"You would do well not to disappoint me, boy." Foltest said.

The King stood within his own personal library, though in truth he mostly used it to store old ledger and gifted books and things of that nature. The day was hot, but a cool breeze kept the worst of it at bay, and Balidvar had the distinct impression it was a trick by Triss to temper the King's mood. The sorceress stood at the ready a few paces behind Foltest, eyes as sharp as a sword and hair as red as blood. She could speak up when she wished to, but she had seen Foltest and his bastard fight enough to know when to let them talk.

"And we are to meet them at the fort itself? Why is that again?" The bastard asked, callused hands turning the pages of the book he was skimming. He had the look of a hardened sailor and a swordsman you didn't want to meet on the streets at night, with an oft-broken nose and hard eyes. And yet he was considered comely all the same to more than a few women. Those that enjoyed fine cheekbones and a lean fighters physique.

Foltest let out a grave sigh, looking away from the product of his seed as he gazed about the room, no doubt wondering why he had not yet burn this place down yet. "Because a large force entering Nilfgaard will draw attention. Attention you don't want. All of them have been handpicked by me and examined by Vernon. A traitor couldn't slip past both of us. You'll be in good hands. The question remains on if you're up to the task of managing them."

Balidvar had curbed his worst impulses this day, keeping his tongue behind his teeth for the most part. He had thought to read a few of Heinsht Vorkenragh's books on siege preparations and logicists when his father had come in to discuss that very subject. The King continued. "How do you expect to learn anything from these books, hmm?" He grabbed the open book from the desk, closing it and holding it aloft. "Haven't I told you that experience is the best teacher?"

"Well since I have no experience, I thought I might learn beforehand until I was interrupted." Balidvar replied coldly.

"No experience, yes." Foltest replied snidely. It was one of the great mysteries of the cosmos, why the King treated his soldiers like his family and his family like soldiers. Then again that would imply he thought of Balidvar as his kin in the first place. The bastard pushed his chair back and stood up as the King asked. "Remind me again why I chose you to lead?" Face to face they looked quite different, except for the royal nose and their relative build.

"Because I am expendable." Bal replied, and walked passed his father. The King laughed at the answer. He remembered a time when he once craved that laugh. Now it was simply a nuisance.

"With an attitude like that, you just may well survive."

As Balidvar entered the circular stairwell, his shirtsleeve was gripped by a slender hand. His toned body halted midstride, and he turned to look back at Triss, her beautiful face a mask of concern and sympathy. He relaxed and straightened himself, and she leaned in to speak to him. "You know your father is right." She said, eyes boring into his. She didn't need enchantments to gain men's attention, but Balidvar wasn't in the mood.

"And you know that's the wrong thing to say to me right now." He said, turning to leave once more.

"Bal..." Triss said.

"Don't call me that." He said, though his tone wasn't harsh. He was taken by surprise when she placed a brooch in his hands, and to his surprise it was the coat of arms worn by crown princes. He looked at her in abject shock, but she merely placed a finger to her lips, and said. "I'll see you once the snows thaw." The Witch smiled, and turned back around and walked back into the library, speaking to the King the next moment to keep his temper down.

He left her and his father there at the top floor, travel worn boots thudding on the carved stone as he descended. The Temerian Coat of Arms hanging upon tapestries overhead, the blue and gold echoed on the Blue Stripe he saw at the bottom step, just heading up past him. Vernon Roche looked up, and gave a grim nod. "Fair travels boy. Set things up right, and we'll be on schedule this spring. Fail, and if the Nilfgaardians don't execute you, I might need to. Nothing personal."

2 Weeks later...

The smell of crisp smoke permeated in the air, stretching the allure of the freshly cooked sausage to the surrounding woods. A few scores of miles past the rift at Sodden, the forest was thick about them with little visibility. It seemed the directions had been impeccable though. Balidvar counted four masons, twelve laborers, a Tanner, and two cooks as of yet. Thanks the Gods the cooks had gotten here relatively earlier.

The meeting place had been set up by the stone that looked like an upside down boot the size of a man. Walking anywhere 50 yards west off the main road would be able to spot it. The bastard had been waiting for near 36 hours now, with his 10 men he brought having gathered much of the supplies they would need for the first week, along with two mules. The sun's rays peeked even through the brush, and Balidvar enjoyed the sun's warmth as he finished the sausage and took his leave from the fire, going to wait by the small path for any newcomers.

With any luck, the ones his father had summoned would arrive shortly...

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Nadia had awoken as the pre-dawn chill melted away before the first rays of the rising sun. She had spent a restless night beneath a thicket of shrubbery a small ways off the Old Road that ran between the petty kingdom of Brugge and the former principality of Sodden. Mostly Temerian land now of course. Foltest had done exceedingly well for himself in the aftermath of Sodden Hill, picking over the choice leavings of Cintra and Nilfgaard. But here she was, loyal and faithful servant of the Temerian crown and veteran of said battle, sleeping in the mud, under a pile of twigs.

"Fucking peace. Doesn't do me any good."

She muttered to herself as unwrapped the blanket around her and stretched out her aching muscles. It had been a lean year or so after everything had calmed down with Nilfgaard. Coin had been thin, hence why she was sharing a hedge with all of gods creatures instead of waking up in a nice warm bed in an inn. But that would all change hopefully, if Foltest came through on his promise of payment for taking and holding the fortress she would soon be a rich woman.

The embers of last night's fire were rekindled with fresh wood. Nadia set her fire irons and pan above it to make a thin porridge of oats and water. She poured the dregs of her wine skin into the pot as well in order to give it some flavour. Wasn't worth drinking away, after a few days in a skin, the wine would taste more of leather than anything else. All in all it only took her an hour or so eat, groom her horse, and squat above the overgrown ditch that lined the ancient thoroughfare. She did take the time to don her brigantine and some of her other armour. The road had been quiet thus far, but she wouldn't be taking any chances on this side of the border.

The female mercenary unhitched Wander and mounted the saddle, one of her spears careless balanced across her thighs. As the sun continued to warm the day she could help but feel a faint smile creep across her lips. Soon. It could not be that far from the meeting point now.

"Come on boy, let's go find us some fucking Temerians."

Nadia and Wander set off a brisk trot.


They smelt them before they saw them, the scent of wood smoke and cooked meat seemed irresistible after Nadia's own paltry breakfast. From the road she could not see where they were, the woods were thick in this part of Sodden, but she could see a path beaten down through the brush leading west off of the Old Road. Looks likely enough...

It did not hurt to be a little cautious though. She paused before riding into the woods, put on her helm and picked up her shield. Her reins she held in the left hand and with her right she gripped her spear. Nadia held it overarm, the haft resting on her shoulder, her hand wrapped around shaft about two thirds of the way towards the tip where the balance point was. The head of spear was an ugly thing, not a large thin bladed head meant for cutting as well as thrusting, but a narrow diamond sectioned spike of grey iron, designed to pierce through flesh and mail with its savage point. It would take a small movement and Nadia would be ready to hurl her weapon into the nearest attacker.

"Let's see if anyone is home."

She urged Wander forward at a slow pace, trying to make as little noise through the trampled brush as she did so. The camp was not far beyond, a cluster of horselines, cookfires and small tents around a large oddly shaped stone. There were armed men there, as well as labours and crafts men. All flying Temerian colours. It seemed she had found the right place after all.

There was a man waiting at the edge of the path that lead to the camp. He had a hard look about him, a nose that had been broken one too many times, mean looking eyes, a swordsman physique. He reminded her of a lot of mercenaries she had ridden with in the past. But he wasn't one, too well dressed. One of Foltest's knights perhaps? As she approached she lowered the spear and drew off her helm with her newly freed hand, letting her tangled black locks fall freely down the side of her shaved head again. There was wide grin across her face, revealing her missing and cracked tooth.

"I'm guessing that you're Foltest's merry little band headed South? Care to spare a sausage for a veteran of Temaria?"

A man and his horse emerged from the woods, the sound of hooves moving slowly on the main road announcing their arrival. The horse was large and black, a stallion and a war-horse of excellent breeding -- Zerrikanian, perhaps. He trotted along at a leisurely pace, his head proud and high, and his eyes were free of blinders. Their absence spoke of the steed’s fearlessness. The saddlebags across his flank, clearly well-worn but expertly maintained, were crafted from fine and sturdy leather and they suited the horse’s rugged spirit. Odd, however, was the antlered skull of a dead monster that was strapped to the horse’s rump with a few strands of rope. It bounced gently with the stallion’s tread, but the animal did not seem to mind.

The man was cloaked and armored, his face hidden in the shade of his cowl against the warm sunlight, leaving only black wool and grey steel of to speak for him. Two swords were sheathed across his back -- of expert craftsmanship, judging by the pommels, both incorporating the majestic and scornful countenance of the griffin into their designs -- beneath the unmistakable wooden frame of a lute, the instrument’s strap diagonally stretched across his cuirass. His belt was lined with a variety of pouches, a few glass vials filled with strange and opaque substances, and the scabbard of a Redanian dagger. Another one was strapped to his boot. Anyone who knew anything about anything would recognize the man for what he was at first glance, and the medallion on his chest, suspended on a chain around his neck, would confirm it for sure. The man was a witcher.

