The air in Kaer Morhen Castle hung heavy with the smell of pipe tobacco and muttered curses. Geralt's voice, roughened by years of monster slaying, echoed through the room with a hint of amusement. "Ha! Lambert, you're out of cards!"
"Blast it, Lambert," he slammed his hand down on the table, revealing a card depicting a powerful horn. "Look at this! My decoy card doubles my melee units' strength, giving me a total of 72 points! You lose!"
A few seconds of stunned silence followed before Lambert exploded. "This is rigged! There's no way you could draw three leader cards in a row! You must be cheating!"
Geralt, a sly grin plastered across his face, wagged his fingers playfully. "Pure luck, my friend, pure luck."
"Every time I play Gwent with you," Lambert grumbled, "my luck seems to desert me completely."
"Come on, don't be a sore loser," Geralt chuckled. "Twenty crowns is hardly a fortune. Think of it as an investment in a good bottle of wine."
Lambert reluctantly pushed the coins across the table. "Damn it all," he muttered under his breath. "I knew I shouldn't have bet so high. A year's worth of savings gone in just a few games."
Geralt, unfazed by Lambert's woes, leaned back in his chair. "Don't worry about it, brother. If you're truly strapped for cash, you can always ask Wayne for a loan. Remember, coming spring, we'll be heading to Vizima with him for that new contract. Apparently, the young witcher's pockets are lined with coin these days."
Lambert scoffed at the suggestion. Geralt chuckled, his eye glinting with amusement. "Winter's long, Lambert. When your Gwent coin purse runs dry, that stubborn streak might soften up a bit."
While the seasoned witchers bickered over cards, outside in the Kaer Morhen training grounds, Wayne practiced swordsmanship with Eskel. Honing his swordsmanship was a core aspect of Wayne's training in this harsh winter.
Though boasting exceptional control over his mutations, Wayne's physical prowess, while impressive, placed him firmly in the 'highly skilled' category. True masters like Eskel remained out of reach. It wasn't a matter of raw strength or speed - Wayne possessed both in abundance.
The gap lay in his lack of real-world combat experience and the diverse techniques honed through countless battles. Eskel, a renowned swordsman known for his stoicism and preference for non-human companions, proved to be a patient and meticulous instructor. Geralt had once remarked on Eskel's aversion to brothels, his only interest lying with "those with horns," a veiled reference to the bruxae - powerful female vampires.
The clang of steel echoed across the training ground as Wayne and Eskel sparred, both relentless in their attacks. Even with his superior strength and speed (if he fought without limitations), Eskel's mastery of swordplay and tactical maneuvers would leave him overwhelmed within two rounds.
Forced to fight within the constraints imposed by his mutations, Wayne absorbed every lesson, frustration warring with focus. As their training sessions grew longer, Wayne discovered that while his raw strength and speed couldn't guarantee complete victory over Eskel, the witcher's endurance often faltered first during their intense bouts. Eskel slumped onto a nearby wooden bench, wiping sweat from his brow. "Yielding to youth again," he wheezed. "Young witchers in training have boundless energy. I need a moment to catch my breath."
Wayne, slightly out of breath himself, grinned. "I was merely exploiting my superior physicality, Eskel. But Geralt mentioned your strength and agility should see a significant boost after the Greater Red Mutagen."
"Indeed," Eskel replied, a genuine smile breaking through his usual stoicism. "For years I've searched for a suitable Greater Red Mutagen, but I haven't found a suitable one. Imagine my surprise when you returned after just a year with such a gift and one you were willing to share."
"Don't worry," Wayne said, waving a dismissive hand. "Consider it a fair exchange. After all, I'll need your assistance with the upcoming mission at Lake Vizima. Boosting your power benefits us both."
Eskel nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. Unlike some witchers, words weren't his forte. He simply affirmed, "Just say the word, brother. The first half of the year, I'll be scouring Temeria for contracts."Wayne chuckled. The Wolf School witchers, for all their gruff exteriors, possessed a loyalty that transcended words. When called upon, they wouldn't hesitate.
Contracts weren't a matter of location, monster type, or arrival time. His brothers trusted him blindly and never asked for any payment. This loyalty warmed Wayne's heart. He unfastened the magical flask at his hip, flipped a switch, and switched to the chilled Coca-Cola. He tipped his head back and took several gulps. The drink was a delightful mix of sweet, icy refreshment with a hint of bitterness, the bubbles tickling his throat with each effervescent burst. A hearty burp escaped him. Switching the flask again, he offered a high-grade dwarven liquor to Eskel.
