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Amell Mountains
The Old Odd Tower
In the shadow of the rolling mountains about two miles southeast of Cintra, a lone tower stood propped against the rocky slopes that formed the base. It stood upon a bulky ledge, connected to the main path by a rickety wooden bridge that seemed to barely stand the test of time. This tower was Dr. Inglehart Miloch's laboratory, his home away from home.
His hired muscle, a thick-headed brute who went by the name Theodan, guarded the bridge like a foul-mooded troll. Standing at seven feet, with the overall girth and constitution of a fighting bull, the man was perfect for the role the good doctor paid him to hold. Theodan's meaty hands were wrapped in dirty rags and stank of sweat and urine. The crude hauberk of chainmail strained to fit his impressive physique, as did the leather boots on his squat legs. Around his rotund middle was tied a frayed bit of rope, where he hung both the ring of keys that allowed access to the many rooms of the tower as well as his prized single-edged chopper, Nancy.
Theodan's face was uncovered, save for a small leather eyepatch that hid the empty socket where his right eye should have been. He was dirty and unkempt, with a wild shock of a black beard around his massive chin. The man failed to mention how he lost the eye when Dr. Miloch hired him, then again, it mattered little. Theodan was good at his job, employing violence to potential trespassers and introducing Nancy to whomever dared to cross the bridge and steal from the tower. So far, nobody has bothered the premises since the main path leading to the place diverged from the common road to the Marnadal Stairs.
The brute sat on his stool, back against the stone pillar from which the rope supporting one side of the hanging bridge was securely tied. One hand held a beaten briarwood pipe to his lips, the other scratched at the exposed skin of his backside. The doctor was due to arrive some time that day, having gone to the city to purchase some supplies for the month. Theodan waited, bored out of his mind and near out of precious tobacco.
Hours passed, and soon the incessant howl of the winds blowing through the mountain passageways faded to give ground for the faint creak of turning wheels and the clop of horse-hooves. Miloch had finally come. The light stagecoach crossed the bridge and into the tower grounds. Theodan rose up and prepared to aid his employer in moving his stuff inside. To his surprise, the doctor didn't come alone. He brought with him two squealing brats, one with hair of gold and the other of blackest onyx. They were gagged and bound securely, for Miloch knew his knots. He carried them both out of the stagecoach, struggling as he walked unsteadily with the weight of the two boys jerking one way and another.
Exasperated, he yelled at the brute. "Damn it all, Theo! Help me with these two, will you!"
"Yes boss." Theodan grunted, picking Reyncourt up by the front of his shirt and slamming his forehead into the boy's face. The child fell back, limp in the man's grip as his senses left him. A bright trickle of molten blood slid down from his right nostril, which caused Theodan to blink twice in astonishment.
Seeing his half-brother in that state, Averon screamed hatefully in spite of his gag and strained against his ropes.
"Careful, you idiot!" Miloch snapped, "These two lads are specimens vital to my research! They're more valuable to me than you."
"Yes boss. Sorry boss." Theodan took Averon from the doctor. Remembering his employer's strict commands, he did so daintily and gingerly. "Whaddya want me ta do wi'em?"
"Bring them inside and throw them in the waiting cell. Get my examination kit and rack ready. You know what I mean, and make it snappy. There's more to haul from the back of the coach, and I'd like to get started right away."
As Theodan went about his tasks, Miloch went upstairs to change into his lab coat and leather apron. His trip to Cintra forced him to spend the last of his coin on the renewal of supplies for the month, a loss he'd come to know so intimately since his forced departure from Oxenfurt all those years ago. The university was a respectable institution, there was no denying that. However, over the years he felt as though the administration accumulated too many of the small-minded so-called 'learned men', stunting scientific growth where it mattered most. Seeking the mysteries of the world outside the university grounds, but at the same time unwilling to leave without a lasting impression, Miloch stayed long enough to accuse and undermine his professors in every way possible. Dubbing himself as an unrecognized genius, the errant student bore the following dishonorable rustication and finally set off on a ten-year journey across the Continent.
