow. The fields looked fresh from a war. The grass was red with blood and brown with mud, corpses littered the fields with various weaponry that protruded from their bodies. Halberds, swords, and shields lay scattered and gave off a dull sheen from under the dirt that caked them. The innkeeper had described this as a skirmish, but it looked more like the wars waged between Nilfgaard and Redania half a decade ago.

The medic was surprisingly young. Sitting outside, he didn't look older than thirty with a clean, shaven face and short fiery hair. Muddy hazel robs lazily regarded him as Jerma approached. The medic gave him a tired look and yawned before resting his chin on the cup of his hand.

"You the medic?" Jerma asked.

"Yeah, you need your eyes fixed? You've an unnatural glow to 'em. Like an evil incarnate."

"I need some medicine, head's been pounding for the past couple of days."

The medic narrowed his eyes at the request and stood up, almost angrily by the way he immediately crossed his arms.

"I'd ask you to specify, but I'd rather not listen to your voice. I'll give you an herbal concoction and you shall be on your way, okay Witcher?" The medic said.

"Fine by me."

The medic disappeared into the tent and shortly reappeared after with a small vail of a greenish fluid. He held it to the rising sun and swished it around before giving it to Jerma. The Witcher drank it, the taste extremely bitter. His entire world span, and for a moment he thought he was poisoned, until it ended as fast as it started. Jerma handed the vial back.

The medic grabbed his wrist and held him in place. Jerma tried to shove him back when the medic grabbed onto his other hand. He pulled the Witcher close to his face, which was heaving in air as if his lungs were crushed. The Witcher noticed something strange, the medic's hazel eyes rolled up in their sockets and his medallion twitched violently on his chest.

"Death…" the medic said suddenly, in a strange, altered voice. "Death comes in the form of sweets. A pickaxe… Iron, copper, gold, and silver! You will not be able to stop it when it comes crashing down. I had a dream. The Elder Blood… The Elder Blood!"

"What? You okay?" The Witcher squeezed the vial a little too hard.

The vial shattered in his hands and the medic shuddered violently. Regaining his senses, the medic gave the Witcher a look before letting him go.

"Leave." The medic trembled as he walked into the tent.

The Witcher stood there, dumbfounded, and shook his head slowly. Jerma's right temple throbbed again. He must have been hallucinating. The Nilfgaardian camp was a point of interest for their contract. The monster could resurface where there's death.

When he came back to the inn, the sun had set itself in the sky. The early morning sun awoke many villagers and they bumbled about doing their duties. Ciri sat in the corner most table. A single sword was strapped to the back of her blue armor, sheathed inside of an elegant red scabbard. A turtleneck was brought up to her lips as she read a leather bound book on the table. The ashen haired Witcheress sat with her arms folded. Jerma slid himself into the seat across from her. She acknowledged his presence with a glance and flipped a page from her book.

"There's something you might like." Jerma smiled.

"Oh?" Ciri said, not looking up from her book. "This isn't the time to flush me in gifts, Jerma."

"Nilfgaard fought against some bandits last night. Fields are ripe with corpses for beasts to feed on. Our contract might surface there."

"Maybe." The room was filled with the clinking of dishes and cups as Jerma waited for Ciri to continue. It took a few breaths before she spoke again. "A game of hide and seek never hurt anyone."

"Shall we stock up on provisions?" Jerma asked.

Ciri peered out of the window and stared at the jagged teeth on the horizon. A trader trotted along with his horse, the wagon loaded with an assortment of merchandise. She put her book away and faced Jerma.

"Yeah."

Together the two stood up and made their way outside. Ciri generously tipped the innkeeper with a pouch full of gold, enough for him to sustain for a good long while. They made their way around, stocking up on water, food, and alchemy ingredients before they continued forth later in the day. The process took two to three hours, until the sun shined directly above them.

They made their way towards the Nilgaardian camp, the soldier that Jerma had met previously gave him a small nod and let them pass.

"Commander wishes to speak with you."

Jerma nodded and walked into the tent, with Ciri close behind. The elegantly dressed commander wasted no time with greetings and immediately asked the Witcher about a new-found contract for them.

"Witcher. Seems I may need your services after all. Our medic has disappeared and a beast now roams the fields. Some of our men went out looking for him and only one has returned, with grave injuries. I need you… and your companion to take him out."

Jerma looked over to Ciri for approval, who gave her consent with a smirk.

"May we see the bodies?"

"Of course, of course! Follow me." The commander said with a wide expression.

They were led to the medical tent. Inside, various tables were arranged neatly in rows, occupied with the wounded. Stab wounds, blunt wounds, bite marks, Jerma was taken aback by the fierceness of the bandit's attacks. The commander stopped and pulled over a white sheet that covered the victim. Ciri slid herself in-between the table and began inspecting the corpse.

There wasn't much to see, besides the former man's skeleton. His black armor was bleached and dented heavily. The same could be said for his trousers, ripped, burnt, and bleached. His right arm lay in tatters, a mixture of dried flesh and bone. Jerma made note of the missing eyeballs, and the severe dryness of his orbitals.

"Ciri." Jerma said, pointing at the skull. Ciri looked up and followed his line of sight. Jerma did not continue however. He was petrified, mid expression, with his gloved finger pointing at the corpse's skull.

Then Ciri noticed that everything else was frozen as well. The commander stood with his arms crossed behind his back, standing straight and poised. The moaning in the tent had stopped, and was replaced with an eerie silence. The faint chatter of villager could not even be heard. Bodies refused to writhe and instead lay there like statues. Ciri placed a hand on her sword and focused. Instantly, she could feel her vision sharpening, but she could not hear anything.

"Ciri!"

Jerma impatiently pointed at the corpse again. Ciri blinked, dumbfounded. The wounded moaned and stirred, a crow hawked in the air, and a villager cursed and kicked a pot. The commander regarded her with distaste and averted his once Ciri's met his.

"The eyes, gouged out it seems. Skin and armor is bleached."

"Symptoms point to a noonwraith." Ciri blurted, memorizing the many books she had to read under Vesemir's tutorship. A bitter taste formed in her mouth and she dryly swallowed. Her heart slumped in her chest. "Skin is unnaturally dry. The lower jaw is set in a silent scream, locked in position. He was terrified moments before death. The dents look to be memoirs of the battle with the bandits, or it could have been the work of ghouls."

Jerma nodded, satisfied with the answer.

"Impressive. For a woman." The commander snidely commented.

Ciri scowled. Instead of demonstrating her independent nature, she simply stormed out of the tent. There was something else about the body that was unnatural, something that she had to see firsthand to understand. It disappeared from her eye the moment she saw it, and prompted the sudden time stop. An elven curse was etched on his temple.

Death is sweet.

"Let's go, Jerma."

Did you enjoy this? Well, I'm looking for a beta reader! (because I simply don't feel like spending a month on a single chapter!) If you're interested and wanting to edit, feel free to send me a PM.

Chapter 1 [1/3]