The world as we know it has reached its end, and the key to the future lies hidden in the past.
, Sapience Ignis
...
At dusk, in the southern market district of Novigrad, a preacher wearing the cloak of the Eternal Fire stood atop a raised platform. His most striking features were his hooked nose and angry eyes.
"All of you gathered before me... hungry and afraid... clutching your children tightly against your chests.
"As everyone knows, Emperor Emhyr's legions have invaded our lands... launching assaults against every fortress from here to the Blue Mountains... His attack is fierce and voracious, and our lands are falling piece by piece.
"People of the North! You now stand on the brink of disaster! Your kings have failed you, and so now you turn to the gods for help.
"But you do not beseech them, nor do you fall to your knees in devout prayer. Instead, you cry out and ask why the gods have abandoned us! Yet you fail to understand that all of this is the consequence of trials we failed long ago!
"Long, long ago, our world collided with another, bringing about a cataclysm scholars call the Conjunction of the Spheres... The gods allowed unclean forces into our realm as a trial.
"That terrible upheaval left behind countless poisonous remnants, things such as magic... Yet instead of forbidding magic, we studied that ancient evil and used its power to increase our strength and wealth!
"And then there are the monsters that came to our very doorsteps... remnants of the Conjunction... trolls... necrophages... werewolves. We did not take up our swords and drive them away. Instead, we passed the responsibility to others.
"We handed everything over to witchers... misguided children who study filthy sorcery and undergo blasphemous rituals that mutate their bodies.
"Sent to fight monsters before they can even distinguish good from evil, the last traces of humanity within them have long since been extinguished.
"Yes, their numbers have dwindled in recent years. Yet several witchers still wander the land, exchanging their filthy work for coin. Their very existence is our shame!
"War has come and ravaged the North. All of this is the lash of the gods, punishment for our sins!
"And do not forget the terror and calamity from another world! Every full moon, the Wild Hunt appears on the horizon! Those dark riders abduct our children and drag them away to unknown worlds! Some even claim their appearance heralds a second Conjunction of the Spheres!
"Whether we can return to the light depends on whether we have the courage to drive the mages from our kingdoms!
"Brothers and sisters, unite beneath the warm radiance of the Eternal Fire!
"This is no age of swords and axes! No one will fight our battles for us! This is no age for madness and depravity!"
...
When the preacher finally stopped, excited shouting and commotion filled the southern market.
Unlike the other citizens stirred into a frenzy by the speech, the sturdy, full-figured blacksmith Yoana calmly tightened the scarf around her head and returned toward Fergus's smithy.
Her shopping basket contained avocados and blueberries. She wondered whether she should buy some beef and sour cream as well, then bring everything back and let Hattori make dumplings.
In Yoana's opinion, the elven swordsmith's craftsmanship and character weren't particularly impressive, but his reputation as a master of dumplings was absolutely deserved.
Hattori, elven swordsmith and dumpling master, had recently decided to relocate beside Fergus's smithy for reasons of both cost and safety.
After all, everyone in the neighborhood knew that Fergus's smithy enjoyed the protection of Babu, the saber-crazed chief enforcer of the King of Beggars.
Not only did they pay no operating levy, no one dared attempt to shake them down with some fabricated grievance either, unless they wanted a Zerrikanian to open their belly.
There was naturally a reason for such protection.
And Yoana knew it wasn't only Babu.
Boslaer, one of Whoreson Junior's chief men, and Umutai, the most vicious thug under Cleaver, were both willing to show the smithy a certain amount of respect.
The reason was simple.
The true owner of Fergus's smithy was Victor Corion, the witcher who had slain the "Butcher of Novigrad."
Thinking about it made Yoana sigh.
Her boss had been gone for quite a while now.
Recently, she often found herself missing that justice-obsessed Batman and the mischievous, lively Angoulême.
She wondered how they were doing.
Hopefully the armor and steel sword she had painstakingly forged would protect them until they returned safely.
Novigrad was still ruled by the Big Four, with only one minor change compared with previous years.
