The forest looms in a tangled web of twisted, gnarled trees reaching up to the blanketed sky where the stars twinkle weakly, like the dying breaths of mortal men.
Thick, ominous clouds obscure the Moon, casting the woodland in an eerie gloom, while the air's heavy with the scent of corruption;
Of freshly-spilt blood;
Of the damp earth and decaying leaves which're giving off a musty, almost suffocating stink.
Shadows dance across the forest floor—unseen spirits gliding between the ancient trunks as an unnatural stillness hangs in the air, broken only by the occasional ominous creak of wood, or the distant, haunting call of a flock of ravens feasting on the flesh of animal carcasses strung upon strings in a ritualistic display.
The forest feels alive, but not in a welcoming way—it is a dark, foreboding beast, filled with dangers and treachery.
"Something wicked has invaded our world, sisters!"
A faded red veil draped over her face, the Crone walks back and forth, her steps wide and wobbly.
Whispess, the eldest of the Crones—possibly the most bitter shrieks in an obnoxiously shrill voice, yet one that perfectly reflects her terror when 'It' landed on this world—an Evil greater than them all;
An Evil that's drinking in the sufferings from everywhere on the planet to strengthen itself;
Something far up the ladder compared to them…
The fetus of a Demon most foul whose very introduction in this earthly plane sends monsters into a frantic rage of blood and murder. It is only thanks to their power and intelligence that the Crones managed to rein in their baser instincts.
"It accompanies the Child of the Elder Blood." Brewess notes, voice like the predatory echoes of a serial killer down an empty hallway.
"What ought we to do?" The youngest—Weavess chips in. Unlike her sisters, the Crone wears nothing to cover her horrific features: The wrinkled skin; the oversized nose that takes up a-fifth of her entire face and pockets where her many, beady eyes roll maniacally under the skin. "Its 'Vessel' is youthful… The boy can't be too strong."
An insidious greed begins to snake its way into Whispess' heart, blinding the Crone to her foolishness.
Consuming the divine fetus promises power so immense—Curses so vile it causes her heart to dance and sing.
It eclipses all conceivable danger.
"It'll be dangerous… You saw his wrath against the werewolf!"
Brewess, pot-belly quivering with glee, swoons theatrically.
"Oh, imagine the feel of his skin! It seemed so delectably supple… Imagine the expression he'll wear as he simmers inside our cauldron alongside the other children! It shall be a feast! Made from a God!"
Spit oozing out of their headwears, the older sisters sing and dance like overly-excited children on a diet of sweetened sugar, but Weavess does not share the sentiment. She has always been quieter than her sisters, a bit more cautious, if not to say cowardly outright. 'It's more powerful than us!'
The Crone wants to say;
She needs to tell her sisters they're trying to bite off more than they can chew, yet the fear of being reprimanded stills her tongue.
With that option crossed off, she can only lie to herself that they'll come out on top somehow.
The 'Ladies of the Wood' have never, not for a moment, entertained the notion that they are the apex predators of this world, or any other for that matter.
They are, however, creatures of enduring longevity, having weathered the storms of millennia.
The closest they've come to meeting their end was a forced exodus—a strategic retreat in other words.
Most of those who achieved the feats are now dead;
The majority murdered in the horrific ways; lives wasted by Curses only their dark minds may conjure.
A single, sputtering Demon, desperately trying to claw its way into this plane through some pathetic excuse for a possession should not pose a problem.
'It won't,' She thinks fiercely, clinging to the words like a shield against the encroaching unease.
But the fear radiating from Weavess is the raw, instinctive terror that seizes pany mortal foolish enough to witness the 'improbables'.
It is the same terror she and her sisters have instilled in countless generations of the pathetic excuse of a species called humanity—the mud-grubbing, shit-flinging creatures that will plead and sacrifice their own for the tinniest chance of obtaining the sisters' favors and coming out of the deal unharmed…
They never do;
It could be as inconsequential their earlobe,
Or something of much importance such as their limb, but no mortal ever comes out whole from their deals. None.
In a sense, the Crones are Gods too—old and ancient Gods stalking the swam where they've laid claim upon.
Surely, one God—one Demon cannot hope to witstand three?
They are legends! Folklore in the flesh!
Accursed Wiches that birth nightmares!
