Something gnaws at the back of my mind… Something crucial to the Questline.
Should I slay the Spirit or set it free?
One condemns Phillip to hang himself, the other will save the man and his wife, bitchy as she is.
"You seem distracted."
Ciri's touch on my shoulder snaps me out of my reverie. I blink at her, disoriented. "Yeah, there's something I need to handle before we go on."
The Baron's eyes flare with anger as he spins around, fists clenched tightly. "You getting cold feet? If you've deceived me…" His voice drips with menace.
"I haven't,"
I retort, rubbing the bridge of my nose in frustration. "But there's something we have to…"
Or should I simply stand idle?
"Does anyone know the way to the Whispering Hillock?"
I'm supposed to kill the Spirit…
Yes, that's it. Doing so will ensure Anna' survival; the Baron won't end his life.
Yet, there's also a price to it if I recall correctly—I just can't, for the life of me, remember what it is. "The orphans…" I murmur.
Anna's grip on sanity is loose either way, but why did she go batshit crazy?
'What if I do nothing?'
I always tackled the Whispering Hillock Questline first,
What if I confront the Crones first?
Besides, the orphans should still be alive, Ciri hasn't passed through here yet. At least I hope so. "Never mind, let's speed this up."
The Baron and Ciri exchange uneasy looks, hesitating. "If this concerns my Anna, I need to know."
"The Crones are hoarding a group of orphans… Unwanted children from nearby villages, handed over to the 'Ladies of the Wood.' They're devouring these children to sustain their immortality." The memory of Ciri's perspective in the Crones' lair is seared into my mind still: A cauldron of blood, limbs protruding from the reddish surface. "They took your wife to take care of the children."
So little was shown by the Devs, and yet it's a far more grotesque sight than the Great Fire itself.
At least the corpses I found then were already charred black like a bunch of brittle Skyrim Bonemen.
"What?! You insinuating I'm less frightening than them?"
Angra groans beside me, his voice a poor mimicry of human speech, more zombie-like than anything else. The Daemon's offended it seems. But, as always, I ignore him. "Ciri, I'm going to need you to get them to safety, then rejoin us."
With the Elder Blood coursing through her veins, there's no one more capable of ensuring their safety.
I brace myself for her to snap, perhaps accuse me of being overprotective—after all, that's her entire Arc is about: Learning confidence and self-reliance. But instead, she simply nods, a wordless affirmation.
We exchange a glance, one of silent understanding between us. "I will. You focus on killing those—"
And just then, a pack of Drowners decides to make their unwelcome appearance.
Some claim the Fiend or Chort is the toughest hostile NPC, but personally, I have always detested these wretched creatures far more. What can I say? It is simply easier to focus on one enemy than multiple at the same time… Whichever Dev designed Drowner deserves to be in prison for crime against Humanity.
In-game, of course.
The Baron and his men unsheathe their swords in unison, but without silver blades, taking down these monsters will be a hellish ordeal for them. Luckily, Ciri and I are here.
The Witcheress draws her sword and darts across the battlefield like a phantom.
Yet, I notice her blade lacks the luminous edge it should have—it's too dull.
Her attacks barely scratch our assailants without the Elder Blood helping out, and no matter how much Ciri trains physically, it's a barrier she cannot overcome.
I've never dabbled in Mystic Code Creation, so I won't attempt to enhance her sword, but teaching her how to coat the blade in Spatial Magic is doable.
With a single thrust of my spear, three Drowners are impaled and ripped apart.
A swift twist and the weapon turns into a whirling blender which reduces my foes into a shredded pile.
The oddest part is, we're nowhere near the swamp yet—at least half an hour's distance away.
It seems the Crones have already sensed our presence in their domain.
To be fair, we're not exactly going about it subtly.
With another sweeping motion, the rest of the Drowners are reduced to carrion in an instant.
The soldiers, along with Phillip, gape at me, their mouths agape. Meanwhile Ciri, having witnessed me tear through Ghouls like toilet-papers this morning, isn't completely shocked, but she's still taken aback.
"Does he even need our help?" One of the soldiers mumbles.
"C'mon,"
Phillip Strenger, though clearly uneasy about my abilities, opts to focus on the more pressing matter—his family. Quite the admirable choice on his part, if I had to be honest.
"My Anna awaits."
