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The Streets of Cintra
St. Vandal's Square

The witcher walked with a little more confidence in his step now that his purse was heavier, and had a full stomach.

He went about the trail like he always did, a hunter in search of wily prey. Although, wily's probably got nothing to do with it. Kidnappings happen a lot in cities, most of them in places where there weren't many witnesses. And if there were some, they'd be reluctant to come forward, inadvertently aiding the culprits with their inaction. Horrid and frustrating business, needles in haystacks and all that. Fortunately, Geralt was used to that part of the job. If one lived as long as he did, they'd wise up quickly with their street-smarts. The witcher first went to the schoolhouse where Vandal's boys went for the mornings, then followed the path they took when they came out to play. Nothing out of the ordinary in that muddy street, except for the part where there were a hundred different places for a kidnapper to lie in wait. Geralt put himself in the shoes of the culprit, unaware that he was closer to the trail than he thought possible, like the hand of fate was guiding him to find those boys.

They never went home. That's what Serah and Sandy said to him. From the way they were described, they didn't seem the type to run away from home. The witcher paused to look at the ground, where three golden flowers sprouted out from between the cobblestones. Geralt had never seen flowers of that kind before, and he had seen many. When he plucked one from its stem, the flower began to bleed. A trickle of glowing fluid, like molten rock, dripped out onto his gloved hand. Heat radiated from the droplets, and when Geralt leaned inwards to smell it he immediately recoiled. The powerful scent of life-giving magic assaulted his nostrils, the same kind he got when sniffing the contents of a healing potion. His witcher medallion was shaking, although ever so slightly that he almost didn't notice.

"That's strange."

"You lookin' for something, Master Witcher?" A small girlish voice interrupted Geralt's musings.

The White Wolf turned his head to look at her. He saw a little blonde girl with the distinct features of elven-blood, only this one had part of her right ear wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage. She wore a simple two-piece leather and cotton dress, green as the meadow grass and soiled by the mud of Cintra's slums. Her tiny hands clutched a flute, chipped and scarred by a crude craftsman's knife.

"I am." Geralt replied.

"I'm lookin' for something too." She said, looking up at him with her pretty aquamarine eyes. "Good boys that helped me from the mean boys, taken away by the man with glass in his eyes."

Geralt straightened up at the mention of the boys like a hound catching a whiff of the hard-sought scent. "What's your name, girl?"

The elf child put her hands behind her back and stared at the witcher's shoes shyly, "Lunala."

"Tell me, Lunala..." Geralt held up a shiny silver coin, "Have you seen two boys around here? One with black hair, the other with gold? Tell me and you get this coin."

Lunala didn't see much, but it was enough to point the witcher in the right direction. The boys Averon and Reyncourt saved her from a gang of nobleborn bullies, she didn't forget about them and wanted to show a bit of kindness by giving them her flute. She didn't see the stranger with spectacles grab them from the street, but she did notice their sudden disappearance when she rounded the corner to meet them. Geralt got a crude description from the child, paid her the coin, and was off to the stables. Riding fast and hard towards the mountains, Geralt stopped only to question those along the main roads, repeating the description of the carriage and its mysterious occupant to a variety of local characters. Farmers, woodcutters, huntsmen and milkmaids. Most of these people were tight-lipped about what they saw on the roads, most others simply didn't notice. But when Geralt brought up the fact that the man may have abducted two children, it changed their tune right up.

Suddenly everyone was helpful or, more accurately, eager to help. Useful, not so much. They gave a dozen different headings, all branching out in places that spelled a wild goose chase. An exasperated Geralt of Rivia narrowed everything down to two places- up north and away from Cintra or south into the Marnadal Stairs.

"Damn it all." He muttered, finding himself at the literal crossroads. "What do you think, Roach? Flip a coin?"

The horse's ears fluttered, but no sound came from his lips. The witcher fished out a copper and traced its spherical edge with his thumb. Heads for north, tails for south. He flipped the coin, deftly caught it as it fell, and came up with tails.

"To the Stairs then." Geralt rumbled, nudging Roach forward with his heels.

By the time he got through the narrow pass, daylight was beginning to wane. In the shadows of the Marnadal, Geralt could see faint traces of the Fall and couldn't help but reminisce of old adventures. The giant dragon smith had long departed the Wyrm's Ruin, but much of the beastial denizens that lurked within it remained very much alive. Venturing into the Stairs required a great deal of protective measures and an even greater deal of courage. It almost didn't make sense for a kidnapper to make the place his hideout, but in Geralt's experience that's exactly the kind of thinking that lets them slip through the cracks.