"The boy and the elven child... their life force could sate our thirst for centuries." Weavess purrs, her voice a whisper that seems to slither through the trees.
"They may even grant us something 'extra'!" Giggles Whispess, springing from the branch she had been perched on, her movements fluid and unsettlingly spider-like.
"Yes, yes,"
Hisses Brewess, fat jiggling in nauseating folds. "But how do we lure them into our wood? What bait can snag such delectable prey?"
A moment of contemplative silence falls over the clearing, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the distant cry of a night owl.
"The elven king desires the Child of the Elder Blood, their species' survival depends on her."
Weavess finally murmurs, a predatory smile curling her lips. "Let him keep his precious trinket."
"The Demon, however..." Whispess raspes. "Its essence, its very being... That might prove a more exquisite vintage. Let its fear-tinged and supple flesh be our feast."
The Crones laugh and laugh, their shrill and witchy voices echoing like a broken record.
— [ToI] —
Crow's Perch is far more magnificent than the game ever gave it credits for.
While the layout does not differ much, it's a settlement which can comfortably house several hundreds people, not the tiny fortress that had less than 50 people inside in Wild Hunt. Even the road here on a carriage takes much longer. Many claim horse carriage—the peasant version especially—are bumpy, but it's nowhere near as uncomfortable as they made it out to be.
Though every pebble does make the whole carriage jump, it's more like a rough amusement park ride than anything… A rather bloody ride, if we take the slain carcasses of mutated ghouls around the caravan. "There it is, Crow's Perch…"
"Dreary place."
"Yes, very… Haunting."
As much as I love the Witcher 3, having spent weeks with my eyes glued to the screen, there are few locations in the game that managed to replicate the atmosphere of Velen as a region. It is the perfect tutorial and set piece to what's to come. Jumping off the carriage beforehand, I offer my hand to Ciri to steady herself.
"Gentleman, are you?"
Grinning at me, the princess leaps over the carriage.
"But I'm no damsel in distress."
I blink at her. I do not see why so many seem to take offense at the phrase.
Damsel simply means a young, unmarried woman and we're all in distress at different times in our lives. It's even more applicable to her. She's young, unwed and has a bunch of racist elves chasing her across worlds… Oh, well. Flashing her smirk at, I point to the hill. "Wanna race to the gate? Whoever loses will owe the other a coin."
"Neither of us has coins."
"We can make coins,"
I shrug, gesturing at the board where faded, yellowing parchments are posted. "What, you afraid?"
"A Witcheress is afraid of nothing." She counters, competitive spirit roused. "But no Magic. I cannot use mine without alerting 'them'."
"Fair enough. On 3?"
Ciri takes a look at me from head to boots, then teases. "I'll give you a head-start. You look like you need it."
Did she just call me short?
"Aight, don't cry when you lose."
Fair's fair; instead of sprinting at my maximum speed, I choose to jog leisurely towards the gate. Cheating just doesn't sit well with me. Interestingly enough, the princess trails behind me like a shadow.
I decelerate, offering her a chance to take the lead, but Cirilla mirrors my actions and slows down once more. We look at each other, both a bit awkward. "Are you purposefully trying to let me win because I look like a kid? You know I'm not really one, right?" Ciri glances at something left to her, breaking eye-contact.
"You forgot, didn't you?" I drawl, deadpanning.
"You do look like a child…" She justifies, then grins. "See you at the gate."
Wending my way through the throng of people congesting the bridge, I spot the Swallow waiting for me at the gate, casually leaning against the handrail with a sly smirk playing on her lips. "I win."
She took the bet—lured me into a false sense of security and won the race…
I've never been prouder of someone I have only known for a day.
Ciri's awesome.
On instinct, I whip out my wallet, only to remember bills are worthless on this planet. "I'll pay you back later. Let's get ourselves horses first."
The idea of us gallivanting through this reality is undeniably amusing, but this isn't some playground on a screen. It's real and quite a bit larger than what a computer could process.
And if I were being realistic, the moment whispers of a ashen-haired woman accompanied by a superpowered child hit the grapevine, we'll be up to our necks in trouble. What bothers me most is the thought of her father—the White Flame.
