Chapter 1: A Fall from the Otherworld
Sensation was the first thing that overwhelmed him. Not pain, but the absence of it. A moment earlier, he had been torn apart, atomized by the chaos of a far too unstable magical portal. He had felt his body dissociate, his bones vibrate at a frequency capable of pulverizing granite. He had accepted death.
And now... he was lying on a bed of damp moss, his back pressed against firm, unfamiliar ground. The air he breathed was laden with strange scents, a floral scent he couldn't identify, mixed with the fertile humidity of a forest after the rain.
Gaëtan opened his eyes. Colossal treetops, their leaves almost bluish-green, formed a dense canopy against a twilight sky where two moons, one large and silvery, one smaller with amber reflections, began their nocturnal ballet. This wasn't his sky. These weren't his moons.
A harsh growl abruptly pulled his mind from its torpor. A low, menacing growl of hunger. Instinct, that old friend that had never left him, took over. He rolled onto his side just as sharp claws slashed at the spot where his throat had been a second earlier.
He stood up in one fluid movement, his aching muscles barely protesting. Before him stood a beast. It resembled a wolf, but the size of a small bear, with an oversized mouth bristling with yellowish fangs and shaggy fur dotted with horn-like rocky growths. Its eyes shone with a wicked, intelligent glint.
"Kikimora? No... something else," Gaëtan thought, his witcher mind automatically cataloging the threat. His equipment? He reached behind his back. His two swords, the steel and the silver, were there, securely strapped to their harnesses. A miracle.
The beast charged, lightning fast. Gaëtan dodged narrowly, feeling the wind as the creature passed by. He didn't have time to prepare an Igni sign or draw it properly. He dove again, rolled, and finally, the familiar hilt of his steel sword lodged in his palm. The metallic shimmer of the blade leaving its sheath was soothing music in the chaos.
The beast whirled around, drooling. Gaëtan adopted the Bear's guard: feet firmly planted on the ground, body weight low, sword held in both hands for powerful, defensive strikes. The Bear school didn't focus on finesse, but on raw power, endurance, and blows capable of splitting a steel helmet.
He waited for the assault. The creature pounced. Gaëtan spun around, avoiding the claws, and brought his sword down with all the strength of his arms and powerful torso. The sharp blade bit into the beast's flank, slicing through the flesh and striking the rocky protrusions with a sharp thud. The creature howled, more in rage than pain, and its thick, black blood spurted onto the grass.
The fight was on. Gaëtan was a rock. He parried, counterattacked, dodged. His blade traced deadly arcs through the evening air. He lacked the grace of a Viper or the speed of a Cat, but each movement was economical, terribly effective. He felt the beast's bones crack beneath his blows. Finally, seeing an opening, he plunged the tip of his sword into the monster's throat. One last gasp, and the beast collapsed, heavy and inert.
Gaëtan remained motionless for a moment, his sword still raised, listening to the sounds of the forest reassert themselves. Only his slightly raspy breathing broke the silence. He wiped his blade on the creature's fur before sheathing it.
That's when he heard them. Muffled murmurs. Held breaths. He slowly turned his head. At the edge of the trees, a dozen people were staring at him, their eyes bulging with terror. Villagers. Men with pitchforks and crude axes, women hiding behind them, children huddled against their skirts.
They must have followed the beast, perhaps thinking they were hunting it in a group. They had witnessed the entire scene.
Gaëtan stood very straight, aware of his appearance. Tall, broad-shouldered, scarred, his white hair tied back in a ponytail, revealing the tips of his elf ears. His witcher eyes, feline in the dark, must have shone with an ominous light. He saw the fear in their gaze, a fear he knew all too well. Fear of the unknown, of the mutant, of the killer.
He didn't raise his hands, a gesture that could be interpreted as a threat. He simply inclined his head, a slow and measured gesture.
"The beast is dead," he said, his voice trying to sound calm and neutral, without unnecessary harshness. "It will no longer threaten you."
A man, probably the leader of the group or the bravest, took a step forward. His pitchfork trembled slightly. "W-who are you? What are you?" he asked, his voice quavering.
Gaëtan took a deep breath. He felt the weight of their incomprehension, the abysmal gap between their worlds. He was no longer on the Continent. Here, the word "witcher" meant nothing. Here, he was just a stranger with monstrous abilities.
"I am a traveler," he began, choosing his words carefully. Wisdom dictated caution. "I got lost. I am Gaëtan."
His yellow eyes rested on the beast's body, then returned to the villagers. Their fear was palpable, but behind it, he could sense something else. Curiosity. Amazement. A man had just single-handedly defeated a beast that must have terrorized them for ages.
"This creature," he asked, nodding his chin toward the corpse. "Does it have a name?"
The man with the pitchfork swallowed hard. "A Stonefang. They... they come from the hills. They devour livestock. Sometimes... sometimes people."
Gaëtan nodded, as if taking down some crucial information. "I see."
A long silence fell. The village chief looked at the monster, then looked at the stranger with cat-like eyes and pointy ears. The fear in his eyes slowly gave way to deep confusion, then to a glimmer of incredulous hope.
"You... you killed her. For us?" a woman whispered, daring to come out of hiding.
Gaëtan gave her a small smile, a gesture he knew would soothe. "She attacked me. I defended myself. The fact that it helped you is just a happy coincidence."
But his words fooled no one. They had seen the mastery, the precision. This wasn't mere defense. This was art.
The village chief finally lowered his pitchfork. The others, hesitant, followed suit.
"Our village isn't far, Master... Gaëtan," the man said, searching for his title. "The night is cold and the woods are dangerous. You... you would be welcome. To tell us your story. And... for us to thank you."
Gaëtan watched them. The fear was still there, in the background, but it was now mixed with gratitude and a burning curiosity. These people didn't know what a witcher was. They had no prejudices, only ignorance.
And in that ignorance, perhaps there was an opportunity. A chance to show what his calling truly was. Not a curse, but a sacrifice made to protect those who could not protect themselves.
Perhaps in this world, Arran, he could plant a different seed. A seed that would not bear the bitter fruits of hatred and mistrust he had always known.
He bowed his head again, accepting the invitation.
"I'll follow you," he said simply.
And as he walked behind the group of villagers who cast sidelong glances at him, full of fear and wonder, an idea began to germinate in his wise mind. A crazy idea. An idea that, for the first time in a very long time, resembled hope.
A school. Not an austere fortress like Kaer Morhen. A just school. A place to learn, to protect. A place where the word "witcher" would be understood.
The journey to the village was silent, but the world of Arran had just met its first witcher. And nothing would ever be the same again.