He had no lofty upbringing, nor any inheritance to speak of. Miloch prided himself on being a 'self-made' man, having worked to get himself an education in that prestigious school. Instead, all the money he had was scraped up from years of dabbling in shady works, swindling ignorant peasants and cooking up illegal chemicals for the criminal underworld. But here, in the old odd tower, his work was purely for the betterment of all mankind. And the two boys he kidnapped from the city would help him do just that.
"Job's all done, boss." Theodan reported, rather happily.
Miloch adjusted his spectacles and looked the lab over. Theodan set up the examination rack, an adjustable wooden frame with rollers similar to the torture rack that royal spymasters used in their interrogations, although this one in particular was built to accommodate the size of an animal rather than a person. Still, it was perfect for the size of a child.
"Bring in the first, the golden haired one." Miloch said, taking up a leather roll and unbinding the fastener to reveal a plethora of cutting apparatuses. He chose a scalpel, an instrument perfect for making little incisions and with needle-like precision.
Theodan picked up an unconscious Reyncourt, untied him and strapped him onto the rack. At the request of his employer, the brute removed the boy's shirt and adjusted the levers to bring him up to an inclined position. Struggling to set himself upright despite his bound arms and legs, Averon pressed his face against the bars of his cell and watched in horror as Dr. Miloch started cutting his half-brother's skin.
The pain was enough to wake Reyncourt, and the poor boy screeched through the cloth gag in agony as the scalpel slashed again and again. All throughout the procedure, Miloch paused to note down every observation. "Day One, Subject One. Male, around ten years of age. On first observation, subject demonstrated remarkable regenerative capabilities. Blood pigmentation curiously unorthodox. Probing test- simple incisions, superficial wounds. Results were as expected." He cut him one more time, then proceeded with the other steps of his experiment. Reyncourt trembled on the rack, his little chest heaving and drenched with sweat.
Theodan watched the whole ordeal with a sadistic glint in his eye and a sloppy open-mouthed grin. He loved to see the doctor's test subjects suffer, and in the past he took part in the tests personally. He hoped, this time, he could get that opportunity again.
"Next probing test- deep wounds." Miloch said out loud, selecting a double-edged dirk.
More screams filled the air over the next five hours, resonating across the narrow chasms of the Amell Mountains.
City of Cintra
Lowtown Streets
Sometime at noon, a hooded stranger visited the streets of Lowtown Cintra. He led a chestnut mare by the reins with the bearing of an experienced rider, and stepped about the winding cobblestone pathways with the sure-footedness of a worldly-wise man.
The stranger was Geralt of Rivia, witcher of the School of the Wolf and true slayer of the greater dragon Idlekkarnhamth. So much had changed in the ten years since he'd last visited the city. Then, the capital was struggling to recover from two different attacks. One from the undead of Saggrel and the other from the greater dragon's onslaught. Both certainly made for good tales to share in the company of his fellow witchers at Kaer Morhen. Since those days, it seemed that Cintra recovered after all and did well for itself. While neighboring kingdoms and fiefdoms reeled from the effects of the conjoining of worlds, Queen Calanthe seized control early on and held an iron grip over the lands south of the Yaruga.
As Geralt traversed the streets, he made note of the towering longhouse built atop the black bones of Idlekkarnhamth. Over the years, the remains of the greater dragon had been carved up piece by piece and scattered throughout the kingdom, leaving the heavy metallic bones where they stood. Dragon remains made for good ingredients, both in the world of smithing as well as alchemy. The new commodities made many armorers and prospecting merchants rich, so the Cintran economy boomed. A period of prosperity followed the undead crisis, heralding the proverbial dawn to a long dark night.
The Blackbone Inn, the place was called. Fitting, considering the thing that built up its frame. The only piece missing from the gigantic skeleton was the head, which the royal family put up in the throneroom. The witcher's nostrils picked up on the scent of freshly roasted ham and frothing ale. His ears listened to the lively shouts of patrons cheering on with the entrancing tune of lutes and flutes. The journey on the Path was long and hard, the White Wolf had need for a little dose of civilization.