And the witcher’s name was Morgan. He had been told to look for an upright stone, the size of a man and the shape of a boot, but he had no need to look for the stone anymore. He’d smelled the meal roasting over the campfire from a mile off and picked up the idle chatter of the men not long after. He guided his horse away from the main road and after a few dozen yards the trees parted for him, revealing a small path that led up to the meeting place -- with the promised stone standing proudly in the center. Smoke wafted up and lazily drifted away from the campfire and men were scattered about it in the inimitable way of people waiting for something. More important, however, were the individuals immediately in front of him.

Morgan eyed them all in turn. A woman with dark skin and darker hair, curly and wild, and a spear in hand. A Nazairi, if he had to guess, who he knew to be fierce and unruly people -- but capable warriors, if anything. Next was the man he expected to be Balidvar, the king’s bastard. Such associations and pedigrees were meaningless to Morgan, who had precious little respect for the so-called lords and rulers of mankind, and he instead evaluated the man as he saw him. He saw something hard and tough in his eyes, and the skewed set of his nose betrayed that he was no stranger to violence. A cunning bastard with something to prove. Morgan exhaled slowly through his nose -- he knew the type, and could only hope that Balidvar wouldn’t try to boss him around… for his own sake.

Last but not least was the sorceress, for she obviously was one. No other woman would have been dressed like that for such an expedition. Morgan had met a few of them throughout the long decades of his life and his relationship with them had been… complicated. On one hand, their mastery of magic intrigued him, as all Griffins are wont to do, and they were capable and intelligent individuals. On the other hand, he didn’t trust any of them any further than he could toss a cyclops. They were schemers and manipulators of the highest order, and his piercing, feline eyes lingered on her the longest before he tore his gaze away and dismounted from his horse, boots dropping onto the forest floor with a heavy thud.

The witcher grabbed his horse by the reigns and walked past the trio, black cape trailing behind him, to carve out a place for himself in the temporary camp. He caught Balidvar’s gaze in passing but said nothing to the bastard. They both knew why Morgan was there. If their glorious leader had something to discuss, he’d wait for the man to approach him and not the other way around. Morgan’s eyes flitted from one worker and soldier to the next. Invariably, they looked at him with suspicion, wariness or disgust. The witcher was used to it.

“Here, Charlie,” Morgan murmured to his horse and tied his reigns around the stump of a tree before straightening up and running his hands down the sides of the horse’s face. “Some nice grass for you. Maybe one of the cooks has a treat for you later, eh? How about that?” His voice was hoarse and gruff from disuse, but his tone was soothing and Charlemagne -- having felt the hostile energy of those already gathered there -- nickered quietly as he relaxed. “Good boy.”

Morgan turned around to find most of the camp still staring at him and he sighed. “Go on, back to work,” he called out, his beard hiding most of his grimace. Only his eyes, the irises aglow in the gloom of his hood, were clearly visible, and their intensity was enough to avert everyone’s gaze as they hurried themselves to look busy. Morgan growled something unintelligible and sat down on the same stump he’d tied his horse to, unburdening himself his lute, and pulled one of his swords free from its sheath. The silver blade gleamed in the sun, except where black blood stained the precious metal. Morgan produced cloth and some oil for his pouches and started wiping down the blade with slow and methodical motions, eyes cast down and focused on his task.

One of the two witchers had arrived.

The arrival of the next man was heralded by a long, pale gray horse floating ghostlike and silent out of the woods and into the light of the fire. The horse's rider held his head high and proud, his unruly flaming red hair announcing his presence better than any kind of banner. As he grew closer, those paying attention would be able to see the chainmail and leather that enwrapped him. Those paying even more attention would notice how easily he moved in it, how natural it seemed to him as he hopped down off of the horse, tying her to a young tree. "A'right then, girl," he cooed softly to her, "jus' stay nice and calm here, an' I'll get you some oats later, maybe an apple if we're lucky. Sound good?" It had been a long ride up the Yaruga from Cintra for her after they landed from Skellige, and he was happy she would be able to get some rest now. He'd been pushing her a bit harder than usual lately.

Steam nickered, and the man laughed quietly, giving her mane a quick rub before turning to the group spread out about the clearing, looking at each in turn as he analyzed and moved in closer to the fire, looking for a place to sit down. First, a sorceress. He'd worked with them a few times over the years. The higher vampire of Novigrad, for example, had only been lured out by using a sorceress as bait, and he didn't think she'd quite forgiven him over it yet. Still, before that, they'd gotten on okay. Hopefully, his interactions with this lass would be a friendlier sort than the terms that he'd parted with the other on. He didn't know if he quite trusted her--sorceresses were notoriously hard to work with sometimes, and always had their own agenda--but they were to be defending a fortress, so the more help they could get, the better. He nodded at her, face caught in an expression that had likely been seen by few enough on a witcher: a warm, almost conspiratorial grin.

The next in line was a little bit stranger. Her skin color was strange to him; he'd traveled a long way, and it was still uncommon for him to see that tone. Still, he could tell she was Nazairi: the tattoos around her biceps left little else as a possibility. He'd spent quite a bit of time in Nazair as a younger witcher, close as it was to Amell and, by extension, to Haern Cadwch. The silver in the large sword that was strapped to his back had come from Nazair, actually. So he knew a bit about the brigands that made up the majority of the country's highlands. He knew some of their culture, what some of their customs were. He also knew they could fight like the dickens, and so he was glad to have what appeared to be one of them with them. A nod to her as well, the smile on his face growing a bit sharper.

There was a younger but hard-looking man, wearing the crest of the Temerian lilies and scars with equal weight. This, he assumed, was Balidvar. As the witcher approached him, he spoke to a person for the first time since he'd arrived, and the faint burr of Skellige in his accent became more apparent: "I'd assume you're Balidvar, then? I'm Aidann, here about the Rakald Keep contract. Needed someone to keep the monsters at bay, aye? I'm yer man." Once he'd spoken, he turned back towards the fire. He would talk to Balidvar more later, but he looked like he was busy at the moment; that was where the sorceress was, after all, and he didn't want to intrude too much.

As much as he wanted to sit down and relax, though, he turned his eyes towards the man sitting on a stump fairly close to where his horse was tied, cowl pulled down over his face, cleaning and oiling a sword.

A silver sword.

Keeping his eyes peeled, Aidann spied the Griffin school medallion and tensed slightly. The Bears and the Griffins, while never...overly adversarial, were still different schools, and so there would likely be some tension. Simply the way of things, between witchers. Still, it would be nice to have someone who was...hopefully equally competent as he was nearby. Perhaps they could spar; Aidann was always looking for practice.

As he took a seat around the fire, he sighed deeply and grimaced, distressed: the men parted around him, looking at him warily. Some stood up and actively walked away, taking a seat on the other side of the fire. He closed his eyes lightly, trying to pretend that it didn't bother him, that he was as clinical as most other witchers were in such situations. He didn't know how effective it was, but he didn't like his chances.

After a few moments of being stared at distrustfully, he sighed again, standing and brushing some dust off of his habergeon where he'd sat on it, rising to his feet and stomping out of the circle of soldiers. They closed once again, the gap filled, and he closed his eyes momentarily as another wave of disappointment washed over him. Still, though, he kept moving, rolling his neck as he approached the other witcher, giving him a very faint nod as he inclined his head towards the horse. Zerrikanian, if he wasn't mistaken, and of exceptional breeding.

"Tha's a beautiful animal you have there."

Nilfgaard... For the average Temerian crossing the Yaruga to the south would have been a quite dangerous endeavour these war-torn days, but Tyrvariél knew that he was anything but average. He had been pretty much of an outcast for the whole of his life, but this probably was one of those rare occasions when this might actually work to his advantage. He did not wear any kind of headgear or bandana so to blatantly expose his pointed ears to every soldier and Scoia'tael who'd happen to cross his path. He certainly did not want to be mistaken for one of the former by the latter and have to pay for this with a fight. Also rumors had it that the ruler of these lands had more belevolent intentions for his kind. Wasting those would have been a folly, too.

Tyrvariél felt a little afraid, maybe even a little more afraid than those who would have to fight any monsters. Unlike those he did not have the task of throwing himself into one live or death situation after the other, but what he most likely also would not have was the respect of the party or anyone to share his true thoughts with. There weren't that many Aen Seidhe around in the first place, but with the bias caused by a high ranking human being in charge of this party he had no reason to expect more than one elf among its members -- himself. Everything else would have been a surprise.

A surprise he could see early on wouldn't come true. There were some trees and quite a lot of bushes around, but a campfire and its smoke gave easy directions. Even before Tyrvariél reached the campsite his eyeballs had already detected plenty of those around. All humans, most importantly the bastard son who seemed to wait for everyone to arrive. Better not to challenge his patience too hard...

