Time for reminiscing had passed a long time ago. Men's hatred for those different than them was nothing new, but the newfound resistance of those that sought to end it was. People were beginning to realize that their neighbors of different races were not something to be feared, but to be seen as friends and brothers. That was a time to look forward to. But change was slow and reluctant, with people stuck in their superstitious ways of hatred and disgust.

Emhyr was a pioneer to this new world. Time was passing everyone by, and, in his eyes, those that sought to spend their time squabbling over hostile lands with those that knew how to help them were a waste of time: Fools of the worst sort. Fools that had no place in his empire. He would do well to take the North, and make such fools disappear.

He was human, of course, and by that manner, he did have a fear of the unknown. He knew that elves and dwarves were different, and confusingly so. But to fear them because of that was laughable. They had their uses, and their skills. All did in the paradise that he envisioned his empire to be. Of course, it would not happen in a day. It probably wouldn't even happen in a hundred years. But it would happen. He promised to the skies that it would.

He stepped out of his war tent, looking every bit the Emperor that he was. His guard fell immediately into position around him, and the various counselors and aides that he had selected to join him, waiting nearby, were immediately at attention. Each one of these hated his guts. Each one loved him dearly. He he wasn't sure anymore. He pretended that the latter was true, while believing and acting upon the former. It was how he had remained alive for so long in such an elevated position.

Beware of a king's love, and bask in his hatred, they had said.

They were fools too, he thought with a small growl. Looking over his immense army as they crossed the Yaruga indicated this. In this world, might was right. As he had the most might, he was obviously right. The time for peace with the north was over. They were in turmoil over what his agents had been doing, and they, too blinded with their own greed, had refused to see the truth that was staring in their faces. They were all fools, and he had no time for fools. A new age was coming, and it would not wait for such backsliders as Foltest and the like to catch up. They would change and bend the knee, or they would fall in battle.

Emhyr had little taste for battle however. The logistics were tiring, the tactics were boring, and the fighting too gruesome for his delicate tastes, but he did see that it was quite useful, and allowed his commanders to engage in all of this, reaping the rewards himself. It was an efficient way of making a living.

"How long will it take, General?" He asked in a low voice, so that only the general could hear him. He was referring to, of course, his army's crossing of the Yaruga. It was a comparatively shallow and slow moving beast, but one that was difficult to cross over with more than 50,000 men, food and supplies for them, and etc.

"The end of the day should see us ready to move forward, my lord," The General said confidently. It was good time, Emhyr thought, but he couldn't let them think that.

"We don't have a day. Riders already left to warn the kings of our impending attack. We don't have a day. I want us ready to march by midday, general," He wagged his finger in the face of the large bearded man," Midday."

Seventh Company of the Vesten Brigade
Brugge Crossing Point, Yaruga River

“I want this equipment on the other side of the Yaruga, YESTERDAY!” Brenn stood upright and eyed the two soldiers coldly as they fumbled over the wooden crate, their inherent fear showing only in the way they glanced at Brenn. “Besides, the faster we get there, the more loot you all will have to plunder.” The soldiers grinned widely as their Captain spoke those words, for what reason would men have to wage war if it were not for the spoils held within.

Brenn had decided, perhaps a fortnight ago, that the best way to motivate his troops into battle would be to “keep their eyes on the prize”, and it was in this way that he so easily manipulated these men, young and old, into believing in the Empire’s cause. Sure, some men under his command were nationalistic and would do anything in the name of the Emperor, but for most of them, military life was just the best option available.

Turning away from the two stockpilers, Brenn moved off through the camp, dense and bustling, constantly inching North. He chuckled to himself quietly as he saw a few guards pushing around a dwarven prisoner, “Come here you grumpy little gimp” Brenn continued his walk, his smile disappearing, as if it had never existed. The ends of his bearskin cloak fluttered neatly as he moved nearer the river’s southern shores, now alive as men hastened to load materials into boats, as to keep them out of the river’s icy waters.

He looked across the Yaruga and felt a very odd and unique sensation. Brenn was excited, for he had never truly led men into a “proper battle” as his commanders called it, and he looked forward to proving himself by slaying some of the Northern Kingdoms’ “sorry-excuses-for-knights”, but he also felt a little homesick, so far from his wife and children. The personal reflection only lasted a moment before he called for his sergeant-at-arms, “Bana! MAP!” Almost instantaneously an older fellow (perhaps 60) scrambled over (as fast as his aging body would let him) and produced a map. Brenn mulled over the map, eyeing every detail of the the Yaruga’s crossing points.

Brenn pointed to the map “Bana, what town is this?” he spoke sternly and his eyes looked intently upon the sergeant.

Bana squinted at the map, “Well, sir, thats Dillingen, Temerian city sir. Small, but it does boast a fortress, however meek, still a fortress.” Bana spoke quick and his eyes looked up into his head, as if he scanned some internal checklist.

“Hmmm, how many men do I have under my command?” Brenn’s gaze was now focused intently on the northern side of the river. He had taken note of the pontoon boats be laden with materials.

“Uhh” Bana counted in his head, “I think, uh, sixty-eight.”

“You THINK Bana?” Brenn spoke with a twinge of frustration in his voice. Though, of course he did know that this was infact the correct number, for what Captain would he be if he did not know how many men he commanded? He just liked to test the poor old man.

“No, uh ye… We… er, You have sixty-eight men under your commander sir.” Bana’s voice croaked in fear as he struggle to get the word’s out of his mouth.

“Mhm, well a sole company isn’t enough to lay a siege, but I’ll ask the brigade commanders what they think. However, I believe it would be feasible for us to raid the surrounding villages. Got to give the men something to do, eh?” Brenn’s mood had lightened slightly, and some of the coldness had melted away.

“heh, yes sir.” Bana stood up straight again and felt slightly at ease with his Captain’s change of mood.

Brenn then turned slowly away, still holding the map. He then moved off again, walking off the sandy shore and again entering the hustle and bustle of the camp. “Get your arses moving boys! We’re to get across this river by midday.” His orders were given without breaking stride. As Brenn neared his own burgundy tent he folded the map and stuffed it away in a satchel at his belt.

He lifted the lid on a chest and began to grab eagerly at its contents. Setting his cloak aside, Brenn replaced his thin cloth tunic with a tough leather jerkin and slid on the leather straps that would hold his sword and sheath at his side. He did not don his armor however, for he did not want rust such fine craftsmanship. As he found the right loop on his belt, Brenn emerged from his tent. And as he looked out at the living war machine begin its crossing, he felt nothing, nothing but delight.

Soft winds sweeping through the eastern eves of Flotsam forest evaporated minute amounts from the droplets beading on Nira's bespeckled cheeks. It sent a cool rush over his firm, blushing skin. He had read once that such coolness comes from heat being absorbed from the surface of the skin into the water, that water being whisked away by currents of the air. It seemed such a simple premise, he pondered. But it had taken such a long time for people to understand such a simple facet of such a trivial aspect of life as why a breeze feels cold on a wet face.