"Care for a sip? This top-shelf dwarven spirit is the work of Master Olgierd, a renowned brewer even among the Mahakam dwarves."
Eskel raised an eyebrow. While Olgierd's name wasn't familiar, dwarven master brewers were a guarantee of quality. He took the flask, turning it over in his hand with appreciation. "Remarkable magical contraption," he remarked. Tilting his head back, he took a generous swig. However, the potency of the dwarven spirit clearly exceeded his expectations.
Within seconds, Eskel's face flushed scarlet, a wave of heat radiating from his body. He squeezed his eyes shut, savoring the fiery taste, then exhaled a long breath. "Potent brew indeed!" he chuckled. "How much is left in that flask, Wayne? Top it off for me, this is something I can truly appreciate."
Wayne, ever generous, wasn't about to refuse. In truth, he preferred smooth red wines and sweet fruit concoctions to the high-proof dwarven spirits. These modern drinks were a special treat he reserved for celebratory moments. As the brothers chatted, a tall, aged figure approached from the castle gate. His snowy beard and hair framed a weathered face, and he wore a thick bearskin coat. A smile played on his lips as he spotted the two sweat-soaked figures sparring on the training grounds. He called out:
"Indeed, Wayne, Eskel," Vesemir boomed, his voice echoing across the training grounds. "Swordsmanship is the heart and soul of a witcher. Dedication and practice are paramount!"
A knowing smile tugged at the corner of Wayne's lips. Geralt and Lambert were likely locked in another heated Gwent match. He couldn't help but shrug – Vesemir's disapproval of the card game was a well-worn record.
His gaze snagged on a white blur nestled in the crook of Vesemir's arm, a distinct puff of fur contrasting with the dark bearskin coat. Curiosity piqued, Wayne inquired, "Master, what creature do you have there? A wolf cub?"
Vesemir stroked his beard, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Recall your studies yesterday, Wayne, about the druidic secrets of beast taming? I ventured to the mountain peaks in search of a winter eagle hatchling as per your request, but alas, fortune wasn't on my side. However, during my exploration near a wolf's den, I stumbled upon a newborn direwolf pup."
"This little one possessed remarkable strength even at birth," Vesemir continued, his voice filled with pride. "It has the potential to be a most valuable companion. Imagine a loyal beast by your side, adept at guarding your home or fiercely fighting alongside you on your contracts."
"But taming a direwolf, especially for an inexperienced individual, is no easy feat," he cautioned. "Success hinges entirely on your ability to establish a bond and earn its trust."
Excitement flared in Wayne's chest. Direwolves, monstrous offspring of celestial convergence and ordinary wolves, were coveted companions in the Northern Kingdoms. A full-grown male direwolf could rival the size of a wild lion or tiger, a ferocious predator indeed.
Gently, he reached out and received the snow-white wolf from Vesemir's grasp. The little creature, barely a month old, whimpered softly, its eyes still squeezed shut. Separated from the warmth of the old witcher, it trembled slightly. The question of its parents' whereabouts lingered in the air, unanswered.
The tiny ball of white fur tugged at Wayne's heartstrings. It reminded him of the loyal hounds his family kept in his past life, companions brimming with unwavering devotion. A pang of sorrow stabbed at him. How long would this direwolf, touched by the blood of monsters, live? Witnessing the passage of loved ones, a slow and inevitable march towards death, was a burden all witchers bore.
Gazing at the pristine white fur, Wayne named the wolf, 'White Fang'. He harbored a fervent hope – that this creature would become a loyal companion, heeding his commands. The alternative, the thought of harming such a fragile being, filled him with a heavy reluctance.
Wayne, brimming with confidence in his animal handling skills, envisioned the possibilities. Direwolves, or even horses, could become formidable partners in battle. But his true aspiration lay in taming the ultimate aerial mounts – creatures like griffins, wyverns, or manticores. Imagine the fearsome spectacle – a witcher soaring through the skies on the back of such a magnificent beast! Such a partnership would make any witcher a force to be reckoned with.
Alas, these apex predators were notoriously savage and untamable. Legends whispered of no witcher ever subjugating a griffin, their fierce pride defying any attempt at control. Dragon knights, however, held a sliver of hope. Dragons, with their superior intellect and cunning, might be swayed through careful negotiation.
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