He gave his horse a gentle nudge for the final bunch of yards, but the steed was somewhat exhausted and, quite obviously, very heavily laden for such a long journey. Acquiring such a proud and much more capable beast like the one that had just been called 'Charlie' was an issue even if one had the coin. The last breeder Tyrvariél had tried it with had been some ignorant snot from a village near Toussant, the man's last mumbles before closing the door having been something like 'lack of knightliness and overall relevance!'. Well that guy had become pretty irrelevant for the elf's memory, too! Overall one could argue that Tyrvariél had become a very profound eradicator of memories when it came to those he didn't like or care about. Efficiency came with training one could say, even if it wasn't voluntary.

Not being cared about however wasn't anything anyone of those present at the campsite would have to worry about for the moment. For the Aen Seidhe they currently all were mysteries he, somehow, would have to deal with for an undetermined amount of time. It felt only natural for him to start gathering information about them immediately, even if that meant focusing in on the not so nondescript rear of the woman that was Avery. Was she a sorceress ? Well if she was then, at least from Tyrvariél's humble and magically uneducated point of view, she had already missed the most powerful act of magic any human could hope to achieve: Giving birth to such a nice set of shapes.

But who was he to get stuck on stuff like this ? At least one of the anonymous crowd around Balidvar had started to stare at his stare and it felt disturbing. How many of those men had the bastard brought with him ? Tyrvariél guessed roughly a dozen, but for the moment he decided to ingore them. There were more interesting individuals around. The witcher, for example. Or rather... one of the two witchers that seemed to be around here, easily identifiable by the exquisite pairs of swords they carried around. One was a hulking man, but Tyrvariél had come a little too late to find out about his Skellige accent. He sat close to his more slender, slightly taller 'colleague' if one even wanted to use that term, apparently trying to get some kind of conversation started with the other who was more focused on his weapon right now. Something told him that it might be the better option to leave them alone at the moment. Witchers could be unpredictable, even though he had only faced one or two of them as customers so far.

The next who came into the elf's view was Nadia. She looked like a fighter, but with a touch of her own and that was not the her more dark complexion or her height. Were it the many, but only light scars here arms were littered with that triggered the imagination of a whirlwind so fast and ferocious that her enemies simply couldn't do more than that to her ? He didn't know enough about the Naizairi region to identify them as as the markings they truly were, but even with that knowledge she still would have had that certain aura.

Having run out of people that immediately caught his attention Tyrvariél was forced to turn his focus back to himself. How long had he stood on the spot right now, just turning his head while the richely adorned edges of his armor had been looking as if burning in the upcoming sunlight ? He didn't know, but it definitely felt too long and embarrassing. Also he'd have to turn his attention to the remainder of the camp, including the tents, mules and supplies. He wouldn't be able to do his job properly without equipment and not all of that had been suitable for transport by himself.

...compared to the other people whom had been recruited for their importance or took the mission much more seriously, Alicia was more than enough happy to be out on the roads and not stuck in some class lecturing over the same topic or same mixing techniques for the thousand time in a row. Or brewing up the same boring tinctures, poultices and medicine for injured soldiers whom would discard of the produce as soon as it had finished it's job. Nobody was eager to seek out the 'why not' - many were content to accept anything as 'just is'.

That was one of the reasons, when the King' Messenger had come looking for a skilled individual whom was skilled alchemy yet also had the necessary know-how in surviving beyond the walls of Oxenfurt. Granted, she hadn't been outside the walls for some time like many others - except she had the largest collection of knowledge either in her napsack or in her head at that. Plus, she was literally eager for anything to stop the monotony of Oxenfurt. While many else would've been excited to have access to such labs, funding and equipment it got dull after several years. When she had been studying in Oxenfurt - she had taken the idea of 'constantly seeking truth and knowledge' quite literally to her heart. For years, she had spent out in brewing the various potions from the various books - eager to see if what they produced was true or not. Danger didn't register much in her mind in those moments - she was careful, precise yet always seeking more.

Though, rather quickly things had gotten dull yet again. Some of the more 'potent' stuff were locked behind lock and key and forbidden to her. Mostly cause such items usually resulted in poisons or toxins that could likely kill half the school if allowed to settle for even a second - but also, cause the necessary ingredients were rare to come by. Having never traveled to Nilfgaard or any of their border territories, Alicia had been excited for a change of scenery. Taking what may be necessary, as her likely role as 'moral' and regular support for an expedition of this kind of undertaking.

Granted...being whom she was, her method of traveling took time and she had gotten lost twice on the way there. It had been some time, since she had traveled anywhere beyond Redania. Luckily Snowberry was smarter than her in some ways, as she and her mule managed to discover the stone 'boot' in the distance and soon enough approach the location.

"Hello there, are you all also part of the Foltest Expedition?" she asked, rather directly and openly. Considering, the last two times she asked - she got a weird look or told to 'go ride off a cliff'.

1 week earlier

The smell of mildew and mold hung in the air as a pair of armored guards dragged a filthy man down a dimly lit hallway at a brisk pace. The man was dressed only in a roughspun tunic and pants without so much as a thread to cover his feet as they slapped against the cold stone. A coarse beard, almost a full hand in length, and black as coal dominated the lower half of his face while the top is streaked with dirt, much like the rest of him, with the smell to match. His eyes, wide with fear, darted around without pause as his captors dragged him by a chain connected to the manacles binding his wrists together. Eventually, the trio arrived at a solid oaken door flanked by lit torches on either side. One of the guards stepped forward to unlock the door with a heavy iron key and pushes both open with a creak that echoes off the stoney walls. The bearded man was yanked forward into a small room surprisingly well lit by torchlight and dominated by a large wooden table in its center complete with two chairs. Splatters of a dark, reddish stain encircle a set of manacles fixed into the table, and caused the bearded man to recoil. He pulled on his restraints with surprising strength and he received a fist in the gut for his insolence that had him bent almost in half.
“Enough of that! You don’t have a choice in the matter. Either sit down on your own or we’ll prop you up with a spear, understand?”
The man nodded once and straightened up with some difficulty as he made his way to the chair. The guards fastened him to the table none too gently and took up positions by the open door they arrived in, weapons in hand as they wait for someone to arrive. Their captive sat quietly, hoping that whatever was going on could be resolved quickly. He hated being there. Everything smelled wrong and he hated the way sound bounced off the walls again and again. Maybe they’d let him go if he just kept quiet.

Footsteps filled the air of the halls, and suddenly a jester danced out from within the castle sanctum. Behind him, an aging but lovely woman in what could only be described as an elaborate headdress sauntered in, her eyes like daggers and her lips taut. She seemed to survey the room as if she would command all if she could, but it was clear she did not, for with her was the King.

Even if Renar had never seen the King before, there was no mistaking it. Foltest had a look that overpowered even the woman, and he wore the crown atop his head as if born to it. Though he could have been considered to have a soldierly look were it not for the eyes and his kingly nose. His body, at least what was not covered in royal regalia and cloth, was sturdy and honed to that of a footsoldier.

“Ah, so this is the one. Renar, is it?” Foltest asked, his voice posh but rough. He waved for the guards to give the scout some room. Once they backed away warily, Foltest approached. He moved with confidence, sizing Renar up. “You’re difficult enough to track and capture. I was hoping you would not disappoint.”

Quiet prevailed as the wild man remained utterly silent and still, his eyes cast down on the table and avoiding the King's gaze entirely. He had the look of a frightened rabbit in the middle of an open field, hoping to avoid detection despite having nothing to hide in.

Foltest stared him down, looking past his hawkish nose. “I see you’re a man of few words. Well it is lucky for you, as I am not in need of your wit or manner.” He said, stepping forward dangerously close. He seemed to have an iron will about him, and he stood not a meter away from the prisoner. “You’ve traveled south, into Nilfgaard territory have you not?”

Renar shifted uncomfortably in his seat, edging away from Foltest as though he feared the King's touch would burn him. He paused, wringing his hands worriedly as he nodded, still refusing to look the king in the eye.
"Many winters ago."
Yes, he’d been to Nilfgaard before. Not in several years, but what did that have to do with anything? He didn’t understand what was happening.

“Then you’re hired.” Foltest said, and to everyone’s astonishment, he smiled. It was cold but somehow full of bravado. “You and others will go to Nilfgaard and prepare the way for my army. You will scout and hold a strongpoint for the winter. Do so and you’ll receive four years pay as a soldier, along with added loot once you complete the mission.”

Renar was immediately floored. The money was nice but he was over the moon about what sounded like his imminent release, but still he struggled to process the sudden shift in tone. Eventually he decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and simply nodded.
"I can leave after?"

Foltest raised an eyebrow, and after a moment a grin appeared over his face. He had not been so amused in quite awhile.

“If you so desire, yes. You will be a free man.” he declared. He waved his hands in the air for a moment in exasperation. “You were technically free before, but as you know our plan, even if you said no we would need to hold you here until it was done. Better to be paid and ply your wares than be stuck as a guest in my keep, isn’t it?”

Renar looked down at his restraints with visible confusion. The guards had made it very clear from the start that he was a prisoner. His knowledge of civilized society was limited at best, yet even he knew that chaining someone up was generally not something one did to guests.
"I like being a free man better."