Nira wiped the folding razor on his trouser leg, as that was the only garment in which he was currently clad. He folded the blade and returned it to a buttoning pocket at the side of his thigh. His hands dipped once again into the warm waters of the Dyfne, felt them rush over his calloused skin, through the ridges that had raised in the pads of his fingers like the valleys and crags which it had originated in at the foot of the Blue Mountains, and pulled out a small sampling of them in his cupped palms. Flicking his lengthy hair into the wind and out of his face, he splashed the water around his mouth and chin. He wished not for his hair to have to dry once more, he had already combed it five times that morning after his bathing.

Rising from the sandy bank, he ran those same soggy hands over his now smooth face, dripping down onto his well defined but horrendously scarred chest. The breeze kept up, softly changing each droplet's course, and carrying his naturally crimped champagne coiffure out like a flag behind him. He sent a whistle into the wind, and shortly a dappled brown horse approached from behind. The animal pushed his face through the witcher's hair and snorted into his exposed ear. Nira flinched not, but raised a bare hand to gently scratch the muzzle now brushing up against him. The short, coffee colored fur was soft. The breath emanating there from battled the wind over whether his right cheek should be cold or warm. Nira turned to the beast, and began to walk to his flank. The animal was massive, standing with his shoulder meeting the very tip of Nira's own scalp. As he walked, he used a finger to drag the silvery fringe out the the horse's dark eyes. It too fluttered in the wind like Nira's own mane, as he allowed the animal as many haircuts as he did himself. A soft 'clip' sound, and a minor vibration of the earth piqued Nira's attention, and he furiously dipped his head down to find which hoof the horse had just scuffed the moist earth with. Luckily, the pure white feathering concealing the creature's feet had not been discolored. The witcher had spent far too much effort to wash the gelding in the river to allow it to be marred by the nag's insolent boredom.

Nira inserted a booted foot into the stirrup hanging around the horse's ribs. His high leg pushed hard, and with a jump he grabbed the pommel of the saddle, too high for him to reach without. The leg swing required to get him all the way over the saddle required the witcher go dexterously into a full split. In Dol Blathanna, seven years earlier, he had bought the creature as a foal, sired of some traveling northerner to the local farmer's plow horse. The plow horse was of a size, but none could be said of the father, so Nira thought little of how large the animal could become. Thus he allowed it to stag, and reach its full height. Only when the horse hit sixteen hands at barely a year old did Nira finally castrate the beast, and even then it still grew larger. Now the blonde witcher sat just small enough for the disproportion to be glaring, and gently nudged the beast back towards the trees.

If one were to travel straight through the trees, and cross the Dyfne over again, they would end up in the cesspool of Flotsam. Nira spat on its name, now that he had been informed of the recent pogrom. The forest itself, however, he found beautiful. Atop his horse, he gently approached it's outermost boughs. His coat, and the thin jerkin he wore underneath, were hanging there in the branches. The horse slowed to a stop, and he removed them. A few leaves followed, detaching from their mother plant. They were red around the edges, preparing to fall soon in any case. It had been weeks now that he had spent among the carpet of them, dead and rotting like a compost heap. His camps had been there, under the guise of removing endregas, nekkers, and drowners on the banks of the river. While he did a small bit of these tasks, in truth, he had been an agent of the Scoia'tael, and of the revolution. They had funneled a small amount of coin to the locals to put up a few contracts that he may show the Aedirnians should they come poking around his business. Once the night fell after their satisfaction with his purpose, the Squirrels would sneak down through the forests, and he would report on the movements of the soldiers in question. He expected some sort of a reward for his service, if but an acknowledgement. However, perhaps a nation to retreat to when genocidal tendencies flared and mutants were not crossed off of the list of non-humans was reward enough. But perhaps he could ask the mysterious one eyed Aen Seidhe and his unspoiled dragon slaying mistress about this consideration. Dragon slayer. He had slain a dragon before as well. In Nazair. It was green, but still a dragon.

As he wrapped himself in the garments, the seal fur lining tickling what bare skin it touched, he led the horse onto the dry, dusty gravel road. This was the first time that he had been comfortably out in the open in quite a time. But the Elves had come a night ago, and told him that the revolution was won. There were no Aedirnians for miles, no life in fact, for miles. Excepting the bear schooled witcher of the far north and his enormous mount. With the late morning sun on his right cheek, and the wind blowing crossways into the forest, Nira of Malleore set off at a walk in the free state of Vergen.

Vergen, on the Aedirnian Border

Crimson fingers stretched across the edge of the world, the warmth of the heavens crawling over the hills and valleys, working to satisfying the smallest of cracks present in the hills before her. Tendril’s of golden hair danced about her solumn expression as her mind moved through the events of late. This battle was hers much due to the assistance given by Iorveth and his archers, but the war laid far ahead of her, the path of lives lost and death scattered about unceasing. She reached up and carefully tucked a stray hair behind her ear, her battle dressing tightly wound around her lithe frame, nothing removing her from the edge of remembrance but the sound of her men moving about behind her.

Standing precariously close to the edge of the hill just outside their makeshift camp in Vergen, Saskia took the early moments of morning to calm her spirit. Lost to her inner demons and trapped in a queendom she neither desired nor deserved, she yearned for freedom. Though held just beyond her grasp she assumed after helping to finish the campaign she started to provide freedom and rest for those under her care she too would be allowed to leave. She turned her head only slightly, the sun touching a part of her cheek and making almost a halo of light above her golden trestles.

“Saskia, we need to discuss our next steps should Iorveth not return.” An older man moved into her view, Garrisk having been with her since she walked into this new existence.

She turned the rest of the way, but not before a brief glance in the distance, her eyes scanning the horizon in hopes that he would prove them wrong and return ahead of schedule. She refused to think anything nefarious had befallen him. “Come back to me,” she whispered. With brief hesitation she turned and walked off the ledge, her movements languid and more relaxed than she might present in front of the others.

“Hold your tongue, old man. He will return and will deliver to us something more precious than victory.” She moved deeper into the town’s structure, the hills burrowed with the effects of mining for riches. Nodding to a few elves, a dwarf and several humans, she motioned for Garrisk to move with her.

“Why do you assume he will not return, old friend?”A gruff response resounded beside her, a smirk touching her full pink lips as she ignored it and awaited his answer.

“First, you tell me what could be better than victory, my queen.” He watched the skies for signs woven into the clouds, his ability to see before and beyond their present situation had proven most helpful and would continue to do so.

She stopped and turned to him, her eyes flashing a silver that didn’t belong to a woman of regular descent. “The essence of war is found in the art of surprise and the knowledge of events to come. Iorveth will gain us an advantage and not only will we exploit the great kings of the North, but as we dismantle the Nilfgaard from the inside out.” She turned and regained motion, the sage hobbling with her.

“I do not assume the worst, but feel the winds of change moving in a manner that is not befitting our cause, my queen. I simply worry for what is to come.” He stopped a few feet from a gathering of men as they looked up and moved toward them both.