While I understand the depths of his desperation, the lengths he's willing to go to are abhorrent, even to my standards. There are boundaries, lines drawn in the sand that even the noblest of goals cannot erase.
War itself has laws—not the best laws perhaps, but it has laws for a reason: From the Geneva Convention to the ancient codes of the Roman legionnaires. A war without rules is a war that consumes all, leaving only ashes and despair in its wake.
It's the reason I harbor such disdain for Zouken and dislike towards Kiritsugu, though the latter to a lesser degree.
Their intentions were undeniably noble, decent men undone by their own good hearts.
And look where it landed them: Consumed by the fear of loss, warped into something… Else entirely.
"Good idea."
We shuffle foward in the line until a gruff voice booms, "Halt! What's your business in Crow's Perch?!"
"We're here to take contracts." Ciri states.
The guards exchange a glance, then broke into uproarious laughter. "You two? Why, you look like you wouldn't last a minute against a fly—"
I don't hesitate.
Hand darting out, snatching the sword sheathed at his hip before he could react, I stare at its length and comment, "You've gotta take care of your weapon more." Then with a single, sharp movement, the blade snaps in halves, the pieces clattering to the ground.
"Y- You!"
Meeting his startled gaze, I offer a smile.
"I also heard a rumor about the Baron's wife and daughter. Seems they've gone missing… Just imagine the rewards you'll be swimming in once we locate them."
Never rely on someone's better nature—dangle a juicy carrot in front of them, and victory is assured. "The Baron's beside himself with worry, you know."
As expected, my words do the trick.
Ciri and I are ushered through the gates, accompanied by the resentful murmurs of those camped outside. Let them stew; Crow's Perch wasn't designed to house every Tom, Dick, and Harry seeking refuge—it physically cannot. At least the Baron has the decency to post soldiers in the village below for protection against monster attacks.
It's an act of leadership unimaginable in modern political landscape, where most of those elected to serve would sooner be found sipping champagne in their bunkers, deaf to the pleas of the very citizens they swore to protect than actually do something, because why'd they when they're actively benefiting?
"Just head straight up that hill. You'll find the Baron's manor up there. The fat bastard!"
The guards chuckle, clapping each other on the back as Ciri and I vanish from their sight. One of my biggest gripes with Witcher 3 was this blasted climb, but experiencing it firsthand, it's not half bad…
Well, besides the overwhelming stench of manure assaulting my nostrils.
"It's in quite a sorry state." Ciri remarks, her face etched with concern as she observes the villagers struggling through their day. A group strained to draw water from a well, their faces etched with frustration, while others exchange gossip in hushed, worried tones. Gossip about the ongoing war; the instability of their lives.
For me, this is a vacation—a walk in the park in fact, but for these people, Death's seemingly in every corner.
"The war has taken its toll on everybody."
"War?" She turns to me, confused.
Looks like Ciri has not kept herself updated on the international news.
"Nilfgaard is waging wars against the four Realms. Temeria fell after King Foltest was assassinated."
By the Lodge and a Witcher no less.
Both were played by Emhyr to prepare for his invasion into the North.
I do like Leto as a character, but he was a fool to have trusted the White Flame blindly.
The Eternal Fire's suffocating grip on Velen is a direct consequence of Foltest's demise. Had he lived, their world wouldn't be spiraling into chaos. The war would have raged on, yes, but Temeria wouldn't be this breeding ground for lawlessness, overrun with monsters at every turn.
To the people of Velen and Temerian as a whole, it's the Supernatural that brought their lives to ruin.
They are well-within their right to despise Mages and mutants,
Yet the latter also have a right to defend themselves.
"My father brought this upon them."
Cirilla whispers, guilt oozing from her posture and mannerism.
I assume she thought I couldn't hear her—that or she has lowered her guard around me, but that can't be it… Who trusts somebody they've only known for a day? Half of one, technically. "C'mon. There is nothing we can do for them." Monster hunting is the only way.
The more we kill, the more stable the region.
"We will meet the Baron, and take one or two contracts on our way out."
Though this version of humanity isn't quite what I'm familiar with, they're still part of, and by virtue of that alone, their status is naturally elevated above the wild monsters that currently wreak havoc.
I'm certain that had I been born one such beast myself, my perspective would be entirely reversed.
It is a bias, and one that the survival of a species is dependent on.
