CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The rhythmic clang of steel echoed across the Kaer Morhen training grounds as Wayne and Eskel clashed in their daily sword practice.
A flurry of sparks erupted each time their training swords met. Wayne, a whirlwind of motion, attacked with a ferocity that targeted Eskel's vitals with unpredictable strikes. Eskel, ever the stoic witcher, countered with powerful, controlled blows. His broadsword style emphasized sweeping maneuvers and defensive stances, forcing Wayne's agility to its limits.
Despite holding back, Wayne felt his attacks growing increasingly predictable. Eskel's experience shone through, effectively parrying and exploiting openings in Wayne's frenetic assault. With a groan, Wayne's training sword buckled slightly under the relentless assault. He conceded defeat, raising his hands in surrender.
A hint of a smile played on Eskel's lips, a rare display of emotion for the usually stoic witcher. Wayne, his younger brother in arms, had been pushing him harder with each passing day. Eskel couldn't help but worry – would he, like Lambert, one day be bested by his junior?
Fortunately, the Greater Red Mutagen was proving remarkably effective. Since its implantation, Eskel felt a tangible increase in his strength and agility. It had only been a week, yet he already noticed a roughly ten percent improvement.
The ten percent improvement in such a short time was a welcome surprise for a witcher, whose bodies were relatively fixed after undergoing the Trial of the Grasses. Wayne wiped sweat from his brow. The short bout had drained him considerably, but seeing Eskel similarly glistening with exertion, he grinned. "Seems the mutagen took well, Eskel. Congratulations! I can already feel the difference in your strength and speed."
Eskel, ever reserved, hadn't responded yet, when Lambert, watching from the sidelines, burst out, "Damn! Never thought those things were so useful. The old man never mentioned it! Every time I found one after a monster kill, I just tossed it aside. Talk about wasted opportunities!"
Geralt chuckled wryly. "Who told you to shirk your studies, Lambert? You're the laziest, most impatient bookworm, none of us are."
Lambert sputtered. "Bookworm? Me? You're the one who barely reads!"
Geralt, unfazed, continued, "Greater Mutagens aren't just for implantation. They can also be used to brew potent decoctions. Highly toxic, yes, but they can be lifesavers in a pinch. Even Lesser Mutagens have value. They can be used to craft potions or sold to alchemists for a hefty coin."
A sly glint entered Geralt's eye. "Speaking of coin, next year's gathering... remember that fifty-crown gambling debt you owe me?"
Lambert bristled, feeling the heat of scrutiny from the younger witchers. "Geralt! Don't forget who bailed you out of that Novigrad brothel debt thirteen years ago! Who sold his prized meteorite dagger to get you out of jail? You'd be singing a different tune if I hadn't!"
"A measly fifty crowns, and you bring it up in front of me every time we meet?" Geralt's lips twitched. They'd sworn secrecy about the incident, yet Lambert, ever the gossip (though fiercely loyal when it mattered), blurted it out in front of Wayne. The young witcher burst into laughter – Lambert's unfiltered personality was a constant source of amusement.
As the banter flowed, they spotted a familiar figure approaching the castle gates. It was Vesemir, leaning on a younger witcher cloaked in a hooded coat. The newcomer kept his head bowed, a bandage wrapped around one arm. Though clad in the standard Wolf School armor, Wayne couldn't place him at first.
Eskel, fresh from his sparring session with Wayne, recognized the man instantly. "Berengar," he said, "He's injured. I should check on him."
Indeed, it was Berengar, the witcher Wayne knew held a particular dislike for him. It wasn't surprising Wayne didn't recognize him – his childhood memories of Kaer Morhen were hazy, and he'd only seen Berengar once back then.
Unlike other witchers who made a yearly pilgrimage back to Kaer Morhen, Berengar was a loner, content to isolate himself from the brotherhood. Witnessing this, Geralt and Lambert joined Vesemir, helping carry the unconscious Berengar into the castle hall.
Vesemir gazed at the ailing Berengar with a heavy sigh. "Found him while fishing by the lake. He should've returned before the blizzard sealed the mountain pass. Instead, he chose to stay in a cave on the backside."
"If I hadn't heard the sound of him fighting the wraith," Vesemir explained with a sigh, "we wouldn't have known he was back at all." Eskel, having sparred with Wayne earlier, seemed the most familiar with Berengar's condition. He helped remove the witcher's armor, revealing bandages not only on his arm but also a thick dressing around his lower abdomen.
The wraith fight might have aggravated Berengar's injuries, blood staining the bandages anew. Geralt's gaze turned serious. "How was he wounded, Vesemir? Did he encounter trouble?"
Vesemir retrieved a fresh roll of bandages and needle with thread from his pouch, offering them to Eskel. "He wasn't unconscious at first," he said, gesturing for Eskel to assist with treating Berengar's wounds. "He lost consciousness from blood loss on the way back after I found him."
"It's nothing major," Vesemir continued. "He hadn't planned on returning this year. Last month, on a contract in a Kaedwen village, he fought a powerful Arachas Queen. The injuries he sustained were severe. Not only did he fail to receive his payment, but a mob of angry farmers with pitchforks chased him out."
"Outnumbered, he fought his way out, wounded and stripped of his belongings – everything but his silver sword. Yet, for reasons unknown, he chose secrecy, isolating himself in a cave on the backside of the mountain, refusing to return to the castle."
A somber silence fell upon the group. Berengar, indeed, was an outlier compared to the camaraderie of the Wolf School witchers. He preferred solitude, rarely interacting with them. Even during his visits, he kept to himself, avoiding meals or conversation.
Lambert, ever blunt, scoffed. "Typical Berengar. He loathes his witcher identity. If not for fear of death, he might have committed suicide long ago."
Vesemir glared at Lambert before turning to Wayne. "Son," he said, his voice gruff yet laced with concern, "fetch some hemostatic herbs to stop the bleeding. Prepare some light food as well – broth or wheat porridge would be easiest on his stomach. Living alone in that cave, Berengar's body is likely weakened. A strong potion like Swallow might be too harsh for him right now."
Wayne acknowledged the request with a nod. As he reached for the herbal remedies, a thought struck him. He rummaged through his pouch and retrieved the last vial of his Intermediate Troll Decoction. "Master," he offered, presenting the vial to Vesemir, "use this potion. A druid gave it to me. It's non-toxic and has potent healing properties."
Wayne wasn't fabricating a story. While the concoctions used by druids differed vastly from witchers' elixirs, these protectors of nature did possess herbal remedies capable of healing non-mutated humans. After his departure from Kaer Morhen, Wayne planned to visit the renowned druid elder Keynster in the Viziman forest. He intended to seek guidance on animal taming and, incidentally, replenish his stock of such healing potions.
Though witchers, with their enhanced physiology, rarely relied on such non-mutagenic remedies, Wayne recognized their value. In specific situations, a non-toxic potion could prove invaluable.