“I do not worry, but rely simply on the hearts and ambition of men who refuse to become slaves to tyranny. The emperor of Nilfgaard may move toward us with assured victory in his empty skull, but we will take from him that which is not ours to take.” She looked toward her men, seeing the fear and trepidation settling across them and knowing that only her words and wisdom could sway their hearts to fight without ceasing and assuming the victory no matter the cost.

“What are we going to take from him, Saskia?” A small dwarf mumbled from the front of the crowd.

She smiled with wicked vengeance and hooded her gaze before lifting up the truth, “We will take his virginity, his life and then his legacy.”

Laughter rose to the sky as the men shook their heads and stared in disbelief at the wild-eyed woman before them that could beckon men to follow and make emperor’s wish for their innocence back only to have it raped from their bodies again – if only by her.

Gors Velen, the Silver Heron

Though he was several weeks riding away from the Yaruga, the sorcerer could sense the tension and fear gripping the nordlings with every passing moment. He could sense it, but he did not need to, for he knew just how frightened and desperate people were. Years and years of hard work finally paid off in having a great quantity of personal contacts and informants that were so valuable in his profession. No self-respecting mage had a lack of people owing him or her favours, people in important positions with perked up ears and deep pockets. Information, Tarquin had found, was key to getting on top of things, right after money. Usually these two formed a simple equation of which the result was influence –or its more overt cousin: power.

Gors Velen was ancient, far more ancient than any of the Northern Kingdoms. Thanedd was even older and more prestigious. Since the… incident in 1264, however, the city had come on harder times. Many of the old generation perished, their pride going before their fall. Vilgefortz had staged a coup in favour of Nilfgaard and its supposedly divine Emperor, only to have found out that he had not been half as smart as he had thought to have been. The Brotherood of Sorcerers had been decimated, wiped clean of any hint of treachery. However, the distrust and fissure it had created within the organisation had proven to be fatal, a thing Tarquin still mourned for.

As with many professions, the nature of it tends to pick one of the sexes. In spite of the first mages being male, using their will to bend the Power, the profession had evolved over the centuries to become a female calling. In fact, the Gallery of Glory –pompous wretches- contained several paintings celebrating womanhood in the field of sorcery. There was an entire series devoted to triumphant womanliness and the increasing feminisation of the profession. None of the sorceresses depicted on those pieces of art were longer alive, of course. The last one, Tissaia de Vries, having taken her own life after the Coup.

Now the women were calling the shots, mostly. Using their fancy Lodge of Sorceresses and artificial female assets to pull the strings of monarchs and notables. Tarquin sighed at the promiscuous and arbitrary nature that seemed to possess the colleagues of the opposite sex. They were driven as much by ambition as by their lack of logic. The sorcerer was still unsure what made them such spiteful and arbitrary creatures. At the moment he blamed hormones and vanity that were so inherent to sorceresses. It seemed that all sorceresses, at some stage in their lives, developed an insatiable appetite for sex, wealth and position. Then again, this was true for a lot of men too, Tarquin admitted, but never in the same fashion –the same hunger for luxury, pomp and unabashed brazenness. Sorceresses did not even heed their own creeds!

Tarquin was sitting in his private apartment which he rented from the proprietor of a fine establishment called ‘the Silver Heron’ –reputedly the finest inn in Gors Velen. A book laid on his lap, page-down, its title ‘The Secret of Secrets’ etched in gold letters on its broad back. The volume was a tedious read from the hand of Agnes of Glanville, one of those examples of triumphant womanhood. A finely crafted pipe, with ivory and obsidian ornaments, lay smouldering to the side, filling the room with the scent of tobacco. Tarquin Brantimokem Kleist pinched the bridge of his nose as he mumbled a spell to remove the encroaching headache.

A knock came at the door, followed by a distracted movement of Tarquin’s hand allowing the lock to be turned. A lean man, with a mop of thin blond hair, emerged from the hallway, clad in black riding leathers and knee-high boots. Under his arm he carried a satchel containing correspondence and a plethora of items requested by the wizard.

“Selward,” the sorcerer said, memorising the page of the book ere placing it on the table. “What did you bring me?”

“News,” he said, ever the practical person for which Tarquin had employed him years ago. The devoted ruthlessness was another fine trait the man possessed. The sorcerer nodded for him to continue. He had placed warding spells and magical blocks on the room and inn proper the previous day. Selward cleared his throat before speaking. “It is as you have said. The Nilfgaardians are crossing the Yaruga at Dillingen, but there are reports of other beachheads and forces active in Angren. From there they can cross the river better if they avoid the inaccessible parts.”

Tarquin sighed once more, feeling the headache returning. There was so much to do and so little time. “Who leads them?”

“I have no idea yet,” Selward replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

The sorcerer made a dismissive gesture and began talking. He was confident of Selward and trusted the man, yet oft-times when he spoke to his agent, it was merely to talk out loud to himself. The wizard simply required a listening ear at times, while Selward had provided interesting perspectives in the past. Additionally, Tarquin was careful not to say too much. “Pah, it does not really matter. The old officers are dead, either during the First Nilfgaard War or following the imperial defeat at Brenna. Coehoorn is dead.” The statement did not have to be stated, everyone knew Coehoorn was dead. “They will be led by young officers that have filled the positions of the old ones. They are gifted and eager to show their ability and have waited for a long time for this opportunity. We also must not forget these will be men trained by Emhyr. Men who crushed the rebellions in Ebbing, Metinna and Nazair a few years ago. That was mere practice.”

Selward studied his master’s face whilst listening. They had discoursed concerning this subject before. “As you say: they are gifted. They appreciate a new way of fighting, using swiftness and forced marches to move around and striking far from where they are expected.”

“I have heard as much. During the Second Nilfgaard War they have displayed their mastery at outsmarting the Northern commanders. I well remember the spearhead operations in Dol Angra, Selward, for I was there.” The Nilfgaardian war-machine had been honed in battle and grown increasingly professional. New siege engines were preferred over magic, which Emhyr considered unreliable. “I remember Sodden and Brenna. Two victories over Nilfgaard.”

“Why do I have the feeling that we have lost two wars then?”

“Because,” Tarquin answered, his blue eyes catching fire. “Emhyr takes his time. He plans and organises, he thinks in long-term paradigms, whereas our Kings and Queens –who’s left of them in any case, cannot look past their evening shit and morning piss. They’re blind, calling victory while in fact we are being beaten. After the first war we lost half of Transriver, the second half after the second war. This third war… Perhaps the border will be demarcated at the Pontar instead of the Yaruga. Piece by piece, Selward, piece by piece.”

The two men sat in silence for a while, pondering over the current situation.

“What of Saskia and Iorveth?” Hard as it might be to admit it, the leaders of the Vergen Free-State could be their best bet.

“She still sits in Vergen, nesting away. Iorveth… I don’t know where he is.”

“Alright,” Tarquin said. “I will need you to carry letters to Redania and Kaedwen, after you have visited Cidaris. I myself will go pay a visit to Old Natalis in Temeria. Find me in Vergen, unless we have moved from there. You know how. I suspect that by then the fronts will have shifted due to the Nilfgaardian onslaught.”

Selward nodded, then took his leave, marching off with the strut of a professional soldier.