The party could see a hooded man riding a horse without a saddle or bridle in the general direction of their camp from a ways off, but they could be forgiven for thinking he was a lone traveler separate from themselves. Renar didn't spare a single glance toward them until he directed his horse right up to the group by gently pulling on a rope hanging loosely around its neck. Anyone paying attention would spot a young hawk perched on his shoulder as he drew closer. The horse stopped with a gentle pat on the shoulder and a whispered command from Renar who dismounted with one fluid motion, stirring the hawk in a flutter of wings as it rebalanced itself. He pulled half a carrot from a pocket inside his cloak and offered it to the horse he gobbled it up without hesitation. Renar stroked the horse's neck without hurry as it ate, waiting for it to finish before telling it to,
"Stay."
And stay it did without needing to be tied down.

Renar pulled back his hood and revealed a head of black hair untouched by any grooming instrument save a knife as he scanned the faces of the crowd. The King had assembled an interesting group to be sure.

He recognized the Nazairi right away. His travels had taken him along the edge of her people's lands. Visiting was nice, but he much preferred the greenery of the forest to the oceans of sand that made up her birthplace. He took note of her muscle mass, her facial scars, and non-standard equipment. Clearly she was not some run of the mill conscript. One of the men who returned his equipment to him upon his release from the dungeon had mentioned rumors of witchers amongst the party. She was clearly no witcher. Her eyes belonged to a human and her equipment was for hunting men, not monsters. A mercenary then. He knew her sort were not known for loyalty to anything but coin and as he was not the one paying her, he'd be sure to keep that in mind.

The men with eyes like wildcats, on the other hand, were definitely witchers. The paired swords on their backs gave them away before he even saw their eyes. Their armor sets, while different, were very clearly meant to prioritize function over form. They were men who knew their craft well. Were they comrades? No, their pendants differed. He'd heard tell of witcher schools where they made children into weapons to fight monsters. Perhaps they were from rival schools which made it even more odd that two witchers were assigned to the same task. They might be up to something, best to keep an eye on them.

The one with the mismatched eyes was a sorceress without a shadow of a doubt. He'd seen her step out of thin air and onto the road ahead of him and couldn't help but wonder why magic users didn't band together long ago and set about ruling the world with an iron fist. Their lack of cooperation puzzled him, but he was no less thankful for it. She was breathtakingly beautiful, to put it mildly, but this only made the wild man wary of her. He'd seen the way especially beautiful women in cities would leverage their gifted appearance to take what they wanted. He would have to be extra vigilant around her.

The elf gave him pause. It was not often Renar saw one of his kind. He looked over his armor and noted it's luxury. He looked at his hands and saw them to be rough and heavily calloused. That, along with his unusually muscular build led Renar to believe him to be some sort of craftsman. A smith, perhaps? It would explain the armor and how it was obviously custom made in order to accommodated such a large wearer. Him being a smith would also explain his lack of any sort of visible weapon. Pehaps he could be convinced to make tools for coin.

The girl with the mule was not a fighter. The way she carried herself, her lithe frame, her aesthetic but non-functional clothes, and lack of weapons all pointed to her being either a member of the court or some sort of scholar. He wasn't sure yet. Renar made a mental note to observe her more later.

Finally his gaze setttled on Balidvar but he made no move to approach, apparently comfortable being where he was. He saw the look in his eyes and the stewing, unresolved anger they held and it made him uneasy. The hawk did not seem to share his concerns as it cocked its head at the man to get a better look.
"My name is Renar and I am your forward scout. I'm sorry I'm late. I was busy being arrested by your father."
There was no malice behind the statement but no joke either. It was merely a statement of fact to him.

"M'lord, our scouts report people approaching." The sentry remarked, huffing what breath he could in his oversized paunch. If his father had given him less able men, he wouldn't be able to clear a pantry much less a forgotten keep. Even as he had the thought, he knew it was unfair to some of the men that had been conscripted, but he knew that his father had no done his best to give his bastard the best. A part of him wondered if this wasn't simply some plot to get rid of him.

Balidvar lifted his rump off the log he and the Captain had been sitting on, standing to his impressive height. His rugged chin and hard eyes weren't reassuring to the sentry. "Well soldier, perhaps that's because we're expecting people to join our expedition. Are they wearing Nilfgaardian uniforms?"

The sentry stuttered, looking back twice before answering with his jowls. "I wasn't informed sir." The proclamation brought a black look from Balidvar that made the sentry lowered his head. The man had likely been a provincial militiaman before he'd been commandeered to be apart of a covert invasion essentially. Well, that either meant they were being attacked and would all be dead, or their guests had arrived. A quick gesture with Balidvar's head sent the sentry off again.

The next person to appear wasn't a Nilfgaardian, but it wasn't someone he expected to see either. A woman of darker complexion. Did he see some Nazairi in her? "If you're a Temerian, then you're most welcome." Balidvar said, giving a quick jerk of his hand. After a moment, it would be clear he was indicating to the cauldron of soup they had to provide for the newcomers. As he did so, he saw someone else.

If he hadn't expected the previous newcomers, he nearly fell over when he saw her. There was a shake of his head and a sigh, but he was clearly pleased. "Avery. I haven't seen you since..." He fell silent, bowling over what he was going to say. "I trust you're here at my father's request? Good to have someone who can perform more than rudimentary spells." Despite his initial mask of neutrality, he was glad to see her.

Speaking of rudimentary magic, the next two newcomers were practitioners of just that. It was fortunate they were far hopefully far better at the sword and their knowledge of beasts. Witchers would be invaluable for this incursion, but he'd need to keep an eye on both of them. He'd only met two others in his life, and one he found he couldn't trust the hard way. He hoped he was an exception to the rule.

"Strange company" His Captain commented, and moments later an Elf walked into view, taking great attention to detail at the assorted crowd. Balidvar couldn't rightly blame him. The bastard replied with a "You're not kidding." Before raising his voice to the Aen Seidhe. "Hail friend! Come and rest for a moment. We'll be leaving shortly." He made sure to give the elf his clear endorsement. He'd have no racism in his ranks. Infighting would only harm them.

"How many left, Jurga?" Balidvar asked. His Captain, a former footman for his father's army, stroked his chin and thought for a moment. The camp was growing packed, with men gathering equipment and hauling packs upon their shoulders once more. A few of the lads had to be kicked into getting up from their breaks, cursing to the heavens. Jurga attempted to reply. "I believe there's-"

He was interrupted by a red haired woman who called to the whole assembly, asking if these were the people she had been searching for. He sincerely hoped no one of importance had heard her outside of this circle. The Captain called, giving her an "Aye!" as a figure, hooded and cloaked approached from behind her, carefully picking his way toward Balidvar until he stood before him, taking his measure. What the man said gave Balidvar the only smile he'd had since yesterday.

"I can tell we'll get along, Renar." He said, extending his hand to shake.

Within the hour, they were off, with bellies full of beef stew and only a few murmurs to give any signs they were passing through. The woods were as cloaked as Renar, even such a sunny day seeming overcast in the canopy that loomed above them. The trees almost felt as if they were marking their passing, and from the stories there had been of the Toussaint woods, they literally might have been. Their trail led them north, past a large gully and brambles, into the slopes of a hillock within the wood, crossing above the incline before they were at level ground again. It was another hour of walking over gnarled roots and sliding between bushes, doing their best to remain quiet until the treeline gave way into rough grass and the sight of low mountains, and a Castle of ill-repair that stood as an immovable specter of the surrounding land.

"Is that it?" One of the soldiers asked, squinting with the cloud enshrouded sun in his eyes.

"Dye think there's any other spooky castles round 'ere? A bit off innit." Another replied.

There was a short wall, roughly teen feet tall and made of stone, surrounding the lower portion of the castle that wasn't obscured by the rocky crags behind it. The gate was unfortunately broken, its wooden frame smashed as if a group of trolls had taken to it with a fury. That would need repairing before much else, but they still needed to make sure the keep itself was safe from brigands or monsters.

Balidvar waved for all to gather round, his unspoken command clear he didn't want any shouting or raised voiced to bring unwanted attention to them. As they moved, he dropped his pack of laden equipment with a crunching thud upon the dirt, and he unsheathed his saber silently. "We move in from the front. Avery, Nadia, and Renar, stay close to me. You Witchers as well. Once we're past the gate, I need you to search the courtyard and then move into the keep. The rest of you, stay here in the field. Keep away from the trees. We made it through the wood with no incident, but that doesn't mean there's no incident to be had. Best not to push our luck, aye?"

He waited for the others to respond, and he gave the signal. "Move."

"I'm Temerian as long as Temeria is paying." The Nazairi woman said with a snort as she rode past the commander. "And soups are not sausages last time I checked, but I guess it'll do. The name is Nadia, by the way."

She trotted Wander across to the nearest of the horse lines and hitched him at the first available post. She went to unload her saddle bags and remove the saddle from the horse's back before stopping and looking around. At a second glace there did not seem to be much point in fully unpacking. Much of the camp was already being prepared for onward transit. Tents were being put down, horse and pack mules were being loaded with their burdens. Guess I'm late to the party, just like Sodden Hill...