He eventually found the old odd tower, across a deep chasm connected only by a rickety old bridge. To his disappointment, the place was a burned out crumbling ruin. But the fire that consumed it was only recently lit, based on the glow of the embers and the still-burning pieces of wood that made up the upper bannisters. The timber skeleton holding up the tower stones was about to give, and before the thing collapsed in on itself the witcher endeavored to get some answers first. He left Roach to investigate the place, and down in the dungeon-like room he found more than he cared to know. The torturer's equipment, married with laboratory tools, brought back visions of his Trial of the Grasses. But this particular set of trials wounded up killing the supervising doctor, one referred to by his half-burned notes as Dr. Inglehart Miloch.

He pretty much incriminated himself with the way that he wrote those notes. A mad scientist without a care for the damage he was doing to the world around him. Miloch wanted to create an elixir so powerful in its healing properties that it could reverse aging, heal all wounds, cure any disease and perhaps even cure death itself. It was an ambitious prospect, but Geralt knew better than to think it went about the right way. No pursuit of science should warrant the abduction and torture of children.

The witcher glanced down at the smoking corpses of the doctor and his rotund assistant. "Deserve no less, bastards."

Roach whinnied in alarm, so Geralt hopped out of the lab with sword in hand. He expected to see monsters, or horse-thieves, something of the like. He would've relished the opportunity to blow off some steam, but instead he chanced upon the two boys he was looking for. They were trying to reach up for Roach's reins, but were too small to get the horse to obey. Roach reared up and started to back away from the pair, earning their ire as they yelled and called him names. Geralt wasn't one for superstition, but he found himself wondering if that coin he flipped was blessed with a measure of luck.

The boy, Averon, looked different and somehow very wrong. His skin was of the hue of iron, black cast-iron like the one used to make cooking pots or crude cheap armor. His eyes were glowing like hot embers, and when he spoke the voice that came from his lips was a terrible crash of swords. Geralt winced as his sensitive ears strained to keep the scratching, clawing words from grating into his brain. "Who are you?"

"I'm Geralt of Rivia." The witcher replied, "I was sent here by your mothers to find and bring you home."

If he had to guess, a measure of Vandal's power flowed through the boy's veins. Strong magic shaped him into that form, awakened through suffering as most things on the Continent were wont to be. When he judged the witcher to be a friend, Averon's skin turned brighter, like the color of Geralt's steel sword. But it didn't turn back. Whatever happened in Miloch's lab, Averon didn't come out unscathed and it seemed that some wounds ran deeper than mere flesh.

Geralt held out his hand and approached the boys slowly so as not to scare them, "Come on, you can ride with me. Plenty of room in the saddle."

The ride back to Cintra was a silent ordeal. The two boys kept their mouths shut, on most escort jobs Geralt preferred them that way. But the eerie looks of a damaged young mind tugged at the witcher's heartstrings. He didn't say it out loud, but he wished he'd gotten to them sooner. Geralt retrieved a great deal of Miloch's notes and a few samples of his hard-sought elixirs, hoping to investigate on the matter further. If the doctor worked alone, they would be worth looking into when he returned to Kaer Morhen. If not, then the notes would lead him to whoever was supplying Miloch.

When darkness fell, Geralt kept riding. He only stopped by a roadside eatery, owned by an ancient proprietor who gave him the best direction on the trail. The old man's wife saw to the feeding and bathing of the two boys, proving to be rather chatty as she pried for details about their welfare. Geralt opted to leave out the details, but Reyncourt let it slip about their abduction and torture. The poor woman was beside herself with worry, playing the part of the doting grandmother, even going as far as to waive the fees on their food and lodging.

Geralt, ever the opportunist, took her up on her offer and stayed the night in a comfortable warm bed. He slept lightly through the hours, checking up on the boys every now and then to make sure they were alright. Averon and Reyncourt slept for the most part of the night, but they were restless. Sadly, there was no cure for a damaged mind. Geralt had to watch helplessly as the boys wept for their mothers, crying out against a nonexistent tormentor. He became all the more determined to hunt down the mad doctor's partners. At first light, the witcher saddled his horse and prepared the boys for the last stretch of their journey together. The old man and his wife said their goodbyes, and the three were off. Curiously, as soon as their home city was in sight, Averon's skin reverted to its normal state. The reunion between the two mothers and their two sons at the Golden Harpy was a happy one, at first.