Tarquin sighed and took a last drag from the smouldering pipe. Why did everything always have to fall on his shoulders? Had he not warned people sufficiently over the years? After a while you get enough of being a whistle-blower if nobody listens to your tune. Now it was time to act. To act against the Lodge that was in disarray, to act against the invaders, to act against chaos.

The daylight was softly seeping through the trees, gently touching the ground, here and there. When a breeze moved through them, the daylight danced across the ground, moving with soft steps to the left, to the right, mimicking the movements of the leaves above it, catching dust and leaves picked up by the wind and making them glow softly in the comparative darkness. Elves were usually drawn to this sort of natural beauty, sometimes humans too, blinding their eyes to the dangers of the darkness around them with the beauty of what they could see. The elf that was there was not so moved, but his eyes were on light. Well, he was hidden under the treeline, but his eyes were beyond where the trees ended, looking over the landscape that met his eyes. The land, of course, interested him not, though, but the men that were quickly camping over it were. His keen eye, untouched by the lack of it's fellow, saw just about everything that there was to see of the Nilfgaardian army.

Their numbers were well into fifty thousand and rising, more crossing the Yaruga every moment, Iorveth could see that, with the recent turmoils in the north, this would not be a force to sneeze at, especially if they did not unite and fight as one army. If they decided to fight this host individually, he might as well start learning Nilfgaardian now.

Saskia was not going to like this news.

He stood up, picking up his bow and moving silently through the forest for a couple miles. They were sure to have scout patrolling the area, and he wasn't going to get caught. Not alive, leastways. After a long while, the elf stepped out of his cover and began walking along a path that the Scoia'tael had cut through the foliage. It was difficult for elves to follow, and near impossible for humans. Odd how that worked. Humans were great, blundering idiots, and the only reason that they were in the superior race on the Continent was sheer numbers. If they had been equally matched, Humans would be the ones living in the Ghettos and forests.

He stopped suddenly in midstep, turning around to peer into the green behind him," You move quietly for such a big man," He growled, drawing an arrow and tucking the nock against his bowstring," But not quietly enough, I am afraid."

The bushes rustled and an immense man stepped out, a battleaxe in his hands, helmet on his head, but no armor. He did have something of a sword of his back, however.This man, while shorter than Iorveth was himself, was stout as a dwarf and tall as a man, looking like a mountain, old and unsurmountable.

"Aye," The man said, his deep voice rumbling through the forest," My wife used to complain about it. Said it would spook the wee ones."

Iorveth lowered his bow and smiled," You have no wife, and no children, either, unless some magic that I know not of allowed witcher to procreate."

"You have keen eyes, master elf," Dros said with a chuckle," Or should I say eye. I know your face, or know of it, anyways. One cannot be confronted by a one-eyed elf in the wild without the name of Iorveth coming to mind."

"You find me at a disadvantage, Dhoine," Iorveth growled," You know of me, and I know nothing of you. Mend this, or find yourself covered in arrows, from my men hidden in the shadows."

"You have a keep eye, Elf," Dros countered," But I have keen ears, and unless the years have dulled my hearing, I hear none of your men, nor the nocking of arrows or the pulling of bowstrings. You are alone out here, Iorveth, but there is no need to fear me. I fought for the Nilfgaardians when I was a lad, but have long left their service, taking on a occupation more suitable for a witcher. I was just in these parts to see the army gathering, maybe find a few old friends, share some stories and drinks."

"You will find that age is far fairer to you than it was to them, witcher," Iorveth said, nodding," Although you are welcome to try."

Dros shook his head, a grim smile on his face," Nah. I lost me nerve. Don't want to walk amongst all the lads and have them talking about me behind my back. Besides, they might want me to join the war effort. I've had enough of war in my lifetime, and while retiring is out of the question, I'll try and relax as my last days come upon me."

iorveth chuckled," You are a witcher and a philosopher. A rare match, I must say."

"Don't you know, laddie? Old men are always philosophers. Anyways, I am parched, in need of some Vodka. Do you know of anywhere in these parts that sells it?"

"Aye, Dhoine, and I will take you there. But call me laddie again, and you won't be able to wield that useless stick of yours anymore. I know of you as well, although my memory was faded. You are Dros Delnoch. I was in the Scoia'tael unit that you led some 20 years ago, in the first battle of the second war. I am older than you, and I am no philosopher."

Dros chuckled," Aye, and your loss it is too."

Amir led the horse by bridle; the valley accentuated a cruel wind which tangled the man’s chestnut hair by the knots. His fingers seemed to freeze to the bone, and his toes were found to be no better. Each trudge was emphasized by a grunt; wet mud clung to his rawhide boots as the ground opened up and swallowed his feet. The Witcher quickly detested taking this route through the Pontar Valley.

Much blood had been shed upon this particular swathe of land; strategically it was an important stretch of landmass, adjoining the borders between Kaedwen, Temaria, Aedirn and Redania, and was also the scene for several violent conquests in the past.

It rained the night before, and the Pontar River swamped the flat plains, leaving nothing but a soupy mess which Amir now found himself unfortunately cutting across. The Witcher could almost see the crimson shade of blood that mingled with one of its branching tributaries as he carefully stepped through the sludge, and the horse reluctantly followed.

“Please Master Witcher, I ain’t done nutin’ wrong!”

The Witcher’s face formed a scowl as he continued to trek onwards. “Only guilty men run.” He massaged his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, sighing exasperatedly. The captive was a human, no less, but a disgusting rat at heart. The Witcher had hunted eleven long days to find this particular shit stain, slowly tracking the cur north to Vengerberg, and then to the eastern foothills of Aedirn before finally catching sight of him just outside the Kaedwenian border.

“But a swear Master Witcher!”

Amir cocked his head behind him to meet the man’s whimpering gaze. He was pot-bellied, with sparse tufts of hair splayed against his scalp. He was drabbed in sheep cloak and browned britches, whilst the only protection for his feet were mud-caked sandals. Tears collected against his reddening cheeks before absorbing onto his unkempt beard. The rat was hogtied to the back of his horse, surely a display of humiliation for the man once they returned to town. “Shut the fuck up” the Witcher sneered. Provisions were running low, and Amir had been grouchy since he took on this work. “A Witcher reduced to the work of a fucking bounty hunter!” he scoffed, the thought made him weary and at the edge of his temper.

The captive remained silent for a while; he knew that opening his mouth again would surely be the quickest way to meet the end of the Witcher’s blade; he also knew that the bounty wouldn’t be reduced whether he was brought back alive or dead. “Only a few more mile...” the Witcher pondered aloud. Vergen, the city built in stone was a splendor of Dwarven ingenuity. The settlement was an important trade center where precious ores were unearthed and sold, and just outside was the Pontar Valley – an agricultural superzone, producing most of the food and wine which surrounding settlements feasted upon.

As they drew closer, the prisoner began to chime up again. “Witcher, fer the love of fuck I didn’t do it!” His words gargled from the back of his throat, and snot smeared across his face. “One more word and I’ll cut out your fucking tongue.” They had finally made it out of the boggy part of Pontar Valley, and the end was just in sight.