Alonso "Whoreson" Wiley had died, and his son Cyprian Wiley II had inherited his position, becoming known as "Whoreson Junior." (Witcher Wiki)
The others, Francis Bedlam, the King of Beggars, Cleaver, and the bathhouse king Sigi Reuven, were all still alive and well. (Witcher Wiki)
"Hey, did you hear? Nilfgaard smashed the Aedirnian defenders to pieces!"
"Really? I'm not surprised. They couldn't even defeat a peasant rebellion before. Things aren't looking much better in Temeria either. I wonder whether John Natalis can defeat the Black Ones again!"
"Miracles don't happen twice. At the Battle of Brenna, the whole North was backing them. But without King Foltest to rally everyone now, the North is nothing but loose sand!" (Witcher Wiki)
"If you ask me, it's all those mages and sorceresses' fault. Filthy fucking whores, daring to assassinate kings. If they hadn't betrayed us, things never could've deteriorated this badly!"
"Then what about Novigrad?"
"Why bother worrying about it? That's for the Big Four to figure out!"
Quietly listening to the gossip of passersby, Yoana calmly examined cuts of beef.
The war had clearly affected things.
Meat prices had risen considerably.
Perhaps the smithy should switch to pork?
Hattori was an excellent cook anyway. He could prepare pork without leaving any unpleasant gamey smell.
"Ah! Those damned mages deserve everything they get! They ought to impale every last one of them or burn them alive, just to teach them fear. They used to look down on everyone from above, but now everybody knows they're the ones responsible for all this chaos!"
"To be fair, they did help us in the past. Remember the Battle of Sodden Hill? Without the mages supporting us and sacrificing themselves, the North might never have survived long enough to turn things around at Brenna."
"Bullshit! The Battle of Sodden Hill never happened! Are you defending mages? Hey, everyone! We've got a sorceress-lover over here!"
The burly man's shouting immediately attracted several nearby idlers.
The thin man who had been speaking to him hastily changed his tune, waving both hands.
"No, no, no! You misunderstood me! We're on the same side! I think all sorceresses deserve to die too! I heard they're burning several guilty ones today. Want to go watch?"
"That's more like it! Burn them!"
"Long live the Eternal Fire!"
And just like that, another would-be voice of reason became a fanatic.
Worse still, to avoid being singled out again, he would probably behave even more fanatically than the rest from now on.
Yoana smiled as the vendor voluntarily offered her a discount on the pork.
She knew nothing about the theory of the spiral of silence, but at that moment she sincerely admired Victor's foresight.
Over the past year, following his instructions, Fergus's smithy had generously supported local schools and built up an excellent reputation.
Now the shop had influence on both sides of the law.
It was regarded as an upstanding establishment by Chappelle, former commander of the Temple Guard, and Caleb Menge, commander of the witch hunters. Even the most vicious mobs knew the place was strictly off-limits. (Witcher Games Wiki)
Seeing the idlers all flooding toward Hierarch Square to enjoy today's public barbecue, Yoana shook her head and started home. (Witcher Wiki)
But at that moment, she vaguely spotted two figures in the crowd.
Their backs resembled a man and woman from her memories.
The cloaks they wore had been woven by her own hands.
She couldn't possibly mistake the pattern.
Yet by the time she hurried after them, the two had already vanished into the sea of people.
...
In the year 12XX, the Kingslayers' merciless murders plunged the Northern Kingdoms into chaos and left countless people terrified and directionless. Combined with Nilfgaard's invasion from the South, the entire Continent disappeared beneath the shadow of war.
And at that moment, the man with four blade scars across his face became the savior.
Excerpt from the comic synopsis, Eastern Dipper Fist: Legend of the Sage at the End of the Century
...
Men and women stood upon Hierarch Square.
Dry wood burned fiercely beneath the scorching flames.
Watching men and women atop the pyres being swallowed by fire, listening to their miserable screams and desperate pleas for mercy, the crowd cheered enthusiastically, releasing cries of almost orgasmic ecstasy.