"Sorry boy, you'll just have to grin and bear it." Nadia patted the horse with genuine affection before heading back towards the cookfire and the cauldron of soup that the commander of the company had pointed to. She elbowed a conscripted man out of the way to get at the simmering stew within. The man muttered something under his breath about women not knowing their place. Nadia drew herself up to her full height and looked at him, showing that she was just as tall as he was. Her grey eyes glinted with menace in the hazy morning sunshine.

"I might be a woman, but I can still bugger you up the arse with my spear." There was pause, before the Nazairi burst out laughing, punched the solider on the shoulder in jest, and handed him back the ladle. A couple of the other soldiers standing around chuckled under their breath as well. Nadia stood and talked with them as she ate the surprisingly good soup, Immortals be praised, actual cooks.

She learnt a few things from the soldiers, some of them were old hands, some of them were still green, some had fought at Sodden Hill like she had, but all in all they did not seem a terribly impressive bunch. One of the men swore that there was Blue Stripe amongst them, though that could just be a rumour. Even so it was interesting, she had seen what Foltest's stripes could do first hand, she would not want to get on the wrong side of one if there was one here.

She also learned exactly who the commander of their expedition was, Baldivar, one of Foltest's by-blows apparently. And there I was believing all those rumours about the sister fucking... She had met the Temerian King during the Northern War as he had been fond of mixing with the common soldiers, he had been a good soldier, a good commander, but she couldn't say she really knew the man. Nadia hoped his son had inherited some of his talents.

Speaking of talents, she saw a number of interesting ones on display around the camp. For example, the two solitary men with cat like eyes and swords of steel and sliver. A pair of fucking Witchers? Nadia had known a few Witchers before, the Bear Witchers sometimes went south from the Amell Mountains into Nazair, but she had never seen two of them in the same place before.

There were other strange fellows as well, an Aen Seidhe in fine armour, an unkempt man with a hawk upon his shoulder, and a pair of women. She was glad that she was not the only one, diverted some of the unwanted attention that way. They weren't dressed as fighters, so Nadia couldn't really guess at why they were here. She supposed one of them could be a sorceress, after all they had held off Nilfguaard at Sodden Hill until Foltest had arrived. Could both of them be magic usesr? Two Witchers and two Sorceresses? If that was the case Foltest was throwing an awful lot at this.

After she had finished her second breakfast it wasn't long before they were back on the move under the forest canopy. They went north, following along a trail as the ground rose up around them. After some time the trees thinned to reveal that must have been their destination - a ruinous fortress that sat above the woodlands of Toussaint. It looked in bad repair, the gates smashed in, stones tumbling from the ramparts.

They quietly dismounted outside whilst Baldivar laid out his plan. She checked her weapons and her equipment, everything was set, her brigantine was buckled, her helmet was firmly on her head. She strapped her shield to her left arm and took another spear to hold in her off hand in case she needed to throw the first.

Nadia was to be with Baldivar, the rough looking fellow with the hawk called Renar, and the very beautiful woman with the startling mismatched eyes who was apparently called Avery. She gave all of them a lopsided smirk.

"Time to earn my keep I guess. Stick close and I'll try to keep you from dying."

Tyrvariél had not expected to be part of any party venturing into the abandoned fortress initially, but still he couldn't deny the fact that being left outside felt a little disappointing. Yes, it would save him from what could very well be the most dangerous part of the whole endeavour, but also yes, every constructive achievement out here would most likely be a very temporary one. Once some areas inside the huge building were cleared up they'd probably move all in there, both for more comfort and for the sake of additional protection since, after all, they were still in Nilfgaard territory. Last but not least because of this, but also because of any wildlife that might happen to be in this area, it might be a good thing to set up a guard he thought. However it also seemed like this was being taken care of already.

Not being able to do anything that involved fire and metal felt like a part of his soul being frozen in time while the remainder had to go on somehow. That remainder now cared about the very ground its heavy body was standing on. Tyrvariél saw no point in setting up any kind of tent on soft, muddy terrain, neither for his workplace nor for his private space -- even though these would probably be the same thing for the time being. As a doctor one had to move very fast at times and injured individuals, even if they could still walk themselves, would be happy if they would not have to cross half a swamp in order to get some treatment first.

Speaking of treatment... how would the bastard's men start to treat him once he'd do anything that deviated from flat-out obedience ? Like the complete opposite, for example ? The Aen Seidhe thought about Balidvar's instructions, but while they had been pretty clear about what the fighting troops were supposed to do he found this clarity to be quite lacking in Stay here in the field and keep away from the trees. These were trained soldiers who certainly had set up large camps before many times, but soldiers were also trained for doing only what was being instructed, weren't they ? So... what would these men do while there were no clear instructions at all ? Tyrvariél was afraid of wasting time and certainly did not want to be responsible in case those witchers and soldiers would come out again, searching for some rest and maybe even being wounded, and would find out that everyone had been idling around in the high grass ?

Tyrvariél heaved himself onto a position where the ground was a few inches higher than everywhere around and swallowed. Maybe they would simply not listen at all, maybe they'd toss him off this place right away, but also maybe, just maybe, they'd recognize the wisdom he assumed to be in his words. "Alright people." his chesty voice started. "We are going to prepare everything necessary once the initial party returns, no matter what state they'll be in, and what we ourselves will need in order to have a sleep as good as we can out here. Then we will start exploring the surrounding area outside this wall in order to find the following things: a source of fresh water, firewood and, of course, stuff to eat. Be it plants or animals. Everyone understood me ?"

He hoped that nobody would see it over the upper rim of his breastplate, but his throat started to seize up. He had to force his legs to stand still instead of making an escape off the tiny hill for there were way too many people around this place that could start to associate him with whatever thing humans often associated elves with. Ten anonymous soldiers of Balidvar was a luxurious number for getting things done, but it certainly didn't feel luxurious for him now.

Renar stared at Baldivar's offered hand, visibly uncomfortable. He nodded once, stiffly.
"Yes, you too. I have to scout," he replied quickly.
And that was all he said before swiftly turning on his heel and silently disappearing into the undergrowth around the camp. It was a lie, of course, but such details were best kept to himself.

He returned half an hour later with a fistful of wild onions and accidentally spooked one of the cooks with his sudden and soundless appearance from the trees directly behind him. There was a mumbled apology before Renar took a bowl of soup and sat down away from the rest of the party in the shade of a tree. He didn't say a word as he shoveled soup down his gullet between mouthfuls of onion stalk. As he ate, he observed the rest of the party from a safe distance and took mental notes of who and what they were. No bit of information that reached his eyes and ears was too trivial to forget.



The trip to the keep had been uneventful, at least for the sorceress. Her feet were sore, and she was starting to tire of the days events. Life in the courts of Lyria had left her unprepared for work such as this. The woman gave a light shrug of her shoulders as she thought over the whole situation. She’d been observing the others too, thinking each of them over - from what she could gather of them so far. The Aen Seidhe had been conversational, but he had been the only one she had formally introduced herself too. She kept an especially fair distance from the Witchers - both, she felt, had regarded her immediately with distrust and one of them had a spectacularly heavy energy about him that she wanted to avoid at all costs.

Still, there was work to be done, and the sorceress set about to the courtyard at Balidvar’s command with her gloved hands held at her sides, fingers positioned and ready to form a spell should the need arise. Her steps were stealthy, but confident, and if everyone else had apprehensions about the place, they were not shared with Avery. She simply wanted them to get on with it, so that she could settle in for the rest of the day.

“Well, Winnie… Looks like we have our work cut out for us,” she breathed out with a shake of her head, placing a hand on each hip as her eyes tracked the sight of the yard. Hay strewn everywhere, weapons abandoned. As if on cue, the small, hairless cat hopped out of the satchel down onto the ground, performing a long and regal stretch and hissing viciously as she did so. “Oh stop it, ungrateful beast,” Avery mumbled with a smirk before reaching down a hand to rub the top of Winifred’s head. “We’re to wait for Renar so don’t you-” before she could finish the sentence, the cat had scarpered off and away on her own accord. Avery merely sighed and shook her head, waiting for the scout to join her in her exploration.

No sooner than the sigh escaped her did he make his presence known from just outside her peripheral vision.
"The cat looks sick. Don't eat it," He warned with a voice, low and coarse from lack of use.

The scout reached into a pouch under his cloak to retrieve a sling and a rock half the size of a fist. He chewed his lips nervously as he loaded the sling. Best to be prepared. With his free hand, he reached up to stroke the hawk perched on his shoulder with two fingers, gently running them along the top of its head. The raptor pressed its head up into his hand as he pulled away, seemingly wanting more attention. The scout refused and rolled his shoulder once with a single word.
"Away."
The hawk took flight without protest, disappearing over the tree line with a quiet flap of its wings. He'd rather it stay with him where he could protect it, but who knew what dangers lurked in the darkened halls of the castle? On his own, Renar avoided large, abandoned structures at all costs. Experience told him that bandits and highwaymen are some of the least terrible things that shelter in crumbling, forgotten towers.

"Well I don't think I'll get quite so hungry for a while," Avery answered, turning her head to glance over the cloaked individual. "I'd sooner eat the bird," she added with a wink, implying that she meant no malice or anything serious by it. She chuckled under her breath before placing her hands out in front of her. "Feels rather safe to me, no signs of life in this courtyard except for you and I," she said with a sigh. "Renar, was it?"