After a while longer the city began to emerge from behind a formation of massive rocks, and Amir smiled. “Looks like we’re here,” but things never go smoothly for a Witcher. The city had been reinforced and on heightened guard detail since it had won its independence from the clutches of Henselt’s Kaedweni warriors, and had been wary of anything that stood more than five feet, and without pointed ears.

“Halt!”

The Witcher froze.

Six guards wearing plated steel approached him, two Elves, and four Dwarves. They drew their weapons and circled around the outside of him, outnumbering him and surrounding him. “What’che got there traveler?” one of the Elves slapped the ass of the captive that had been hogtied to the back of his horse. “A present,” the Witcher grinned.

“What sort of present?” a Dwarf snorted and spat, a miasmic amount of phlegm landed next to Amir’s feet.

“He’s a Nilfgaard spy, and my prisoner.”

Their eyes widened, and their mouths agape. They stood silent for a while, exchanging glances between one another, and the Witcher spoke once more.

“Now sheathe your fucking swords. Tell Saskia that a Witcher is here to see her.”

Loc Muinne – Destruction Abounds

Soot covered the ground before her and ashes danced in the ether around her. A clear reminder that rape and pillaging in the name of power and greed were still very much alive. The massacre of Loc Muinne was but a nightmare whispered in the alcoves of fancy castles and quaint homes, but for her and the few that remained of the lodge, it was a damning reality. Red hot fire burned through her veins as ageless hazel eyes moved about the wreckage, her heart beating faintly as the air became increasing difficult to taste.

The Kings of the North had made their demands of the Sisterhood, their male counterparts lacking in support and show, but what else was to be expected from a dying breed of traditionalists? When fate had her way, the world of normalcy turned into disarray and crimson colored the streets and stone structures of Loc Muinne. Arcane magic gave no hold over the forces of men that seemingly never stopped marching forward. How any of them lived to see another day was beyond her capacity to reason.

Kiera awoke from the event a little less than a day subsequent to the initial attack, the silence in the air almost defeating. Searching for survivors amongst the destruction was gruesome and without success until Kiera sound Sera, the younger woman sustaining a few minor injuries, but namely suffering the injustice done them and aching for revenge as Kiera herself was. The stories that bled from the loss of Loc Muinne and the disbanding of the Lodge of Sorceresses would befall their names as would the evil that had slipped into the beds of the Northern Kingdoms.

A wicked smile lifted her lovely pale lips as she knelt before a small lake just outside the small village, her long blue dress torn and covered in dark blotches of blood mixed the essence of dead magic. Her face came into focus in the soft rippling water below her, the wind dying down and allowing her a moment to stare into the eyes of a soon to be murderer. Short blonde hair buried deep the lack of innocence that would now define the remainder of her days, the names of her fallen sisters burned into the flesh of her heart and crying for vengeance in the recess of her thoughts.

“I do pray with all that I that I might have the opportunity to use these hands,” she lifted them before her, small droplets of water rolling down her fingers and discoloring as they sought to cleanse her.

“That I might use voice,” a soft tune rolled from her tongue and moved about the air in effort to pull and tug and the heart strings of anyone nearby.

“And this face,” she lifted her cheeks carefully into a sweet, loving smile that matched not the echoed promised of death in her cold eyes.

“And this body,” her fingers carefully pulled down the beautiful contours of her cheeks, sliding over her narrow throat and down her well-defined collar bone, grasping at her breasts before outlining her thin waist and full hips, as laugh as wicked as hell itself rolled across her flesh.

“To murder unceasingly those that have taken life from you, my kind. To this I give my pledge.” She laughed again and stood slowly. The winds of change were amiss that day and with the assistance of someone strong and filled with hatred, the kings of the North would taste her lust only to swallow their death unbeknownst.

“We will go to Vergen, Sera,” she called over her shoulders and the sun moved toward its watching place high in the noon-day sky. “I hear there is a woman of rare descent there and that she might be the key to our reckoning. What say you, sister?”

Tarquin had concluded his meeting with Constable John Natalis, commander-in-chief of the united northern forces at the Battle of Brenna. Currently, the Constable served as regent, playing the interrex until Foltest’s heir would come of age. In spite of his capacities, accumulated prestige and official appointment as protector of Temeria, Natalis did not enjoy the support of all the nobles, thus making his rule a fractured one. Tarquin attempted to lend his voice to the Constable’s cause, but was unwilling to devote his entire attention to Temeria’s problems.

“It was a madhouse at Loc Muinne, bedlam,” he said. John Natalis was one of the finest soldiers in Temeria, in the north even, but he blanched at the memory of what transpired in that ancient elven ruin. “After the negotiations went sour all hell broke loose. We were duped by Philippa, by Síle.” The Constable pounded an armoured fist on the table. “Blasted sorceresses... Trying to tame a dragon.”

There had been more smoke and mirrors at that summit of mages and monarchs than in a whorehouse. Everyone was pulling strings and taking gambles, regardless of the stakes. Well, the chickens had come home to roost. Or… a dragon had.

The male wizard simply nodded, grinning behind his hand. It seemed, at last, that he could count on Natalis’ support in the final execution of his plans. Old Natalis might not speak for the whole of Temeria, but he did possess the national seal to sign official documents with. If at some point the Brotherhood was reinstated –a thing those witches failed to do at Loc Muinne-, that seal would lend weight to the charter.

In spite of urging the Constable, he had been unwilling to discuss the Nilfgaardian invasion and shifting fronts. He did, however, disclose the latest intelligence on troop movements. Tarquin had to swallow another disappointment as Natalis did not know who else had survived the debacle at Loc Muinne; at least, not of those with magical abilities. Apparently Radovid and Henselt had both endured and ran home with their tail between their legs. Not surprising, really, for last time Nilfgaar invaded it had taken them just over two weeks to reach the Defne and Upper Aedirn. The sorcerer wondered if with Demavend, and his son Stennis, out of the way the Black Ones would be even faster.

He had bid farewell to Constable Natalis, wishing him the best in fighting his battles interiorly as well as exteriorly. The nobles had to be restrained, appeasement was out of the question, after which Temeria would hopefully be ready to face the Nilfgaardian threat. Fighting had already broken out in Brugge and Sodden.

Using crystals, amulets and a trio of the purest diamonds supported by one of sapphires, Tarquin opened a portal in the courtyard of the manse he had rented in Vizima. It took some concentration due to the difficulty of triangulating an exact position in the jagged and moody country surrounding the dwarven town of Vergen, recently proclaimed the capital of a free Upper-Aedirn.

Upper-Aedirn, the Vergen Free State… A freak of nations. Tarquin compared it to Dol Blathanna, the land of the supposedly Free Elves led by that treacherous bitch Francesca Findabhair. She too, was a subject of Tarquin’s grudges due to the manner of her betrayal of the Brotherhood. The elven sorceress had donned a crown and ruled a valley in the east of Aedirn, hidden in the mountains. It did not concern her, seemingly, that her subjects were starving and turned out to be little more than bandits and degenerate rejects. The supposedly Free Elves were vassals of Emhyr var Emreis to boot! It would not surprise Tarquin if the elves of Dol Blathanna once again took up arms and reformed their packs of commandos. Perhaps Iorveth could sway some of them to go against Findabhair’s wishes… Food for thought.