The sick pleasure of it was almost beyond comparison.
That fanaticism gradually cooled with distance from the execution grounds.
Around seventy feet away, quite a few people merely watched with cold expressions.
And farther still, beneath the covered walkway of the Kingfisher Inn, stood another man and woman who were considerably less enthusiastic.
The man was solidly built and muscular, with four blade scars across his face. His blond hair was parted neatly to one side, and a gray handwoven cloak hung around his shoulders.
The woman was short and agile. Two thick eyebrows resembling caterpillars immediately drew the eye. Her blond hair fell loose naturally, and she wore a cloak of the same style.
Rubbing her nose as though trying to drive away the unpleasant smell of charred flesh, the girl asked, "Vic, is this what you meant by an age of madness?"
The young man raised an eyebrow.
"This is only the beginning. It's still nowhere near the madness I remember seeing. That was true insanity, something that dragged tens of thousands of people across this enormous city into it!"
"So what do we do next?"
"First, we go into the Kingfisher and have a drink, listen to Priscilla sing, then ask her for information."
Victor took out his sunglasses and put them on, then pointed toward the tavern's signboard. (Witcher Wiki)
It read:
The Kingfisher Inn
Welcome, one and all!
Regular performances every evening!
Priscilla Callonetta will perform with passion!
Guaranteed to touch every heart!
...
The Kingfisher was the most prosperous and popular tavern around Hierarch Square. Day or night, it was always packed with customers. (Witcher Wiki)
But this wasn't the sort of establishment where drunks could start fights whenever they pleased.
It was a social venue protected by the bathhouse king, Sigi Reuven, and therefore possessed enough resources to employ a complete musical ensemble and highly skilled bards.
"My prophetic abilities tell me that Priscilla can lead us to Dandelion. That bastard is completely infatuated with her. Once again, our bard has found himself another scorching-hot true love!"
Angoulême rolled her eyes.
"Dandelion has never lacked true love! Every single one is true love, and sometimes he can maintain several true loves simultaneously!"
"Excellent observation. Allow me to remind you that your dear Geralt isn't much different."
With that, the witcher pushed open the door and went inside.
Angoulême spat to one side before following him.
The instant she stepped through the door, she knew she was looking at Priscilla.
The blonde woman onstage had bright eyes, a delicate face, and a slender figure. Yet the red performance dress wrapped around strikingly pronounced curves, giving her a surprisingly voluptuous silhouette that fit Sir Victor's tastes almost perfectly.
But the reason Angoulême immediately recognized her as Priscilla wasn't her figure.
It was her beauty.
There was something uniquely distinctive about it, an elegance mixed with playful frivolity.
Looking at her was almost like looking at...
Like looking at...
A female Dandelion.
"Her beauty possessed an effortless, almost magical allure. The instant Victor saw her, an irresistible primal instinct surged through him. He decided he absolutely had to sleep with this beautiful woman!"
Victor stopped walking.
The young man in sunglasses slowly turned his eyes toward Angoulême.
"Madam Golden Eagle of Temeria, has it simply been too long since I last smacked you? Who gave you the courage to start narrating while you're within fifty yards of me and somehow assume I wouldn't hear you?"
"Sorry. It just slipped out."
Angoulême wore an utterly innocent expression.
Victor raised a fist in symbolic warning before walking toward the innkeeper.
The dark-skinned man with the full beard was named Olivier, owner of the Kingfisher. (Witcher Wiki)
"Long time no see, Olive Tree! The usual, hot milk with rum liqueur for me, and a tequila for her!"
The familiar nickname and familiar order stirred Olivier's memories.
He looked up at the young man wearing sunglasses, and his pupils suddenly widened.
"Victor Corion! It's you! You're back in Novigrad!?"
Olivier had good reason to be surprised.
After all, Victor had made quite a spectacular piece of news out of the circumstances surrounding his departure.
"Yep, I'm back. People really are forgetful creatures. I walked all the way through the city and nobody recognized me even before I put on the sunglasses."