"My mother called me that and not every threat is alive."
He believed whatever magic she performed, but still his eyes never left his surroundings. His mind conjured images of bear traps, trip wires, pitfalls, and arcane runes under every pile of leaves and attached to every rusted sword. Then he moved on to ghouls, rotfiends, devours, and more. None of them truly alive, but all very, very dangerous. People often spoke ill of paranoia, but Renar found it to be a commendable trait indeed. He'd seen far more paranoid soldiers survive perilous situations than reckless ones.

Avery blinked in his direction, at the clipped tone that carried his words. He was a quiet one, but perhaps less so on the inside and she regarded him in that moment with curiosity in her eyes.

"The dead are not silent to my ears," the sorceress said softly before heading further through the courtyard, paying attention to what she could feel around her, fingers twitching in response.

He nodded in approval. Hearing was one of the best senses in his opinion. Sight only revealed what was immediately in front or just to the side of oneself. Ears can observe things behind the listener, obscured by obstacles, or even what's cloaked in darkness. He was quickly lost in his thoughts and the work of scouting for danger. Had he seen the curious look she gave him, he likely wouldn't have known what to make of it anyhow.

"From where do you hail, Renar?" She asked, busying herself with idle and polite chatter. It was also simply a way to learn more about the man, of course, already she had ascertained that he was the quiet type and that perhaps he stayed away from conversation but she wondered of the conversations he had with himself. His internal monologues. "You seem far from a city dweller, or a village dweller in fact. Why, I wouldn't even bat an eye if you told me you were from Brokilon forest!"

"I never asked where," he replied, stopping to use a broken board to nudge a suspicious pile of rotted fabric. "You ask many questions."

Perhaps she wanted something from him? Probably not, most who wanted him to do something for them asked simply and paid fairly. If she wanted to hire him she would've asked by now in all likelihood, but she was employed by his employer as well. Where was she going with this line of questioning?

"And you're a very suspicious man," she answered, slightly perturbed at his lack of an answer, and more so by his comment. "I'm just curious," she explained with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "If I'm to spend so much time on this mission, it's nice to know who I'm with but fine. I'll be quiet," she murmured while examining part of the wall of the courtyard.

He couldn't help being relieved at her temporary vow of silence. Still, she almost seemed upset by his question. Why would she be? But was she? He couldn't tell. Every time he interacted with others he found himself wishing everyone would just say how they felt rather than using arbitrary combinations of facial expression and voice.

That vow was soon broken as Avery's fingers traced the wall, as if she was following a trail of something only she could see. Something beyond the brambles that had grown wild around it. "This courtyard was once a happy place," she commented. "Parties… Celebration," she continued. "Nothing like a city ball of course, but, people were happy here," the sorceress said with a sigh before removing her hand from its place on the stone. "Were," she repeated delicately - the implications clear as crystal before she stepped away entirely, almost timidly, and off in the other direction.

Renar tried his best to filter out her idle chatter as his eyes swept over the grounds once more. If anything lurked here, it was hidden from both his eyes and ears.

There it was: the castle, as promised. It was clearly run-down and had been abandoned for a long time and Morgan furrowed his brow slightly at the sight. Experience had taught him well that the empty dwellings of men made for excellent monster lairs. They would have to be careful during their initial exploration and remain ever vigilant for the remainder of their stay. One could never be too sure that a swarm of endrega wouldn’t burst forth from some underground hive, even months after the castle had been reinhabited. Balidvar handed out orders, but Morgan didn’t need him to tell him what to do. The witcher already knew what his job would be. He checked the utility belt around his waist to make sure his potions and bombs were in place and briefly fingered the hilts of his swords, as if to make sure they were still there -- even though their reassuring weight on his back was all he needed to confirm that. Charlemagne was left, reluctantly, in the care of those that remained outside the keep, and Morgan’s dark glare made clear to any that dared to meet it that he would not tolerate a single hair on his prized steed’s mane being out of place when he returned.

Witchers are solitary creatures, lone hunters by both trade and by nature, and it did not take long for Morgan to separate from the rest of the expedition’s vanguard as they entered the keep’s courtyard-- the noisy, noisy vanguard. The Griffin’s footsteps were whisper-still and barely even disturbed the cracked mud beneath the soles of his boots, and his head twitched as his eyes flitted from one shadow to the next, his movements almost avian in their abrupt swiftness. A single glance over his shoulder at the people behind him confirmed that Balidvar, Avery, Renar and Nadia were where they were supposed to be, and a look in Aidann’s direction was all Morgan needed to convey his intentions to the Bear: you check out the hall, I’ll do the stables. He turned his head towards the structure, which rested against the inner walls of the courtyard, and inspected it from the outside for a moment.

It stood as silent and dilapidated as the rest of the castle. Morgan focused his senses and his pupils widened, turning from narrow slits into rounded ovals, and he attempted to divine the interior of the stables by peering through the broken windows set in its door and spaced evenly along its walls. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just stalls for horses, empty and shrouded in darkness. The witcher hesitated for a moment before his right hand reached up and over his shoulder, touching the hilt of his steel sword for a moment before ultimately choosing his silver blade instead. It left its sheath with a pleasant sound, between a peal and a rasp, that was music to his ears.

Sword in hand, Morgan approached the stables and pushed the door open with his free hand. Like a stubborn mule, the old wood resisted him and it swung open in grumpy, stuttering jumps, creaking on its hinges with the squeals of a dying cat. Morgan winced and muttered a curse under his breath. There would be no hiding his presence from anything that might dwell within the stables now. Resigned to that reality, he crossed the threshold with alacrity and held his weapon at the ready -- just in case.

Nothing greeted him. It smelled like mould and wet rot. Hay that had been left unattended for years in the corners of the stalls was the obvious culprit. That would have to be cleaned out, and Morgan was quietly pleased that wasn’t his job. He was reminded of the last time he had lived in a castle, his childhood in Kaer Seren, and of all the long afternoons he and the other boys had spent cleaning the keep’s darkest and mustiest corners. He dispelled the old memories from his mind’s eye and focused on the here and now.

Everything remained quiet and motionless for the time being. The silence was almost oppressive. He couldn’t even hear the others outside anymore. Morgan inhaled slowly and ventured deeper into the stables.

Alicia heard what had been ordered and then looked around her for anything to do. “So...what are we supposed to do until then?” she asked, looking slightly confused at their orders. Didn’t they need to go all together somewhere?

As the others made their way off towards the castle, and the elf started barking orders at his countrymen, Alan clicked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and started to look about the place. The trees were dense and dark, a promise of hostility encircling the beginnings of their camp, and Alan nodded to himself at Balidvar’s command to avoid them. If you can’t see the far side of the room, you don’t go wandering there without a torch.

Alan’s ears perked as a curious looking woman with an alchemist’s satchel voiced her confusion.

“We’re meant to get on with our own jobs, whatever they are, Miss…” He quirked an eyebrow as he trailed off, inviting her to give him her name.

“Alicia Fairbright. Nice to meet you...and I do recall we were supposed to be working as team on this expedition. I can’t do anything here or find anything rare by waiting outside while everyone goes off to play hero,” she stated.

“So then? What is your story? Also...what do you think we should do?”

Alan’s other eyebrow raised to meet the one already cocked. He had not been working as Karl for a while now and he hoped, in a way, that he would not need to. He preferred being naturally expressive - as inexpressive as he really was.

He withdrew his hand from his belt, and cracked his knuckles.

“Name is Alan. Nice to meet you, too - but I don’t quite know what you mean by my story.” He added on, not quite as an afterthought. “As for what we should do? Dunno about yourself, Alicia, but I think I’m gonna get some of these boys organised into a watch, set a rota or something. You seem to have an understanding of chemistry an’ what not, so perhaps you can scan the area away from the trees for anything harmful or poisonous.”

Alan leaned down to heft his pack onto his back. Didn’t want it getting lost. Or stolen.

“Losing horses, or worse, losing men, ain’t something we can easily afford. If you do find something you reckon will fuck us up, do us a favour and destroy it if you can.”

“Hmm. Well...our boss did tell us to wait here and not go wandering off and getting caught or spotted. So I could perhaps stay around and help set up watch? Perhaps as we are keeping our eyes open for any monsters or bandits I may spot something valuable around here?” offered Alicia - her entire speech being rapid and rather without a filter.
“Anyways. Let us get some sticks and torches ready…” she cheered. “Wait...how long did he say he’d be gone?”

Alan stopped for a moment, turning back from the group of idle men he’d been about to shout at with a look of almost-confusion edging its way onto his face.

“I don’t think he gave us an exact deadline, Alicia. He’s sweeping an until-now abandoned enemy fortification for threats. That could take hours, or it could be a task that stretches over a couple of days if it proves particularly difficult. Similarly, I suppose they might be out in minutes, if there’s somethin’ truly awful in there.” Alan nodded as he finished, as if tapering off the sentence in his mind, before turning back again to those idle fools who were pulling pipes out to smoke.