The portal opened neatly and calmly –an elongated disk of black and orange with a crackling corona of magical current. The sorcerer stepped on through and ended up amid the scorched ruins of what appeared to have been a village. Tarquin dusted off his doublet, ran a hand through his crimson hair and marched off towards Vergen, nestled between the rocks, once his sense of direction returned.

He was not far before he sensed the tips of arrows trailing him. “Hold still, dh’oine.”

“Squass’me,” Tarquin replied in the Elder Speech, the words rolling off his tongue fluently, tasting like honey. It had been so long. “I am Tarquin Brantimokem Kleist, sorcerer. I wish to enter Vergen and speak with whomever rules.”

“What’s he saying?” A rude dwarf interjected, not accustomed to the old tongue of the Ain Seidhe. The elves in the meantime had lowered their bows, their emblems marking them as commandos loyal to Iorveth. Perhaps the elf was still in Vergen and Selward had been misinformed.

“We’ll take you to Vergen. But I do not know if Saskia wishes to see you.” The elf replied.

Seventh Company staging area
Border Town Crispa, 16 km east of Dillingen, Brugge

Brenn closed his eyes for a moment as he took in the evening air. His hands shook slightly, and his heart rate was elevated. Fear? No it wasn’t fear, a wolfpack isn’t afraid while circling the kill. It was the excitement, the thrill, the anticipation of what was to come.

The town of Crispa lay before him. Though, admittedly the name was unknown to him, and it didn’t really matter what it was called, its fate would be the same no matter the name. He’d sent a scout ahead, the small garrison numbered only twenty, and their “piddly ass guardsmen”, as Brenn called them, were no match for a company of Nilfgaardian heavy infantry. Surely a militia would be called up. Brenn sighed at the thought, more bodies getting in the way.

He held his helmet tight against his waist, its black metal glinted slightly as the last rays of sun caught it at just the right angle. Looking over his shoulder he saw his men, finishing their preparation, eating what could be their final meal. It was quiet, most of these men had never fought against “real” soldiers, if one could call these northerners soldiers at all. His company had dealt with riots mostly, once there had been a band of miscreants who tried to “rise up”, but that was easily dealt with.

So no, they weren’t veterans and they weren’t the best fighters in the Empire, but they were his, and they were disciplined. They would do finely. Brenn ran a hand through his hair before lifting his helm. It fit tightly around his head and the visor stifled his vision slightly. The sun was falling behind the treeline, and darkness soon fell. “Torches!”, Brenn called, and so there were torches.

His vision narrowed on the town. Its pitiful wooden walls, its cracked and ancient gate, its feigned sense of defiance. Brenn grinned beneath his helmet. He pulled his sword from his sheath, this one was brand new, not like the older one, the one with neck notches. He lifted the sword, it was heavy, it would do well. He looked to his men once more, they stood upright, they stood together, all their eyes were upon him, they were ready.

“Men! You know why we came!” Brenn’s voice boomed like thunder. “This land is in chaos. The northmen and their lessers have made a mess of it. Well, it is theirs no longer! It is ours, it is the Empire’s, it is the Emperor’s. So, gentlemen, lets take what’s ours! FOR THE EMPIRE!”

As if as one, the ebony mass surged forward. It moved slow, and as it neared the small town of Crispa, it began to swallow it whole.

The gate came down within minutes. It took four men with axes to chop a man sized hole, and from then on it was child’s play. The stone tip arrows of the villagers bounced right off the plate armor of Brenn and his soldiers. As he entered the fray Brenn shined with confidence, with every swipe of his blade he felled another foe. He smirked as a man charged wild eyed at him with a pitchfork. With two deft movements he swept aside the farmer’s tool and sliced cleanly across the man’s throat. Brenn did not rush about with these movements in the field, but rather he was calm, confident, he strode from kill to kill, the movements planned in advance and executed with a practiced hand.

The Seventh Company was making short work of the villagers, and the guardsmen were falling easily enough. Brenn flared his nostrils at the sight of a dead Nilfgaardian soldier, and took his anger out on the manhood of a flanking guardsman, a grimace flashing across his own face. The skirmish had reached the town’s square, the last of the defenders were falling quickly. As the fighting wound down, it became clear that this was extermination not an occupation. Brenn lifted his helmet from his head, laying it on a stone bench on the edge of the square. As he walked slowly to the center of the square he called out to his men, “Finish the job, then take what’s ours!”

Soldiers perked up at the call of their Captain, many breaking off and entering houses, no doubt to steal or commit some other act of dominance. One hour, that was how long it had taken. One hour, and Brenn had his first victory. He cleaned his blade on the tabard of a fallen guardsmen, and he couldn’t help but think of his family. Oh, how he missed them. How he wished he could hold his wife close and watch his children play by the fire. Brenn looked up to the night sky, picking out the brightest star he could, and he took solace in the fact that he knew his wife was sharing the same view.

The day was growing warmer, and Nira began to perspire into the fur against his skin. There was no shade on the road, the landscape he had traveled through for a number of hours into the early moments of the sun's downward path had been a fair bit of steppe. It was now in the process of giving way to a more rocky vista. The boulders lining the road and the slowly rising cliffs from which they had become detached were emanating the heat they had gathered throughout the day. It felt little like the early fall that the calendar claimed. The witcher released the reigns, and the horse continued to walk along the gravel path. He worked himself out of his coat, needed earlier in the morning but, white as it was, doing him no benefit now. Leaning back, he unfastened a saddle bag, and stuffed the cloak therein. His arms, now exposed to the clear sun, lifted the metallic weight of his sword belt from where it was balanced on the rump of the animal. Strapping it around his chest, he ensured the blades were in reach, and loose within their sheaths. Both silver and steel.

Vergen was near. The hills rose quicker, and the horse began to breath heavier. The beast had not the privilege afforded to the man straddling him of removing his fur in the heat. Nira released the reigns once more and tousled the animal's silky mane. The long hairs ran over the webbings of his fingers, before his nails raked across the dry skin of the animal's neck. The witcher leaned so far forward that his medallion rested against the brown haired neck before him. Glinting in the bright sun, it jangled against the thin chain that held it, of its own volition and without prompting by Nira's movements. The witcher sat up in the saddle. Magic had come to use nearby.

His blonde head on a swivel, Nira searched for the originator of the magical blast. There was more foliage surrounding the road, but no thickets that could be hidden within. Not that, of course, any one but a Scoia'tael could conceal themselves within a forest from a witcher's discerning glare. The hills, however, were rising into cliffs and the like ever more. The medallion lay still, the inanimate gaze of the roaring bear it depicted following his own. Coming around between two hills, Nira found himself surrounded by the remnants of a village, the inhabitants of which had been chased out by flame. The bear head vibrated almost imperceptibly against his sternum, reacting to the minute trace of magic still lingering in the air. Clopping rose from beneath him as the horse's shoes impacted a solid stone path rising from the crushed gravel that had lead him here from the banks of the Dyfne. After surveying the scorched remains, Nira lifted his piercing blue eyes ahead of him, as they could now make out the high wall surrounding the Dwarven city.