Serah held her little Bov to her breast, and so did Sandy to Rey. But when they looked into their eyes, the mirthful glow of innocence was gone. Serah's gaze met Geralt's, the witcher's silence spoke volumes as to what he discovered in that old odd tower. The woman didn't ask for the sordid details concerning her son's suffering, only that the witcher finished the job. "Did you do it?"

Geralt shook his head, "Didn't have to. The boys killed the abductors themselves."

Sandy's eyes welled up with tears, and she clutched her boy tighter. "Oh, my poor sweet child!"

"Thank you, Geralt." Serah said, closing her eyes to regain her composure. The madam untied the bag hanging from her belt containing the golden ducats, then handed them over to the witcher. "Our boys are back, and they're alive. You've earned your coin. Should you ever come to Cintra, there will always be a place here for you."

"Hm." Geralt grunted, startled to feel Reyncourt's little arms around his legs. The witcher was unaccustomed to affection, but he knew a show of goodwill when he saw one. He reached down to ruffle the boy's hair, "Watch your back, kid. World out there can be a nasty place."

He wasn't going to stay long in the city. Once the last contract concerning monsters was up, it was back to the Path again with the White Wolf. True enough, before long the notice board was cleared of bounties. When late bounty hunters inquired as to who could have hogged all the work, the alderman pointed to the long white-haired figure riding steadily into the horizon.

City of Cintra
The Royal Palace

Seventeen years later, in the year 1250, tensions began to rise at the buffer zone of the Yaruga.

After the neighboring kingdom of Nazair faltered and moved to become its vassal, the Nilfgaardian Empire's shadow steadily crept up the borders of Cintra. The might of Calanthe's kingdom was thus threatened, and although war had not yet been officially declared, the queen moved her people as though they were in one. In response to the growing concerns of a better equipped and far numerous dragonrider brigade forming in the south, the queen started an aggressive campaign to match the strengths of the empire with some of Cintra's own. Dragon mounts, once a privilege afforded only to the most noble of families, became readily available to any rider worth his or her stock. The standing armies became more professional in terms of armamentarium and tactics, taking quite a large chunk of the crown's coffers to ensure they were well equipped.

Confident now with an army to match the blackclads and a host of soul-bound warriors to bolster their ranks, Calanthe turned her attentions to solidifying her alliance with Skellige, a well-known enemy of Nilfgaard. This led to a banquet being held in honor of her daughter, Princess Pavetta's, fifteenth birthday which doubled as an opportunity for promising suitors to ask for her hand. The palace was prepared for the grand feast, for there were many guests from almost every corner of the Northern Kingdoms who would come for the festivities. Outside, the city was kept in good order. The streets were swept of beggars and vagabonds, old and crumbling statues knocked down and replaced with exact replicas, local gangs paid off to ensure no harm was to befall the arriving dignitaries. The days leading up to the grand event were busy, and this was never more true for the Cintran Royal Army.

Not much was known about Calanthe's schemes to undermine the advancements south of the Marnadal Stairs, but to her circle of loyalists they knew of the proxy wars waged in that place, and the reasons behind its enactment. Masked as an unaffiliated army dedicated to hindering any crossing into Cintra, the Emberheart Legion actively struck at Nilfgaardian garrisons and cut forward supply lines by ambushing caravan trains bringing precious gold and food up and about Nazair. The gamble was not to goad the Empire into attacking Cintra, but to spread misinformation and chaos among the ranks. At present, Nilfgaard was in the midst of a brutal change in regime. The continued assaults on the frontier would ensure that there would be no staging ground for future invasions.

Only time would tell if they underestimated the ambitions of the blackclads.

On the first day of the celebrations, the first dozen dignitaries arrived at the capital city from the twin kingdoms Lyria and Rivia. Only then did the guests start to trickle in, and the streets became alive with carnivalous elation. Music and mirthful song filled the air, borne from lips heavy with Cintran wine. Young maidens spilled into the streets adorned in flower crowns and colorful dresses, beckoning to the shy young men to join them in the twirling chaos that made up the local folk dance. The merriment was interrupted by a commotion at the gate, where a small contingent of bloodied, soiled and exhausted soldiers marched into the safety of Cintra's walls. Those on horseback rode ahead of the column, bearing the black standard embossed with orange borders. They were the Emberheart Legion. Leading them was a pair of riders, one clad in brass-colored plate armor- the other, not so much.