But could he afford it? Geralt clutched at the small pouch hanging from his belt and felt to his dissatisfaction the one copper piece sitting at the bottom. An oath escaped his lips. That coin won't pay for a decent meal, let alone a room.
Once again, the witcher was broke. He turned away from the steps leading to the inn stables and headed in deeper. At noon, the crowds were not too large to bar his passage, so Geralt reached the main square without any trouble. He hoped to find a notice board, a post for bounties or some odd jobs, anything to help with his apparent lack of funds. Instead, he found the marble statue of St. Vandal. Nothing there to help pay for his food or lodging, save for bad memories.
"Hello there, old friend." He muttered, gazing into the hollow black stone eyes that stared unseeing into space. The artist that made the thing clearly had a flair of exaggeration. Vandal was bigger there, imposing, and every bit the type of thing one conjures up in a mythical tale. At the very least, people would remember him, regardless of the inaccuracy.
"I wonder if anyone's going to remember me when I'm gone." Geralt said to Roach.
The horse looked at him with unblinking thoughtful eyes, then snorted.
"Doubtful about it yourself, eh? Figured as much. Say, why don't we go pay his girls a visit?" The witcher patted Roach on the neck, "See how far his little runts have grown? Maybe we'll even get a free bunk and something to eat..."
With that, Geralt headed for the Golden Harpy. He knew Serah and Sandy as far as acquaintances were concerned. They were Vandal's, and being no degenerate, Geralt never touched them. Still, they were pleasant enough company when he met them. The witcher visited them only once before, just to check up on the pair for his friend's sake. They had just opened up the brothel, plunging themselves in a fierce competition against the more longstanding network of establishments throughout Cintra. The way he heard about it on the road, the Golden Harpy was doing well for itself.
If only he had enough coin, he could sample the merchandise of such a fine place. Instead, he'd have to come to their door penniless like a beggar. Geralt almost decided to turn right around and go back on the road, he hated the idea of begging. He was a witcher not a tramp, regardless of how thin the line between the two was.
Geralt steeled himself upon approaching the threshold of the brothel. Just like the Blackbone Inn, the Golden Harpy had an air of elegance as befits a place of pleasure and entertainment. The rooms were alight with mesmerizing red lanterns, and a band played an endless string of lively titillating music to add some pleasantness to the overall mood. Prostitutes of every race and sex awaited potential patrons from every corner, while servers walked through the tables bringing in food and drinks for the more longstanding guests. The air was filled with the idle chatter of salacious and loose talk. It was a familiar and welcome sight for the witcher, for brothels were among the few places where a mutant could find rest without fear.
After tying Roach to the stall out back, Geralt stepped through the main entrance and was immediately stopped by two men.
They were local thugs, hired by the madams of the brothel to keep the riffraff out of the establishment. "Hold on there, friend. No weapons 'yond the door, house rules and no 'ceptions."
Geralt didn't begrudge them for saying so, they were just doing their job. Still, no one will separate him from his swords willy-nilly. Unfortunately, the witcher just wasn't in the mood to bust some heads. The thugs haven't given him enough of a reason to feel otherwise. They didn't touch him, they were just simply in the way.
"Wait!" A woman's voice called above the noise of the bustling establishment. It was Madam Crassula, Sandy of Amendale, who came running down the staircase towards the front door. The small woman had gained a little weight over the years, though it did little to mar her overall attractiveness. Her golden hair had some graying strands, and her face had a few wrinkles from the stress of motherhood. She wore a pretty black and yellow frilled dress, complimented by the glittering rings that adorned her fingers. "Move aside, boys! This is Geralt of Rivia, and he's an old friend of the house. He won't be bringing trouble with him, let him in."
"Right, miss. Apologies, mate." One of the thugs tipped his hat to the witcher, "In ya go."