"Hael, vatt'ghern!" He was accosted by a lyrical voice attempting to sound stern.

"Hael, seidhe!" He replied, bringing his gaze down to the path before him. From the direction of the gate approached a small number of young seeming elves. Two dwarfs, dressed up in similar fashions as their obvious comrades leaned on their axes at the rear. Nira spurred the reluctant horse on towards the sharp eared figures. The lead elf, a tall, wiry specimen with hair of a color that would put Nilfgaardian banners to shame walked defiantly up to the witcher as the rest of his companions surrounded. A squirrel's tail dangled at the back of his hat as he turned his well sculpted face up towards Nira. They held eachother at eye length for a moment, before the Scoia'tael extended a gloved hand. Nira had to lean far down to reach the elven hand from atop his gargantuan mount, but they grasped eachother half way up the other's forearm with respect. A smile cracked the edges of the lower non-human's thin lips. Nira felt the grasp on his arm tighten hard, and he himself wrapped his free hand in the reigns just as the elf ripped downwards.

The witcher flexed every muscle in his body, and hooked his left foot into the underside of the leather saddle. He jerked the reigns in his effort to catch his fall. The horse's head was jerked hard, and it stumbled to the side, knocking the elf from his well planted balance. With the grasp on his arm weakened in surprise, Nira lurched away. As he regained the saddle, his right foot lashed out and caught the elf in the chest. Freed of hand, he tore the top sword from its scabbard and held it high above his head. The lustrous metal flashed in the afternoon sun, casting light over the faces of the elder soldiers around him. Beneath him, the horse tossed and turned, snorting and snarling with surprise. Nira shot a glance at the dwarves further up the path. They held their axes in their short arms across their chests. Confusion marred their bearded faces. Confused, that is, by why their taller comrades were laughing so heartily.

"Hael, Nira." The dark haired elf shouted, between his own laughter, from the ground.

"Hael, Brende." The sword wielding witcher responded.

"Why, vatt'ghern, did you draw your silver?" The elf didn't even try to rise, he was content to rest on the grass.

"Monsters," Nira's seldom used voice came again, "I'm surrounded by them." The rebuttal was met with more elven laughter, their canine-less mouths thrown open carelessly with grins. He threw the weapon down, point first. It slid easily into the moist dirt by Brende's head. The witcher threw his leg over the horse, and leaped down from the saddle onto the stone path. Brende reached out again, and Nira clasped his hand. This time the witcher pulled the elf, and they now both stood on their feet, shaking hands.

"I can recognize that golden mop from miles. It's good to finally see you in the sunlight."

"And without the stench of leaves composting all around."

"Ah, but that is the aroma of the forest. I could spend my life with that sweet odor filling my home."

"You will have to visit me in the desert sometime, where I won't ever smell it again." The elves once again cackled.

"What has brought you all the way to the north of our fair country, my Dh'oine friend?"

"Wishing to see what my efforts have brought. And perhaps the queen that I've helped install."

"You aren't the only vatt'ghern with that claim. The white haired one did much more than you, I could say. You, neither, have been the only one of your caste that we have seen today. Just recently some orange eyed witch man came with a man tied to his horse, calling on Saskia. Her audience has been a popular request this day. By your kind, and that of a stranger sort. A wizard, that is." Nira's ears perked up at the mention. He had his source of magical disturbance. The fact that the medallion still moved around just a bit denoted the fact that his spell had been extremely powerful. "Fuck wizards, I say. Dh'oine dabbling in magic never leads to good things. Just look at that Eilhart bitch." The elf spoke with a hand on Nira's back, as the pair trod on towards the gates. The witcher had sheathed his silver and given up his reigns to an elf who was leading the gelding behind them.

"I can wait," said Nira as they regained the company of the Dwarves, "I have no where to be in a hurry, as long as I have a place to sleep." The elves all patted him on his shoulders, offering him extra bedrolls in the tent village they had set up, and free drinks at The Cauldron.

Attacking a pair of men that are obviously fighters, and among the finest, along the road was never a smart thing to do. They usually didn't carry much coin, and if you wanted their weapons, you would have to be prepared to lose a lot more men than they were worth. Even so, there were many foolish and desperate men out there. The older Witcher was a pleasant travelling companion, used to tough marches, sometimes growling and spitting before breaking out into a marching ditty for a few minutes and then falling silent, mumbling a bit. He had seen his fair share of blood-letting, Iorveth determined, and while those days were probably not over for him, he was no longer actively searching a 'good fight' as he called it. Iorveth had been at war for a lot longer and he disliked admitting that he was well beyond tired of the fight as well. It was part of the reason why he had joined with Saskia so eagerly. He did believe in the woman, but he was also tired of living off of the forest, watching friends and comrades die for so long for so small an effect.

Oddly enough, the witcher had no intention of settling for any cause. Marriage was a foregone conclusion for him, with no children or woman that would want to marry a 'freak' of his kind. So he had long decided that instead of marrying and growing old and useless in some farm somewhere, he was going to wander the lands until he couldn't anymore. He would die in a damn good fight, he swore loudly, and there was nothing anybody to do to convince him otherwise. Iorveth found that view of life, while not exactly original, strong and refreshing. This man had no taste for the intricate court games that so many were involved in nowadays, preferring to live his life to the fullest, doing what he enjoyed doing.

"If killing is what you enjoy, my friend," Iorveth had said at what some might call their legendary visit to the nearby tavern," You came to the right place. My gut tells me that there will be much of it ere the moon changes again."

"I don't like killing, Laddie," Dros has said, his voice slurring heavily, and his original Nilfgaardian accent coming through," I like fighting. Killing is sadly the part where the fight ends, and I have to find a new fighting partner," He finished that with a silent toast to some fallen soldier.

"Where are you going anyways, lad? And what's the hurry to get there?"

The big human's words snapped the elf out of his reverie and he looked over to the man. It was odd how he seemed so big in a fight and yet now it felt like he was looking down at him.

"We are headed to Vergen, Dhoine, where The Dragonslaying Queen awaits my report on how amass the Nilfgaardian forces. I carry grim news, unfortunately."

Dros nodded, his beard patting his chest," Aye, the numbers are not the north's favor, but then again, they usually never are. You people usually win because... hell it, I don't know. You use the land well and have a lot of luck."

"Luck?" Iorveth asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Aye, luck. No matter how great a warrior you are, no matter how strong, brave or cunning, luck plays an immense part in every battle. A lucky bowman could put an arrow through your back. A lucky swordsman might be able to fatally wound you. You might be unlucky and have some speck of rotten cloth pushed into your wound and kill you of gangrene. Luck has been on our side for our entire lives. If not, we wouldn't be here."

"Luck seems to favor the better prepared, and the better trained, Witcher," Iorveth said with an odd gleam in his eyes.

"Aye, laddie," Dros said," But not always. How long to Vergen anyways?"