"You guys are?"
"We're here to offer the Baron a hand with his little… Family squabble."
The guards guarding the Manor's entrance snort, their faces painted with amusement. "Squabble? That's putting it mildly. But you two? You look like you'd struggle to swat a fly, let alone find people."
"They wouldn't have let us through those gates if we weren't more than qualified." I counter.
The guard's face softens in an instant. "Fair enough. Get in there. The Baron's at his wit's end."
The heavy wooden gates swing open with a groan, revealing the sprawling grounds of Baron Phillip Strenger's estate.
As we approach the manor, a raucous roar caught my attention.
In the frontyard, a makeshift fighting ring has been erected, soldiers brawling savagely within its confines, their cheers fueled by the glint of coin changing hands.
"Ciri," I say, my voice touched with mischief, "I think I might have a way to settle my debt with you a little… Faster."
Ciri raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You're going to fight?"
"No," I correct, a slow grin spreading across my face. "I'm going to win."
The current bout ends just as I reach the ring's edge.
The victor, a hulking brute of a man, puffs out his chest as he is declared the undefeated champion. Seeing the opportunity, I jump in. "May I join?"
All eyes turn towards me, some alight with laughter, others burning with a silent hostility.
The champion, face contorting in a sneer, spits on the ground. "Go run back to your mama, boy. You're out of your depth."
"What, you scared?"
He spits once more, eyes narrowing as I pick up a pebble and crush it into a gritty mound of dust between my fingers.
The champion's face loses its color, a flicker of doubt betraying his once steely demeanor.
Understandable, I've cornered him between a rock and a hard place.
If he wins, he's branded a bully with no honor.
If he loses, his undefeated streak shatters, leaving him the fighter who got his ass kicked by a kid.
Every move on his board is a dead move, except for one, "I don't fight kids."
Hmmm… This is pretty thoughtless of me.
"I need coins, anyone who can beat me can get this—" With a gesture, Senza Esitazione drops in my hands, glinting like the Sun itself. "That's—!"
"An enchanted weapon." The Mystic Code shivers in my hands, almost as if upset I'm using her in the bet, before being pacified by my touch grazing her. "And you won't even need to put up something of equal value, just the same amount of coins the champion is paid."
"How do we know you won't cheat, Sorcerer?!"
One hollers.
"Good question!"
I point at him, hands plopped on my waist then admit. "No idea… You'll just have to trust me, I guess."
"I have something!"
Another yells, bringing out a pair of handcuffs that I immediately try to use [Structural Grasp] on, only for the Spell to be dissipated in very little time.
Mind racing, I search my memories for a metal that has the same properties, "Dimiterium handcuffs?"
"Nagged it from the corpse of those fire fanatics. Put one on, it should restrict your witchy-thingy." Nearly breaking into a laugh at the term, I grab the handcuff out of the air, slinging one around my right wrist. Rin would have lost her mind if she were to hear—
"Leo, don't!"
Ciri cautions, too little too late.
"Happy?"
I frown as something prickles under my skin and my Mana starts to go a little… stale—my Circuits going completely non-responsive.
No matter the cost, I have to get more of this metal transported back to my world. Fortunately, I already know of a supply.
I can understand the pyromaniacs to some extent, but this metal is utterly squandered in their hands.
Seriously, who in their right mind makes cuffs out of such a precious resource?
"Are you alright?"
The Swallow's voice rings out, her concern piercing through the commotion.
"Why wouldn't I be?" I respond, slight confusion bleeding into my words.
"That's odd… Dimiterium metal usually reacts rather badly when it comes into contact with Mages." She remarks, eyebrows furrowing in thought, but I have already speculated on all the possible reasons.
The most plausible is the way we channel Mana—the Mages do it by directly channeling it through their physical bodies; while us Magi have Circuits to process the energy. Although now that she has mentioned it…
Waving my hand in front of me, I watch in amazement as the motions blur together, as if my brain's struggling to catch up with my body. It's much like being drunk, or so I have heard since I have never gotten wasted to that point, even during my worst. "I'll be fine! You go see the Baron first!"
Clapping my fist into my palm, I face the soldiers with a sly grin. "I'mma shake a few coins out of these fools!"