“No smoking! If the fuckin’ elves can smell that shite for a hundred feet, you bet that wolves and monsters an’ all sorts of horrid things can too.” He growled. “Air in these places don’t move. Smells longer for hours and hours. Go without at least until we’re in the castle. And make yourselves busy.”

“So...no torches then?” asked Alicia, groaning in response - seeing as she was pretty sure the mosquitos would soon be upon them.

Though compared to getting eaten by monsters, or attacked by bandits. She expected for things to be...less than stellar against smoking.

“...darn...so then. How shall begin watching things? Up high? Or down low?”

“We’ll take it in shifts, an’ give the guards alternative patrol routes. I don’t want anyone not watching someone else’s back, and I don’t want anyone without their own back bein’ watched in turn. Guards can swap posts every hour, so they don’ get bored an’ nod off.” Alan started to organise the idle soldiers into twos and threes, assigning them to the various corners of the provisional camp and giving them their instructions.

“We’ll join the watch ourselves, o’ course. As for torches, we might see if we can set up some lanterns or somethin’ once darkness encroaches fully - but they make us obvious, and they ruin your night vision. I want our boys keeping their eyes good.”

Alan’s ears perked again.

“What do you mean up high or down low?”

“I mean should we set up posts on the highest reaches we can. I’know...seeing higher to down. Or just keep plenty of people watching the roads and paths...either one could work or fail…” she explained to him.
“Anyways. Are we setting up camp here already? I thought were supposed to wait until those others came back. Or are we staying in this vicinity for longer?”

Alan gestured to the area inside the short wall around the castle itself, previously isolated by a gate, now open to the exterior of the castle grounds and the darkness of the woods around that.

“Inside the walls, I reckon we can set a few things up for the time bein’. How much we set up precisely is gonna depend on how long the Lord takes inside, but we can at least get a place to feed and tie horses goin’. Maybe…” Alan stepped just inside the gate arch, and looked up at the wall from the other side.

Some time ago, years or more, men had been able to gain a height advantage from the parapet there - the broken, unstable parapet.

Thinking of what Alicia had just said, Alan thought he could see a few places along the wall where men might gain that advantage once more.

“Up high. Not a poor idea at all, I don’t think. Lady Alicia, would you help me find some useful timbers in these ruins, so we can set a place for our bowmen to keep watch Up High, while the other men keep their watch Down Low?”

“Sure...perhaps we can find some useful herbs in the area too…” she said, smiling at him.

Rakald reminded Aidann a bit of Haern Cadwch, in a strange way, though the construction was totally different. So was the destruction, actually; where the Bear school's old keep had been abandoned and destroyed by riots before being left to the elements, Rakald Keep was a case study in long decay. The outer walls were somehow still intact, but the door had long been smashed out of its frame. Aidann tutted a bit at the disrepair. That door...the fact that it wasn't too rotted out but was smashed was a touch concerning. It was going to be a nightmare to control the place, make sure it wasn't a hotbed of monsters. Who knows how many nekkers had burrowed through the walls in that place? And it certainly didn't help that the group was loud. Very, very loud. At this rate, any monsters dwelling in the castle would know not only that they were coming, but how many were coming, and where they were going to stay. The perfect storm for the entire vanguard to be eaten.

For the barest sliver of a moment, Aidann regretted taking this contract. Yes, it paid well, and yes, there was another witcher to work with, something that he'd rarely had the dubious pleasure of. There was even a sorceress, just in case everything was well and truly going to the dogs. As contracts went, it was nearly perfect. But that nagging voice in the back of his mind kept bugging him: there are so many normal people here that won't ken what to do if and when a monster dive a' em. How're you going to keep 'em safe, Aidann? How many can you save from a divin' forktail, or a vengeful nightwraith bound to this forsaken place? Do you really think you can kill it before it takes at least a few live? Idiot. He shook it off as best he could, furious at his momentary doubt. With a sorceress and two witchers, the loss of life would be minimal in the event of a monster attack, at least compared to what it would be with only the Temerian vanguard. Still; he hoped that they wouldn't be this loud the whole time. If they were, then life would be much harder than it really needed to be.

At Balidvar's order--redundant as it was--he gave a brief "aye," and then met Morgan's eyes and nodded. Hopping off of Steam, he drew the great silver blade from his back, just to be safe. Giving it a single twirl to loosen up his wrist and and heaving a tight breath, he quietly slid through the rotting doorframe and into the vestibule.

Quiet as the grave, and dark as one too. The only light was from the overcast sun outside as it glowed sullenly through the gap where a door would ordinarily be. He'd seen no windows from outside, only scattered arrow slits, so it was likely to be just as dark in there. Grimacing, he padded silently forward, through the cracked, nigh-crumbling archway before him and into the first great hall of the keep.

If the outside was in disarray, then the inside was even more so. Great wooden tables lay smashed and rotted on the ground, perfuming the area with the stink of decay. The great central fireplace had fallen apart under its own weight and the weight of the soggy years, filled up with chunks of crumbling chimney. In the faint light that seeped through the arrow slits, he could barely see the tapestries festooning the walls, elaborate patterns crumbling into a mess of textile mush below. Stalking through the hall, he pivoted slowly on his heel as he went, absorbing everything around him. He'd forgotten to look behind him far too many times in his long life, and he had the scars to prove it. By the time he reached the ruined fireplace, he was holding his breath, eyes wide and catlike, soaking up his surroundings like a sponge, ears straining for any sound, any at all, that might betray a monster attack.

Nothing.

The floor was level and intact. The rafters holding the ceiling up were quite well-preserved. Barring a few places here and there, the walls were solid and the stone refused to crumble. All things considered? Far better than he thought it would be. With a controlled relief, he slowly let the breath out. Nothing dangerous here but mangled old trappings of opulence. Taking one last look around, he relaxed slightly, debating whether or not to return to Balidvar and let him know that the first hall was safe. Best not, he decided. There were more halls than this one in the keep. Who knew what could be lurking in them? He would search thoroughly. He didn't make a living through cutting corners.

Dispelling the relaxation, he strode to the darker door on the other end of the room, and plunged further into the depths of the keep.

Balidvar placed his foot atop a fallen piece of scaffolding timber and pushed. The motion caused the thing to tumble audibly, but it revealed more of the same. Nothing but debris and tattered cloth. Perhaps a weapon or two. A sword, or maybe a single handed axe with a slight hint of rust. The courtyard itself was a mess, and it gave no sign of life other than a cat that scrambled across the space as quickly and nimbly as if it were itself a Witcher.

Meanwhile, Avery and Renar were feeling the atmosphere quite differently than most. There was a faint rift in the air, drawn by more lifeforce than the feline could have obtained, unless it was a polymorphed cat and no magics in the air suggested it. Which meant there was, or had been a larger creature within the walls at some point recently. Of course, the gate had been open and the forest was likely teaming with animals. But this felt somewhat queer, and a concern Avery would have would be confirmed when Renar found a knapsack atop a barrel, with fresh fruit and jerky within. But even a human couldn't make such a mark on the area, despite the find.

Little good it did, for Balidvar and Nadia across the courtyard behind further wreckage. Eyes from the shadows watched them, and Nadia would hear a slight whimper that she would note would be closer to where they had come from rather than where they were going. If she turned, she would see a skinny man in a cloak and vagabond leathers, who, no sooner had her eyes fallen on him, that he let out a wail and rushed at Balidvar, knife raised in the air.

Meanwhile, the stables were rank with decay and rot. Even the wood that held the walls up seemed tired, but a powerful stench would draw Morgan in further. It was a smell he had likely smelled before, and it was not just because he had been around quite a bit of shit. It was shit that had a peculiar hideousness to it, as if it was blood mixed with distinct venom...mixed with further shit. There was no doubt it was a type of Ornithosaur.

Further in the keep, within the first hall, Aidann discovered another smell with his keen senses. Though this smell was something any man or woman learned in combat or hardship would know well. Two doors down the hall it came from, and as the Witcher approached he would see his fears given life. Perhaps that would be the incorrect term to use, for he found a corpse that had been torn open from neck to navel, still wet with blood. The bones had been shattered as if by a beak, and claw marks raked the man (who was likely a highwayman's) skin.



A few of the soldiers looked at Tyrvariel as if he were either a pest or a manman, while the others seemed to hesitate while seeing the reasoning in his words. Jurga looked between Tyrvariel and his men, and then suddenly barked an "Aye! You heard the man! Er, elf. Get to it lads, or we'll be eating you for when our bellies rumble!" He smacked one of the guards in the back, and all of them began to scramble until he halted three of them to keep a watch over the cooks, engineers, workmen, and the like. Tyrvariel would find himself being volunteered to locating a fresh water source. But where to begin? Obvious castles were build beside them, but was it east or west?

Alan did a fine job with his austere manner to keep the workers from pulling out pipes, but one of the cooks had already begun a small fire to make what stew they had left. It was closer to the fortress, however, and they kept the smoke houses as best they could. It was obvious it was not the cook's fault when a wolf howled in the distance, and another howled far closer from the east.