We push deeper into Crookback Bog's fetid embrace, our path a grotesque dance around throngs of decaying Drowners, until a lone figure comes into view—silhouetted against the gnarled branches of a swamp oak.
Again and again, he bows with a reverence towards the flora, almost praying to the twisted wood.
But something shrieks wrongness.
His posture is too rigid, his stillness laced with an underlying current of monstrousity.
"HEY! YOU LOCAL?!" One of the soldiers roars before I can clamp my hand over his idiotic mouth. Maybe it's just me, but how does he not realize what that thing is?
One doesn't need to be a Witcher to see the telltale signs of the man's corruption, not with the watery boils decorating his exposed skin, pulsating with a sickly light.
He turns, and any hope of him being a simple traveler evaporates like morning mist.
His face is a canvas of decay with flesh slouching off the bone beneath, revealing a grotesque parody of a human skull, while milky white eyes, devoid of humanity, stare out at us, unfocused.
His mouth, a mangled gash of crimson, hangs open, lips seemingly chewed off.
Whoever it was, it isn't him anymore, just a mindless corpse controlled by the Crones now. "What the—"
Slowly, the zombie stumbles towards us, its thighs having been chomped off by something. Itself, if I had to guess, judging from the patch of skin it's sharpening its teeth on. "Don't let it bite you!"
Although I know not if this version of the disease, curse, whatever it is, can spread in such a way, I know I don't want to find out. Drowners may be a pain, but zombies are horrifying. Just the idea of a horde of humanoid creatures with less than a shred of intelligence trying to eat your face off terrifies me.
My grip tightens on my spear as I advance towards the creature.
"H- Help…!" It groans, the sound raising goosebumps on my arms. I'm less than five feet away when the zombie suddenly lunges, much faster than its earlier stillness suggested. Have I mentioned I loath zombies? "H- Hel-p m—eeEE!"
With a forceful slap, I twist its head midair and sidestep the collapsing body.
But rather than remaining inert as it should, the zombie unexpectedly swells, its belly wobbling with scalding gases and acids.
Sensing the premonition, I leap back just as a horde of them pounces on us. "Ambush! Don't let them bite or scratch you!"
"You all heard the Mage! Keep their teeth away from you!"
The Baron roars, his sword slicing a zombie clean in halves.
At least these creatures have more tender flesh than Drowners. Steel typically just skids off their scales.
"The Demon graces us with his presence, sisters!" The words, brittle with age yet dripping with desires, ride in on the back of a fierce wind.
"Indeed! The strapping young lad has gift-wrapped himself for our enjoyment!"
A second voice chimes in, its cheer bordering on the unnervingly gleeful.
"Don't forget the bonus prize, sister! He's brought the whelp of Elder Blood too!" A third, equally eager voice completes the trio.
"We await your arrival, little Demon!" Their voices rise in unison, a chorus of malice.
"The ritual awaits its catalyst!"
"We have 'friends' who will join you for a great cause!"
Beside me, Angra Mainyu erupts, a guttural hiss escaping his clenched teeth. His form writhes, warping further and further from anything remotely human—a living nightmare ripped straight from the depths of Junji Ito's most disturbing illustrations.
"See you, young man~!"
"They sense me! Dare to hunt ME? KILL THEM. KILL THEM ALL, LEONIS!" Angra's voice echoes in a symphony of rage and stung ego.
"Do they not recognize who stands before them?! I am the culmination of Mankind's darkest desires, the embodiment of their deepest fears! I've witnessed and orchestrated and participated atrocities that would freeze the very marrow in their bones! I've commanded the slaughter of entire Nations!"
Nonstop, he flickers through all the different form—some familiar; others not.
A cold sweat slicks my skin as his tirade drags on and on.
I get it, you're Evil, now—'Shush! I can't hear my thoughts!'
Looks like it's not just me who takes professional courtesy seriously.
Watching the Daemon tremble with such righteous indignation… It'd be laughable, if it doesn't also freak me the fuck out.
Never thought I'd see the day, but here we are.
"WrEtcHed HaGs!!!"
I curse, but my voice is my own non longer. The word tears from my throat, a grotesque chorus of a thousand horrified screams.
Men, women, the elderly, children—their terror echoes through me like the Gates of Hell have opened and the vilest of filths set loose, which does not bode well for me.
It means has far more control than he lets on.
And the last thing I need is a Daemon wearing my skin.