"Thanks for that." Geralt said to Sandy, "I was in the neighborhood and just wanted to drop by, see how you were holding up."
"Later, Geralt." The madam replied, "There's something I want to discuss with you. Follow me, we'll have a chat up in the office."
Reluctantly, Geralt followed Sandy upstairs to the main office, where the Madam Sansavieria waited impatiently while pacing across the carpeted floor. Serah stopped in her tracks when she noticed the sound of footsteps ascending the steps, and the door swing open to let the pair inside. Upon seeing the witcher, the creases of worry on her forehead faded and her eyes lit up with hope. The witcher could tell that something was bothering the two women, and he inquired about it once the door was bolted behind him.
"What's going on?"
"Go ahead, Serah." Sandy said with a nod, "You can tell him. He can help us."
"Witcher..." Serah's chest heaved and she looked like she was on the verge of tears, "Someone took our boys. Little Rey, and my Averon."
Geralt clenched his teeth behind closed lips. It looked like he was going to have to work for favors yet again, but in this case he was willing to go if it concerned children. Some might say he's got a soft side for a witcher, but to that end Geralt could care less. The world was cruel and spared no one, he would do his utmost if it meant saving those kids. "Start from the beginning. When did you last see them?"
It had been almost two weeks since the boys disappeared, and Geralt cursed his luck. Such a trail would've gone cold on the third day, and there was little to no chance of him getting a good start on the hunt. The kidnappers could be anywhere by then. Serah and Sandy didn't have anyone, other than the inept bounty-hunters that loitered around Cintra's darkest corners, to count on at the time.
"They were playing in the square, like they always did after school. Not once did they ever fail to return home for supper. Except this time..." Serah paused, hands reaching out for the table behind her to steady herself. "We've hired trackers, but they never got anywhere."
"Of course not." The witcher grunted, "I'm not one to make empty promises, but... I'll find your sons. As to whoever's responsible, what do you want me to do with them?"
"I don't care!" Serah blurted, "I just want my boy back!"
"We both do." Sandy agreed, "We have 300 ducats set aside for this endeavor. Return our children to us, and the money's yours."
Geralt almost wanted to say he wasn't doing the task for money, but the hefty purse they promised as a reward was just too tempting. He needed it, after all. Instead, he decided on a compromise. While not revealing his penniless state, the witcher pressed for an advance to forego his reward. "Give me a hundred now, save the rest for yourselves. I'll get started right away..."
Sandy looked a bit relieved while Serah remained unconvinced. Witchers were masters at tracking targets, but nothing would calm a worried mother's heart till her eyes see her missing child again.
"May seem improper for me to say so, but I wouldn't worry too much about the boys." Geralt said, fumbling for a way to comfort the two women. "If they were born anything like Vandal, they can survive anything."
The Old Odd Tower
The Cells
"You fucking bastard! I'll kill you! I swear by all the gods, I'll kill you!"
Reyncourt heard his half-brother screaming at their tormentors with all the rage a young lad of ten could muster. He could smell the powerful scent of pitch being poured over him, and see the glow of a torch being lit. He heard the doctor, Miloch, speaking in that same sophisticated drivel as he noted down even more observations. Then, the boy's curses gave way to agonized shrieks and the horrid stench of burning flesh assaulted Little Rey's nostrils.
Averon was burning. All the while, the brute Theodan was laughing at the sight of the child's suffering. It was just the latest in a long line of experiments Miloch had come up with. In the hellish time the boys have been imprisoned in the tower, so many things have been done to them. They've been cut, stabbed, electrocuted with crank machinery, even maimed. Averon lost two fingers on his left hand, so did Reyncourt. The doctor was trying to figure out something, whatever it was in their blood that was special. Vandal's blood, to be exact. The power of regeneration, a power just a few levels shy of immortality. There was enough in the man's endless monologue for the boys to realize that as long as the answer was out of his reach, their suffering will not end.