The innkeeper smiled and began preparing the drinks.
"That's true. Your whole presence has changed quite a bit. If you hadn't called out to me first, I honestly wouldn't have recognized you."
"You haven't changed much. Still dark and skinny."
Victor glanced up at the shelves behind him and adjusted his sunglasses.
"And your selection is as complete as ever. Ah! Bring us two glasses of '70 Lafite too, and chill them for me."
Olivier slid the tequila toward Angoulême and started crushing ice.
"Did you strike it rich while you were gone? That's Toussaint's newest national wine. One sip costs five gold crowns."
"I nearly went bankrupt not long ago, but I can still afford two glasses of Lafite. Anything big happen in Novigrad lately?"
The bartender skillfully began packing ice into a bucket.
"Counting from the day you left, two things... no, three. Alonso Wiley died, the Black Ones invaded again, and Priscilla became the Kingfisher's resident performer. That last one happened the very day you left."
Victor sipped his sweet drink, the corner of his mouth lifting as he glanced toward the stage.
"That's Priscilla? What a beautiful woman. Has anyone managed to win her over?"
Olivier poured two glasses of Lafite and placed them into the ice bucket.
"She's an artist. Ordinary men don't interest her much. But if we're talking about the famous Dragonborn Bard, I'd say you have a very good chance. She even performs 'The Dragonborn Comes' from time to time."
"At that exact moment, Victor made a decision. This Priscilla, he was definitely going to fu..."
Victor's gaze became a blade.
He silenced Angoulême just in time with a murderous look.
Victor suspected that spending too long cooped up aboard ships during their journey had left her with an overwhelming desire to perform.
So he decided that later he would visit a bookstore and buy her several more books to study.
Feeling the completely undisguised malice radiating from her leader, Angoulême whistled casually and looked toward the stage, glancing left and right while assuming the most innocent posture possible.
According to past experience, this tactic had roughly an eighty percent chance of making Victor, who had taken on a guardian-like role toward her, abandon whatever punishment he had in mind.
Fortunately for her, Priscilla's performance began at that exact moment.
With nothing more than a lute providing simple accompaniment, her beauty and voice instantly captured every eye and ear inside the Kingfisher.
Even Victor, whose ears were notoriously difficult to impress, gradually slipped into the beautiful illusion woven by her song.
He listened as she gently told the story of Geralt of Rivia and Yennefer of Vengerberg, and their romantic, eternal love.
The poem had been written by Dandelion.
Its proper title was The Wolven Storm, though in Victor's memories from his previous life, players generally called it Priscilla's Song.
For him, it represented a memory impossible to forget.
...
The Wolven Storm, Priscilla's Song
Brush my scars softly with your fingertips,
Bind our fates,
Defy the stars.
Open the wound and try to heal it,
Until it twists
Into fate's winding pattern.
Refrain:
Come morning, you escape from my dreams,
Sweet as lilac, bitter as blackcurrant.
I long to dream of your raven hair,
Your violet eyes,
Glistening with tears.
...
Following the wolf's mark through the blizzard,
I chase your stubborn heart.
Through anger and sorrow,
Hard as stone,
I set your wind-swept lips aflame.
Refrain:
Come morning, you escape from my dreams,
Sweet as lilac, bitter as blackcurrant.
I long to dream of your raven hair,
Your violet eyes,
Glistening with tears.
...
Are you truly the one fate chose for me,
Or merely love's careless accident?
When I whispered my heart's desire,
Did you fall in love with me
Against your own will?
Refrain:
Come morning, you escape from my dreams,
Sweet as lilac, bitter as blackcurrant.
I long to dream of your raven hair,
Your violet eyes,
Glistening with tears.
...
When the song ended, Priscilla Callonetta smiled and bowed.
Then she noticed an unusual traveler among the crowd.
He lowered his sunglasses slightly and placed a hand over his chest in greeting.
Those mutated eyes...
Gods!
He was actually a witcher!
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