At that exact moment, Phillip Strenger stumbles into our midst, slurring every word. "Who- Who's calling me?"
The ground erupts In a chorus of cheers as the rotund, red-clad man waves a wooden mug above his head.
"The Mage brat's lookin' to get blooded, sir!"
The Baron glances my way, his motions exaggerated and tipsy. "An' ya all took 'im seriously?"
"He crushed a pebble with his bare hands."
The Baron eyes me again before bursting into a hearty laugh. "If that's the case, let's get on with it, then!"
After a swift and fiery brawl, I emerge effortlessly victorious, with the Baron cheering the loudest among the bunch.
My opponent doesn't look particularly pleased, but after taking my offered hand, bygones become bygones. My abnormal strength and prowess also soften the blow to his reputation. With my coins jingling in my pocket, I shoot a grin at Ciri. She rolls her eyes at the spectacle but can't help but smile back. "Aye, somebody gets him a mug! Old enough to fight, old 'nuff to drink!"
Staring at the murky beverage, I check out the content with a swift blink.
The content is mostly natural… Way better than the things they sell at the supermarket actually. """Drink! Drink! Drink!"""
Oh, well. Unlike Rin and Shiro, it's not like I'm an actual eight years old.
Chugging the drink, I scream, beating on my chest and asking for another. "Another round to the Baron!"
"""To the Baron!"""
We end up sharing another few rounds, before Ciri and I approach the red-clad commander.
As much as I like his character, I'm wise enough to realize he's not lordly material. He's a general, perhaps, but definitely not a lord.
"So… My butler mentioned that you two might be able to help with my predicament? You both seem a lot more trustworthy than the other jokers I've encountered."
His eyes fleetingly connect with Ciri's, a flash of sorrow passing through them.
He sees not her, but his daughter. The two share a striking resemblance on the surface. Both are spirited tomboys, both yearn for a life full of adventures.
Only Ciri had her peaceful and luxurious life taken from her—even if the ashen-haired Witcheress did dislike the royal life, meanwhile Tamara willingly abandoned hers.
"We are more reliable," Ciri assures him confidently, while I step forward, deciding to assist the man. "I know where your family members are, but talking them into returning? That's going to be up to you."
"You do?" The Witcheress turns to me with imploring eyes.
Gaze glued to the flowerbed in the distant, he chuckles. "I like you, but if you're joking, I'll break your teeth in, Mage."
"I'm not." I shrug. "Your daughter's in Novigrad and your wife's under the influence of the Crones in Crookback Bog."
"You know where my Anna is?!"
"I do, but she's… Not herself. Not anymore."
If there's an award for speed-running quest, I probably deserve the 1st prize.
Suddenly, he seizes my shoulders, his grip tight and desperate, before bellowing at a nearby soldier. "You lot, get ready to move out! The boy claims to know where my precious Anna is!"
Then, his breath reeking of alcohol, he leans in and whispers.
"If you are telling the truth, I will give you everything your eyes can see—even this manor, if you wish."
I pat his shoulders and laugh.
He's one of those rare characters I genuinely like—a deeply flawed man shattered by countless wars; a Soul who sought solace in alcohol; a heart betrayed by his wife at his most vulnerable.
Though I can't be certain if all the tales are true, I believe he said his wife once tried to stab him after he—in a fit of rage, murdered her lover. That was the crux of their downward spiral.
"It's alright," I reassure him. "We just need two horses and a bit of this—"
Producing a coin, I give it a cheeky bite. "To get us by."
"We're going after the Crones?"
I veer over to Ciri, noticing her hands trembling slightly, and nearly facepalm.
I forgot… She just escaped the Crones, why would she want to go back?
Instead of bringing it up directly, I lightly tap her knee.
"Hey, if you're not feeling up to joining us, you can hang back here. Phillip and I will swing by later tonight."
It might be wrong to coddle her like this, but I can't exactly twist her arm into doing something she's dead set against.
Besides, I too would be shitting bricks about facing the Crones if I didn't have my power to fall back on.
"No," Ciri interjects, gripping her sword with determination. "I've got my own bones to pick with them."
One of the Baron's soldier nears us—quite up there in his ranks judging from the quality of his armor.
"When and where do we set out, sir?"
"Now." Phillip answers. "We're going to Crookback Bog."