Reyncourt was easily recognized by the cityfolk. Tall, blonde and encased in full brass plating. He wasn't a knight, but hardly anyone cared. Every coin he'd made was invested in that simple brass plate, and although it wasn't cheap as steel or iron, it offered a lot more protection on the battlefield. Instead of a sword, he carried a flanged mace to battle. The lad from the dregs had fast become popular among the grunts that formed the Royal Army, having made a name for himself fighting in the tumultuous region of Sodden as soon as he was of age. Those who remembered St. Vandal could see his face in Reyncourt, igniting the hearts of the faithful for they saw a saintly warrior among commoners. The sight of his flowing blonde hair and kind smile ignited a different kind of flame in the maidens of Cintra, painting a lascivious picture in their wanton minds.

Averon evoked a different kind of response. His helm was an iron galea, complete with a nightmarish plume of solid studded bronze that depicted an abrasive burst of sunfire. It hid most of his face, save for a scant view of his lips, nose and glowing red eyes. He wore an overlapping set of steel plates that covered his midriff, held up by a simple strap of leather. A small tabard overlaid by brass strips formed the balteus that encircled his waist. Far simpler greaves of cheap iron and riding chaps of even cheaper leather covered his legs. All these served a purely ceremonial purpose, for Averon's armor was his own skin. Black like freshly forged and unpolished cast-iron, he looked more like a walking sculpture than a man.

Folk called him a freak, but never to his face. Averon wasn't a saintly warrior like his half-brother, for beneath the cold statuesque exterior was an inhuman cruelty that only his enemies were unfortunate enough to witness, or so his supposed reputation dictated. His spear, a weapon fashioned out of the same giant arrows that felled the greater dragon Idlekkarnhamth, was responsible for laying low a dozen dragonriders- both Cintran and Nilfgaardian. The former due to a bad case of hastily declared duels, and the latter in the bloody proxy wars at Nazair. His round shield, engraved with horrifying iconography, had a shortsword strapped to its underside in case Averon was without his spear. The art of spear-throwing had long been considered an outdated form in Cintra with the advent of the crossbow, but Averon proved it was a stubborn art. He could unhorse a knight within a hundred and five meters, pick off an officer in the middle of a melee, or strike a dragon and its rider from the skies.

For this, his freakish nature was tolerated among the ranks, and eventually albeit begrudgingly accepted among the nobility when he was presented at court. Calanthe bestowed upon him an honorary name when he first served in the Legion, dubbing him 'The Myrmidon'. He was to be an example, regardless of his unnerving and often violent tendencies, to the common soldier that even a ferocious dog had its place in her kingdom.

The half-brothers marched up to the palace, carrying with them the severed heads of Nilfgaardian dragons. The riders have been slain in the fields of Nazair, in a battle the blackclads chose poorly. Both they presented to the queen as she gathered her court for the festivities. The dripping bags which encased the heads drew a horrified gasp from the onlookers, but by then Calanthe was accustomed to gory sights. The queen bade the pair to enter her court with a casual wave of the hand.

"Your Grace." Reyncourt knelt before Calanthe, as did Averon. "We present to you the mounts of the Nilfgaardian knights, Sir Calahan and Sir Vodharen. Our campaign against the blackclads is finished, they've retreated south as promised."

Calanthe smiled, signifying her approval. The Emberhearts made the Nilfgaardians bleed for their trespasses, and they didn't let the campaign drag on. Wars were expensive, even proxy ones. Now that the campaign was over, the soldiers could return to their original assignments and the Legion be disbanded. "Perfect, something to add to the trophy hall. Well done, the both of you. Now rise." They obeyed, and Calanthe drew near to bestow something worthwhile. "Once, our fair city was beset by the trials of the Fall. Bastards you may be, but the blood of St. Vandal flows in your veins. Reyncourt, you've served the crown well and must be rewarded- with knighthood."

Falling to one knee, Reyncourt felt the queen tap his shoulders with a sword lent by her advisor, Lord Strauss. His face betrayed his astonishment, and he couldn't quite digest what happened even after he was pulled to his feet by his half-brother. "As for you Averon, your ferocity will serve better at my side than on the front. The shadows of conspiracy are ever around me, and I will need a bulwark to lean on. Should you accept, a commission of a hundred souls shall be yours to command. They shall be trained in your way of battle, one befitting that of a proper queensguard. What say you?"

The Myrmidon said nothing, but he nodded to affirm his commission.

"Very good." Calanthe clapped her hands together, "Now, my lords and ladies, where were we?"

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