"Shut up, Theo! I'm trying to think here!" Miloch snapped, covering his nose with a handkerchief after the sudden billow of smoke blew right out of the open windows. He kept his distance from the rack, and the charred little body shackled therein. When the fire died and all what was left was Averon, black and cooked like a roasted pig, the doctor finally moved in for a closer look.
"Probing test- severe burns. Results: Nil. Terminal threshold exceeded." He muttered, poking at the unmoving thing on the rack with a retractable baton. "Subject Two, deceased. Godsdammit."
Miloch turned around and removed his gloves, preparing to start with a different experiment with Little Rey. The body didn't remain still for long, however, and Averon uttered a strangled gasp, surprising the doctor and his brutish henchman.
"Impossible!" Miloch breathed, running up to the rack to put his ear close to the boy's mouth. He could hear him, each breath sounding less and less heavy as his body regenerated. "Alright, I think it's time we entered Phase Two. Theo, fetch the extraction syringe and the pump. The power's in the blood, and we're near a breakthrough!"
"Right boss, on it." Theodan acknowledged, disappearing upstairs to get everything ready.
Suddenly, Miloch cried out as Averon's teeth sank into his neck. The boy bit him with every strength his little jaws could muster and wouldn't budge until he drew blood. The doctor tried to pull himself away, only to get a chunk of his neck torn off as he staggered backwards into an operating tray. He fell to the floor with a loud crash, blood gushing out of the severed arteries in his throat. Desperately, Miloch tried to block the flow with both hands. His wild eyes watched the boy on the rack strain against the leather straps, all of them burned as much as he was, and rip out of them.
The tattered and smoldering remnants of his clothes fell away as he jumped off the rack. His ruined body mended itself, making him whole again. Averon glared at the wounded man, the fire that burned his flesh now found its way into his eyes. Miloch couldn't believe that at such a young age, that boy could look at him so murderously. Then something happened to his skin in that moment.
When the skin was healed, it looked like it turned to metal. Gray and hard like newly forged steel, yet still as movable as flesh. His eyes glowed red like firebrands, as though everything he'd suffered led to this moment and he was irrevocably changed. Averon, twisted with hatred most deadly, picked up a scalpel and moved towards the doctor.
"Fascinating..." Miloch croaked, his scientific curiosity getting the better of him.
Theodan finally returned, just in time to see his employer get stabbed to death by a naked iron-skinned creature in the shape of a little boy. The sharp thing in his hand descended again and again, burrowing deeper each time into Miloch's chest. The doctor looked on for as long as he had life left in him, then fell silent as his final breath was done. At once, the brute dropped the large syringe and pump he was carrying in his big hands, then took up Nancy from his rope belt. He smiled a lopsided ugly smile as he brandished the chopper at the boy, "Oy then, lad. Come get some."
Averon shrieked furiously, breaking into a wild sprint towards the bigger man. First, Theodan hit him with his fist. When his hand struck the metallic flesh, it felt like he hit an iron shield and he drew back with a loud curse. Then, he brought the chopper down on the boy, only to find the blade bounce off of him harmlessly.
The boy, however, was smarter and went low. He hit Theodan where it hurt, right in the sack between his legs. Averon cut him deep and low, drawing an agonized howl from the emasculated giant. Theodan collapsed on his knees, hand clutching the bloody underside of his trousers. Averon gave him a measure of the suffering he and Miloch had inflicted on them, then proceeded to cut open his throat.
Uttering a gurgled rasp, the giant fell forward on his face and into a puddle of his own making. Hearing the jingle of keys, Averon bent down to pick up the ring hanging from the man's belt and proceeded to free his half-brother from the cells.
Their suffering was over.
"I wanna go home, Bov." Reyncourt said tearfully.
"Stop crying." Averon snarled, "Don't be a nancy. We're going to have to make our own way back now, so I want you to pull your fucking weight. Y'hear?"
His half-brother nodded, holding back his sobs as he was led out of the tower and out towards freedom.
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