I need to get the Cursed Heart out of me, and I need it done as soon as possible.
'Maybe Yennefer will have a way.'
She does know quite a bit about Necromancy if my memory hadn't failed me.
"Thanks!"
Ciri whispers as I tear through the two zombies that were flanking her, proceeding towards the main group next. Of fhe fifty decently-equipped soldiers that accompanied us, only forty-seven remain. The three not accounted for are laying on the grounds with a chunk missing from their face; neck and shoulder, in that order.
More will join them if I do nothing, and since this is not a game, the loss will be felt by the entire region.
"Good deed for the day…" I remind myself, twirling the Mystic Code which is surprisingly efficient at cutting.
Drawing the largest group towards me, I launch one zombie into another that's trying to gnaw on a soldier's face.
The man scrambles to his feet, clutching his weapon. "Owe you one, brat!"
"Just get me a beer when we're back!"
Turning into a whirlwind of death, slicing through limbs, blood, and gore, I kill and kill but the undead keep pouring from the woods.
It feels as though the entire population of Downwarren has succumbed to this strange plague.
The Crones certainly made a poor trade—sacrificing a renewable resource of 'income' for short-term gains.
Investment sometimes requires bold risks, but this is sheer foolishness in my opinion.
Ten minutes later, with the ground stained red and littered with chunks organs and body parts; the sky filled with the cawing of ravens, the last of the infected finally falls, allowing us all a tiny moment of respite. "Do a headcount! See who didn't make it out!"
Phillip Strenger bellows, his face red with anger and bloodlust, but as he turns, I can't help spotting the pained grimace.
"Eight won't come home today, sir." Hus commander whispers, causing the frown on his face to deepen.
"Gather their names. I'll speak to their families personally."
Shifting my attention to Ciri, I unstrap a waterskin from my waist and offer it to her. "Care for a sip?"
"That'd be appreciated. Thank you." She smiles, taking it from my hand as I walk away.
Summoning a handful of pebbles, feeling the sinister presence of the Crones spying on us.
[Mysteries Detection] activated, I observe as dozens of tendrils stretch across the sky, pulsating with a Curse. "Time to take away their sight."
Each tendril is tethered to a different creature—some critters, some ravens. The pebbles rip through them like miniature cannonballs, one by one, leaving me to idly wonder if these old Crones are afraid while deliberately taking my time eliminating their agents.
"What are you—"
Ciri's words catch in her throat as she points at [Mimir's Eye]. "Your eye… It's glowing gold."
"It's supposed to."
I respond absentmindedly, still scouring the canopy for the last tendril.
There it is!
With a flick of my thumb, the final pebble soars through the air. I can't resist smirking at the wide-eyed squirrel, its round, soulless eyes rolling out of their sockets as it drops to the floor. "That's the last of them."
"Familiars?" The Swallow asks.
"Yep." I reply with a purposeful pop.
With the threat temporarily abated, I turn to the soldiers.
"Maybe we shouldn't have brought them. The Crones are a mild annoyance to us, but to them…"
I trail off, crossing my arms.
Sometimes I forget just how much stronger I am compared to the average Joe, even if they've had extensive training and combat experience. "You think they'll go back if I ask nicely?" It's a hypothetical question, of course.
"Doubt it." She replies with a pout of her lips.
We sink into silence, the tension heavy in the air, thick enough that I could almost slice through it with my Mystic Code.
"Go on," I prompt. "Ask what you want to ask."
"You seem to know a lot about the Crones…" The Witcheress hesitates, her words trailing off before she awkwardly continues. "They called you a Demon… Why?"
"I'm the Vessel for one." I shrug with a nonchalance that must seem pretty alien to her, given the gasp Ciri releases. "It's partly why I need the aid of another Mage. Why? Is the Witcheress going to hunt me now?"
Throwing her an amused gaze, I'm quite surprised to see her fumbling over her words. "N-No, I just wanted to know my companion better… I happen to know a really powerful Sage. Perhaps he can help you."
How very kind of her, but the only way I will ever allow Avallac'h perform any kind of ritual or Magic on me is when I'm cold and rigid in a morgue. "Thank you." I nod as she returns the waterskin.
But I'll pass.
"Everyone's accounted for."
Both of us whirl around to face the Baron who's still heaving from exertion.
"Eleven are dead, the rest are a bit scratched up, but they're ready to continue."