"I say another Half day's march, at the pace that we move at. We should reach there tomorrow morning."

Vergen, on the Aedirnian Border

The rest of the morning was filled with the sounds and smells of preparation. Steel being sharpened and stone being carved as the men that followed the utterances of a wayward Queen put their faith and dedication into a cause much bigger than themselves. It was not for the present that they swung their swords, but for the future. The lands would fall prey to ruthless men whose only struggle in life was to not let the beast that lay below their breast consume them fully. For truly, what being with humanity at his forefront would even ponder on the ideals that surrounded murder, mayhem and slavery? That which was born of a demon, loved a woman too much or had only a sense of self about him.

Saskia walked through the small village, various members of her garrison looking up to speak to her, ask a quick question or jostle her with their wit or bravery. She smirked with mire in her eyes, quipping to them as quickly as they laid out another line and winning their hearts with each word she uttered and resounding step she took.

“You should come and see this, my queen.” Garrisk walked up from behind her and reached to touch her shoulder in an effort to pull her from the people and back to the steep cliffs that overlooked the lush valley below. It would be winter before too long and the fading colors that surrounded them showed that fact all too well.

“What is it, my old friend?” She turned and moved to walk with him to her outlook spot, the warmth of the sun making the breeze from the valley much more bearable. Garrisk handed her a small looking glass of sorts and pointed to the horizon.

“There are various groupings of people approaching us, Saskia. I am unsure whether they are friend or foe simply because of the distance at which they still hold.” He motioned for her to look through the apparatus and see for herself.

She held it up, squinting with her left eye and trying to focus with the other. Colors moved before her and images began to form, the groups moving toward them not together and yet not terribly far apart.

“I do not recognize many of these faces and yet I see not the Emperor’s colors. I am assured that the whispers of my spirit feel at ease with whom it is that approaches. Honestly I only wish to see Iorveth. I grow weary in his absence.” She moved back a little, a small growl on her lips.

The older man laughed deep in his chest and shook his head, white hair dancing about him. “I do believe you’re beginning to have feelings for our savior, no?”

Her face hardened as she glared at him with challenge. “I have feelings for no one. Least of all an elf. I simply want the news he brings and pray that his safe return will set in motion our victory… my victory.” She turned to look back over the valley and couldn’t help but notice the quickening of her heart.

The sound of metal clanking pulled her from her stay along the edge of their lands, Karrenz moved in a most unsavory fashion, but the man could wield a battle ax like no other she’d seen.

“My Queen… my queen…”

She held up her hand for him to stop. “Catch your breath and speak to me when you have reacquainted yourself with it.” She gave him a moment as a few other guards joined him, only three of the six that had been sent out earlier returning. “Where are the others?”

“That is what I was trying to tell you,” Karrenz gasped for air and blushed. “There is a witcher that has made his way up the back of the valley and is along the southern edge of our camp. He has a gift to present you, Saskia. Something I think you’ll be most interested in.”

She growled at him and pushed past him. “You do you know that I abhor games and have very little patience for bounty hunters that hide under the title of a once great honor, do you not?” She spoke her words as she walked with intent and a bit of aggression sitting on her shoulders toward the far side of their lands.

“Diplomacy, my queen…” Garrisk yelled from behind her.

“Fuck diplomacy,” she growled and picked her walk up to a jog, finding herself standing before the witcher in question, the color of his eyes and scowl on his face marked him quickly as the man that came bearing gifts. She stopped before him and let her own gaze touch his before speaking.

“I hear you’ve come to offer your talents and loyalty to our cause. A gift should do nicely for the onstart of our relationship. Tell me your name and what you expect in return for this blessed union?” The scars on his ruggedly handsome face told a thousand stories and to say that she wasn’t interested in hearing a few of them would be a bit of a tale.

She awaited his reply patiently, but felt the essence of magic being used within the walls of her city and turned her head only slightly to witness Garrisk moved toward the epicenter of whatever was in occurrence.

Garrisk turned from his viewpoint above Saskia, watching closely to ensure that the witcher had nothing but honorable intent. Witchers were a breed unto themselves at seemingly were created and raised to care for nothing but their next victim. The older man moved toward the sorcerer, his brow scrunched in concern.

“Tell us Tarquin Brantimokem Kleist, the sorcerer, do you come in peace or do you bring war to our doorstep?” Garrisk only turned his gaze from the magic wielder in front of him for a moment to give acknowledgement to Nira’s return and point toward the hill where Saskia was.

Loc Muinne

This world is fragile. People die, kingdoms fall, love fades. Everything one has one day can be gone the next, swept away like dust in the wind. The people of this harsh reality leaving fleeting lives, going day by day looking to a future that might not even exist. Only one thing can be counted on. Only one thing is eternal. That is death. Inevitable, inescapable, and final.

The destroyed town was a testament to this. Its singed stone walls, blood-stained streets, and ash filled air all spoke to the uncertainess of life. One day this village was alive and well, people ran through its streets like blood in veins and it breathed like any other thing. Now, the blood still ran through the streets but in a more literal fashion. Its breath was taken, replaced with an empty, smoldering husk.

Sera was cold. Despite the fires that burned amongst the corpses, her skin was frost and her blood was frozen. Her skin, while naturally fair, was washed of color. The blood that normally reddened her cheeks had left, in what she assumed was an attempt to balance out the blood that had been spilled all around her. She walked through the carnage, hours after the fact, her face blank. She had eventually stopped looking for survivors, as each grizzley discovery disheartened her further. She wandered aimlessly in silence, her soot-stained dress blowing in the wind. She could hear the screams in the silence and could feel the magic seeping into the ground. The young girl gently stepped around the destruction, a ghost among ghosts.

It was only when Kiera found her that she first felt the warmth. The heat of the fires, the sting of her cuts, the burning tears streaming down her cheeks and the flaming rage deep inside her. All it took was a glimmer of hope for the flame to return to her. Her eyes grew sharp, her face grew color, and her heart grew courage. The two knew without speaking that they desired the same thing, and that they would stop at nothing to get it.

Sera stood back as Kiera knelt before the small lake. She watched silently as the woman performed her oath to vengence. The ritual was a powerful one, but Sera did not participate. At least outwardly.

In her mind Sera made the same pact. She vowed to use every part of her being, just as Kiera did, to gain her revenge. Sera's method's would be different than Kiera's, but they would be to the same end. Those responsible will pay, tenfold.

Sera took note of the dark path she had set herself down, and cared not. She realized she would have to do things she had never dreamed of doing, but that didn't matter to her. Killing did not matter to her. Those who dared take her family away from her, and any who aid them presently or in the future will die. That was a fact.

Sera looked to her new partner, an older sister who was once a teacher was now her equal. They were sisters before, and now they are much more. What seems like the last of their people, the burden of revenge falls on them. And Sera accepts it willingly.

“We will go to Vergen, Sera,” Kiera called to her. “I hear there is a woman of rare descent there and that she might be the key to our reckoning. What say you, sister?”

Though Sera knew not who she spoke of, she was eager to meet such a person. "Lead the way."