Alicia was still as safe as one could be, beside Alan as she searched the tree line for what she could find. It took a great deal of inspection, and she found what she knew to be two helpings of Balisse fruit, and to her delight she found a stalk of Wolf's Bane. Perhaps these could help the Witchers and the cooks, or even herself if she wished to? As she marveled at her finding, she could see a pair of yellow eyes a dozen meters away. It was what Alan had heard. A large black wolf, approaching cautiously.

As it stalked forward, one slow moment at a time, it snarled. The noise sounded like a shovel scraped across too much gravel, and its gaze was fixed upon Alicia.

The courtyard was a mess of broken timber and wreckage that they had picked their way through, the remains of overhanging hoardings that had collapsed through neglect and decay from the towers above. The two witchers had silently followed Baldivar's orders and split from the main group to search the ruinous great hall and the dilapidated stables respectively. Nadia did not envy them. Leave hunting monsters in the dark to the scary fucking mutants, I'll happily wait out here.

Perhaps it was this thought, that of the fighters amongst the group that had ventured into the fortress, she clearly had the easier task, that lulled her into a false sense of security. She had let herself relax, confidant that in the courtyard at least, they appeared to be alone. She did not mind when Avery and Renar disappeared from her sight lines behind a pile of debris, they would surely be able to look after themselves since no one was home.

Nadia smiled to herself, her contract here was looking easier than expected, she thought they would have been fighting tooth and nail to reclaim this place. As she progressed deeper into a shadowed recess created between a foreboding curtain wall and the mound of debris, she decided to let out one of her characteristic tuneless whistles. It covered any other slight noises that might have been heard at that moment. The Nazairi turned to Baldivar.

"Ha! Nothing here at al- DOWN! NOW!"

Behind Baldivar Nadia had seen a shadow detach itself from the timber pile and transform into a the shape of a man. He was skinny and underfed, dressed in leathers that did not properly fit and a ragged cloak the colour of mud. He looked desperate. As their eyes locked he let out a cry and rushed at Baldivar, a knife in his hand.

Her body acted on instinct. Nadia pivoted at the waist, simultaneously bringing her shield bearing left arm up to cover her front whilst pulling back her spear arm. Her shoulder wound back, before locking into place, the powerful muscles there trained through years of diligent practice in both the yard and the field of battle. The Nazairi took a deep breath, surveyed the scene before her with her cool grey eyes.

The assailant was close but he was moving. She would need to release late to keep the trajectory of the spear flat, but she did not want to hit Baldivar who stood between them. It did not need to be her most powerful throw but she would need to make sure it had enough stopping power to prevent the man from reaching them. She had seen men skewered still get close enough to kill their assassins.

With a loud grunt she hurled the spear. It sailed through the air towards Baldivar's head had been moments before, and there beyond, towards the assailant rushing forward to meet it. It would be close.

From within the depths of his cowl, Morgan had watched Aidann’s approach and his attempt to join the others around the campfire. The Bear could hide his disappointment from them, but not from a fellow witcher’s gaze. The Griffin didn’t reply to the man’s compliment on his steed immediately and instead took the time to set his sword aside and adopt a more open posture, though his hood remained in place. He had little patience for people, but he was always interested in hearing the tales of a fellow mutant. Morgan eyed Aidann’s medallion with curiosity. He had never met a witcher from the School of the Bear before. In fact, he hadn’t even been sure if any of them were still alive until now. He remembered them being known as solitary creatures, even by witcher standards, that thrived in the wild places of the world. If nothing else, Aidann definitely looked the part.

“That he is,” Morgan replied at length and reached out a gloved hand to touch Charlemagne on the nose. The horse whinnied softly. “Zerrikanian war-horse. Pedigree breeding and all. Cost me a small fortune. But you know what they say,” he continued and turned back to face Aidann, “never skimp out on anything that separates you from the ground.”

He craned his neck to look at the pale mare that the other man had rode in on and nodded in her direction. “What about her? What’s her story?”

Aidann laughed softly. “Nothin’ as grand as a purebred Zerrikanian, I’m afraid. Over the decades, I’ve started to value food on m’ plate an’ armor on m’ back over a horse under m’ arse.” He gave a small shrug. “I found Steam in a Velen village some years back. Decided I liked her. The rest is history, I s’pose.”

He gave her a fond glance. “She’s certainly carried me t’rough some hell. I ‘member maybe...ten years ago? Time gets so hard to track once you’ve lived through so much of it--I managed to get m’self a contract for a young forktail that had been botherin’ a village just north of Amell, can’t ‘member the name anymore. I let the bugger knock me down, wasn’t careful enough, hadn’t put draconid oil on m’ sword, the works. My fault, I weren’t ready. Still, you know what Steam did, when the damn thing landed to get at me?”

He laughed: “She kicked it in the side of the head! Gave me enough time to get up, get back to work. Might’ve saved m’life that day. Brave girl, that she is.” A moment’s silence.

“Ah, bad manners. I should introduce meself.” He stuck his armored hand out: “Aidann na Oisin. A pleasure.”

Morgan had asked for a story and he had definitely received one. It was good to know that Aidann was more of the talkative type than he was. It meant that the Griffin could use the Bear as their representative in their dealings with Balidvar and the rest of the expedition. He took Aidann’s armored paw and shook it firmly, but briefly. “Morgan,” he said simply. His voice was largely free of an accent or any particular way of speaking, almost clinical in its curtness and plainness, and made for a sharp contrast against Aidann’s sing-song cadence.

“What do you make of him?” he asked and gestured subtly with his head towards the king’s bastard.

Cocking his head, Aidann considered the question for a moment. Truth be told, he didn’t think he’d had enough information of Balidvar to really consider what he thought of the bastard, but...he could make some guesses. After a moment, he lowered his eyes to Morgan’s own and spoke, quickly and quietly to as to stay out of Balidvar’s earshot.

“Have you seen the luk in his eyes? He seems...angry. Very, very angry. He’s no’ a man I’d like to get on the bad sied of, but I don’ know how gud of a feighter he’d be, and I don’ thenk he’d be a good commander. He seems ho'headed. Too much so be be trusted in a leadership position, at the very least.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “A’ least, those are my t’oughts. A ducat for yours?”

Morgan listened impassively and shrugged when Aidann had finished speaking. "Much the same," he said softly. "He looks like he has something to prove. Who knows what Foltest promised him for succeeding in this mission?" The unspoken implication being, of course, that such promises might drive the bastard to try to succeed at all costs… and at any expense.

“So,” replied Aidann, “we keep ‘n eye on ‘im, then?” Status and contract be damned, he refused to let a grandstanding bastard princeling jeopardize the people under his care without doing something about it.

The Griffin looked the Bear in the eye and held his gaze for a few seconds. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s.”

That had gone less badly than anticipated, even though the mental resistance of some of the soldiers had been almost palpable with bare hands. He, the Aen Seidhe, had just made proud humans listen to his commands ? A fine surprise indeed, but whether the process could be repeated or not was an entirely different question. It probably would not be the last time for him to have and try to use authority and he wasn't sure if he should be looking forward to it or be afraid of it. Therefore the elf was rather glad about having been given the task of finding fresh water. It made sense, would allow him to get into contact with the nature surrounding the castle and, last but not least, would lead him away from a bunch of potentially disgruntled men at work.

Where to begin though ? It dawned upon Tyrvariél that the castle might very well have been built right onto the only source of fresh water around and that in that case there was hardly anything he could do about it until the scouting party would return. Otherwise though there were two directions to go: to the left of to the right. Without additional information it would be a decision of pure randomness, but putting some more thought into the problem revealed to him that it also was not worth bothering about: If the castle wasn't built onto the source of fresh water it was certainly built close to it so it would be wise to go around the castle in a circle anyway, rendering the initial direction pretty much irrelevant.

Tyrvariél left the camp to the east.

Staying close to the castle in a circle would also give him the opportunity to check what kind of damage time had done to the outer wall and where repairs were in order. Getting this place back into shape on the inside would be pretty pointless while its outer defenses were incapable of doing their job properly. As the Aen Seidhe ventured into the depths of the woods alone he tried not only to concentrate on what he saw, but also on his ears. Water could come in many forms: A deep well would be undetectable by sound, but a creek would be more easily be heard than seen. The same could hold true for a boar, or, even worse, a bear. Both were things he was not looking forward to, but this was a pretty much wild forest. The worst case of course would be any kind of real aberration that the conjuction of spheres had brought upon this world once, but even then the fact that he still wore his armor would hopefully but at least some time to make a run for it. He was not much of an experience fighter even though the morning star dangling from his belt did not betray this.

As Tyrvariél slowly began his turn there didn't seem much to be discovered at first. A few trees had been ripped out of the soil by some anonymous storm, their massive trunks and extensive networks of branches waiting to be harvested. He would have to notify the others about these sources of firewood as halfway dry timber could not just be fabricated in no time. That would require a lot of transportation effort and, given that this forest probably had not seen any human for quite a while, the usage of carts and horses would be difficult. At least the abscence of any beaten paths gave some confirmation to the premise that this castle was abandoned. It would have been quite unfortunate to clean up this place only for some pesky noble to show up afterwards and claim that he owned it.

The further he went away from the green plains in front of the castle, the more dense and thus dark the forest became...