"It's only gonna get tougher from here. You guys don't have to accompany us, you know?"
Patting his oversized belly, the Baron chuckles. "These guys have been with me for a long time, some decades. We go back to when I was just a wee boy. We're finishing this, no two ways about it."
"Let's move on, then. I'll scout ahead, and you all follow the trail to the orphanage."
I suggest.
The best way to keep the region stable is by ensuring the Baron's forces remain strong—strong enough to handle the local monster population, at least.
Both of them give me this pinched look, like they want to clobber me over the head for the idea. "We know what you're trying to do—"
"I'm trying to minimize damage, yes."
I cut in before the Witcheress can give her two cents. "Call it egotistical if you want, but it's very clear I'm the most-equipped here. It's best if I clear a path to the orphanage."
'The citizens of Downwarren only go mad if the Spirit of the Whispering Hillock dies. That's how it was in the game…' I muse to myself.
At first I thought my presence would minimize damages, but I was wrong.
If the Crones have decided to go all-out and upgraded their defenses, I'm confident I can handle whatever trap or Fiend they hurl at me. The same can't be said for Ciri, the Baron, or his men, sadly. They're without regenerative healing factor, and thus prone to succumbing to fatal wounds in ways I am not.
"I'm coming with you." The Baron gives up pretty easily, seeing the logic of my argument, but the Witcheress stubbornly insists, grabbing my wrist. I look into her steely eyes, then nod. "Alright… Just remember the plan—"
"Get the orphans and Mrs. Strenger out first, I know. I've got this."
"Good…" I nod, spreading my arms out invitingly. "Well, what're you waiting for? Hop on."
"What?" Ciri looks confused.
The Baron chuckles from the side, sporting a shit-eating grin. "I'll leave you two to it, then!"
"It's either the princess carry, the potato sack, or you on my back. Unless you're comfortable with my hands on your thighs…" I blink at her, arms slightly trembling. "I need one hand free, so if you can just hold onto my neck."
"Why?" She asks, shifting awkwardly on her feet.
"You're getting a free ride on the Magnus Express."
After a moment of contemplation, Ciri climbs onto my arms, her cheeks dusted pink while the platoon behind us break into a thunderous round of laughter. "This is very embarrassing."
"But efficient," I wink, knees bending as I launch upwards, crushing the ground beneath my feet, Equality already in my hand, ready to distribute democracy, three bullets at a time. Ciri shrieks in my arms—even Witcheress can still be surprised, it seems. "A- Are we flying?!"
"No… We're coming down soon."
Horrified, Ciri stares at the side of my face.
"Trust me," I say, even though it's rich coming from me. "No harm will come to you, I swear it." It's not my first rodeo, after all.
"You might want to cover your ears."
Equality's a shotgun. It's designed to be quieter than most, but to someone unaccustomed to the noise, it can still be quite startling.
From above, I rain bullets down on every moving lump of color within the forest—Drowners and Hags.
When we finally land, Ciri, despite her outward composure, has a heartbeat thumping like that of a terrified rabbit.
'My knees are gonna hate me a few decades from now.'
Chuckling at the thought, I leap up again and catch sight of the orphanage. "There it is!"
Once more, I land with a thud, letting Ciri down just behind the treeline.
"I'll draw the Crones' attention, you bring those children and Anna Strenger back to Phillip, understood?" I instruct, entering the clearing before she can give a proper answer.
"You've arrived at last! My, you're even more handsome in the flesh!"
"He positively reeks of deliciousness, sisters!"
"A fine, strapping young lad indeed!"
Whirlwinds of dust spiral up to welcome me as the Crones emerge—one an obese woman, her head adorned with something resembling a woven basket;
Another with her face shrouded by a mottled red veil;
While the last boldly exposes the hideousness that lies beneath.
"Come, come, darlings! A cauldron of sweet delights awaits—"
Brewess purrs, but her words quickly dissolve into a strangled gasp.
Three bullets put a rude disruption to her imagination, blossoming into crimson stains across her ample belly, the impact sending ripples through the very folds of her fat as she crumples like a discarded pastry. "You!" The Crone sputters, outrage warring with agony.
"You crones are very long on words and short on action, aren't you?"
The air crackles with surprise as the pungent odor of burning flesh—Brewess' insides, no doubt—fills the air, caused by the bullets I had put in her.
I turn, my gaze sweeping over the remaining two—Whispess and Weavess, grotesque parodies of grace.
Panic erupts from the hovel as wide-eyed orphans and a trembling crone with hair as white as freshly fallen snow stumble out, their sanctuary shattered. "My ladies!" Anna Strenger shrieks, her voice raw with terror, her sanity as fragile as spun glass.
Bless her heart, Ciri is already moving, shepherding the terrified orphans and the whimpering old woman away from the our little clash. Meanwhile, Whispess and Weavess, their eyes blazing with fury, launch themselves at me. "Hm?"
I murmur, a flicker of amusement dancing on my lips even as a suffocating darkness swallows me whole. Even [Mimir's Eye]—the best Creation John can throw together, falters against the encroaching gloom, snuffed out in an instant.
But the beauty of supernatural-senses is: I can both hear and smell just good as I can see, and I see pretty good.
Seizing Weavess' gnarled claws, I snap her brittle bones like dry twigs.
Her shriek of pain is temporarily overwhelms my hearing, but the foul odor of the sister notifies me to Whispess' location too. The source of the scent suddenly splits into dozens more— "Thank you, ladies…"
Flinging Weavess' into the flock of crows, I laugh. "For your contributions to the Magnus Foundation."
Their Magic shall serve me well… After I kill them and loot every magical tome I can find from their cave.
Mana surging through my body in search of the Curse blinding me, I find it nestled neatly in my visual cortex.
Curses are like illnesses…
Some are incredibly hard to cure—almost cancerous in nature, and hence requires help from magical ingredients; rituals that'll weaken and/or destroy them…
Others are a lot simpler, especially temporary; on-the-go Curse like the one they've casted on me.
It'd have dispersed in minutes if I left it alone, but with my Od 'nudging' it away from the organ, it's slowly being filtered out. The curtain of darkness ripples as I approach the two Crones back away from me. Now I understand what it feels to be feared… It's… Pretty boring actually. The thrill's short-lived, as expected.
"What manner of creature are you?!"
Weavess hisses in anger as I move before her in but a second.
It must've seemed like teleportation from the outside looking in, but I'm just that fast—that overpowered compared to the residents of this plane… Most of them anyway.
If I so much as catch a glimpse of that damn 'merchant', I'm running for the hill.
I'm not fighting the Devil, G.O.D or whatever the fuck he is.
Shaking the useless thoughts away, I reach for the Crones who shake like leaves in a tornado.
"So you can feel fear…"
I grin, mumbling just loud enough for them to hear. "Good."
That's when a Fiend bursts out from the forest, its antlers pointed straight at me as it roars.
The earth beneath my feet tremble and crack as I wrestle the creature to the ground, fingers gripping so tight I snap the appendages like a bunch of twigs.
"Oh, look! You brought me a friend…"
If I could retrieve its third eye, I could ask John to integrate the power it holds into [Mimir's Eye].
'Gotta leave it whole then.'
With a swift kick, I cave in its throat, snapping its neck in an instant.
It's cleaner this way, a mercy compared to what I could have done to it.
If it wants to point a finger at someone in the afterlife, it can blame its own wretched masters.
"Argh!"
The sound of battle pulls my attention.
I whirl around, a grin tugging at the corner of my lips as I spot Ciri, her movements a graceful blur as she engages Brewess.
She's a natural, this one, even subtly maneuvering the fight away from Anna and the wide-eyed orphans huddled behind her. 'Good for her.'
My gaze flicks back to the remaining Crones whose faces are contorted in a mask of terror. "Should've fled and hidden when you had the chance."
I murmur, my voice devoid of pity.
With a casual flick of my wrists, two resounding cracks echo in the clearing, and their heads go flying, landing with sickening thuds amidst the trampled undergrowth.
"Hmmm?" I hum once more, watching a tries to sneak away.
One survived the slap?
'Whispess…'
I recognize the sprawled form instantly.
But Weavess is gone.
Even across timelines, she's still a pain it seems.
Before I can react, a swirling mass of black feathers explodes into the air.
Weavess, now a murder of ravens, disappears into the trees, even splitting in case I decide to use ranged attack, which I do, shooting at one of the two flocks.
They're invulnerable in that form in Witcher: Wild Hunt, but that's more a game mechanic than the actual function of the Spell.
'That ought to put her down for a while.'
I'll have her head soon enough, one way or another.
But right now, the hostages need me more.