Chapter Five: The Witcher Encounters the Pitchfork

Victor’s mount was a dark brown gelding with a black mane and black hooves—docile and sluggish, making it the perfect choice for a beginner like him. Based on its features, Victor had named him “Loyal Virtue.” According to Vesemir, when they brought the horse back from the farmers outside the mountains, it had been used for plowing the fields and had adapted well.

Bearing the newly slimmed-down “bear” on its back, Loyal Virtue was led by Victor into the castle, through the inner courtyard, and straight into the kitchens.

Victor unloaded the bear hide and spread it out to dry. He then salted most of the bear meat to cure it, intending to air-dry it in a few days. As a reward, he gave Loyal Virtue a handful of oats—the poor herbivore seemed rather uncomfortable with a carnivore’s scent all over him.

Footsteps echoed—the rhythm didn’t belong to Vesemir!

“Hey, you must be Victor,” said Eskel.

Victor turned around. That face, marred by several long sword scars, could easily frighten anyone caught off guard in the dark, but Victor was unfazed.

He simply smiled, “Yes, I’m Victor. Are you Eskel or Lambert? You can’t be Geralt—you’re not white-haired.” He washed his hands and approached.

Eskel grinned, though the expression was rather grim. “Right, I’m not Geralt. I’m just an ordinary Witcher. I don’t hunt dragons, I’m not best friends with kings, and I don’t sleep with sorceresses… I’m Eskel.”

Victor extended his right hand—the same hand that had hovered near his sword hilt throughout the conversation. “Victor, but you can call me Wick.”

Eskel shook it, sounding genuinely friendly. “Lambert came back with me—he’s boasting to Vesemir. You don’t mind sharing your spoils and culinary skills with two more people, do you?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

…

That night, the aroma of roasting bear meat filled the air, and the atmosphere at the feast was warm. This made Lambert hesitate for a moment, but after some thought, he decided now was the time to share the bad news—even if it would dampen the mood.

“I’ve actually got some news about Geralt and Ciri… but it’s not good news.”

Lambert’s opening caught everyone’s attention. Both names were dear to them.

“In early April, Geralt and Yennefer finally managed to find Ciri. That matches the time Vesemir mentioned Ciri returned to Kaer Morhen. Looks like she found them right after teleporting.

Then, the three of them set out on a months-long vendetta—apparently, Ciri had a rough time while on the run.

After that, they were separated for a short while.

On September 24th, Geralt and Dandelion arrived in the city of Rivia, agreeing to meet Ciri and Yennefer at the ‘Cock and Hen’ inn.

Unfortunately, the next day, a riot broke out in Rivia targeting ‘non-humans.’ In the chaos, Geralt was killed by a pitchfork wielded by a mob, dying at their hands. Yennefer arrived soon after and, trying to heal Geralt, died herself from exhaustion.

Ciri, Meleagarde, and Dandelion witnessed their deaths with their own eyes.

Afterwards, Ciri took both their bodies, boarded a small boat, and vanished into Lake Aeskalott, following a suddenly-appearing unicorn.”

When Lambert finished, solemn and serious, silence fell across the hall—until Eskel burst into laughter, filling the room with merriment.

“Hahaha! That story isn’t convincing enough! Yennefer dying of exhaustion—well, I don’t know about sorceresses. But Geralt, of all people, getting killed by a mob with a pitchfork? That’s rich. I’ll bet fifty crowns that before getting stabbed, Geralt would at least have sliced two throats—one to the left, one to the right.”

“Hey! I didn’t make this up. I don’t want to believe it happened either,” Lambert retorted.

“And the bit about the unicorn and the boat on the lake—that’s the sort of melodrama you’d expect from a third-rate bard,” Victor added dryly.

“Damn it! Next time I see Dandelion, I’ll be sure to pass on your review,” Lambert grumbled, downing a swig of beer.

…

Suddenly, the jovial air turned heavy. Eskel set down his beer, which had just touched his lips.

“So… Dandelion told you this himself?” Vesemir asked.

Lambert, annoyed, drained his beer and set his mug down with a thud. “Yes—I ran into Dandelion in Vangaburg, and he swore he’d never set foot in Rivia again. Said the mobs there made his friends bleed.”

Only the crackling of firewood in the hearth filled the silence.

After a moment, Eskel sighed, “...It’s hard to believe.”

“Would anyone care to tell me about this Dandelion?” Victor asked, though he already knew. Of course he remembered Dandelion—Geralt’s best friend, notorious for his inability to keep his trousers on. In the games, nearly all of Dandelion’s side quests were anything but serious. And those were the ones you remembered best.

“Geralt’s good friend—a famous bard, composer, singer, and writer. He’s written many ballads about the White Wolf. You’ll hear his songs in almost every tavern. If he said it, it’s probably true,” Vesemir replied in his deep voice.

Then, as if recalling something else, he began, “About Ciri…”

Victor gently interrupted, “Don’t worry, Vesemir. I’m fine. I believe Ciri will return soon enough.”

Lambert jumped onto the table, raised his mug, and shouted, “Few Witchers die peacefully in their beds. Sadly, the legendary White Wolf is no different. Let’s raise a glass in his honor—may he rest in peace!”

All lifted their mugs: “May he rest in peace!”

…

Late at night, after closing his door, Victor sat cross-legged by the hearth, lost in thought, his right hand mechanically stirring a cauldron. The potion inside was tomorrow’s morning decoction for stamina.

As for Lambert’s news, Victor had his own interpretation. Ciri, after winning the battle at Stygga Castle, had probably vanished again by crossing worlds. Geralt and Yennefer, of course, weren’t dead—or at least, not truly dead. Hundreds of hours in the games weren’t for nothing; they even referred indirectly to this “death” of the White Wolf.

If only he’d read the original novels or played the earlier games, things would be clearer. Now, he felt like someone peering through a keyhole: glimpsing fragments of the future without understanding how they fit together. Even with foreknowledge, he had no idea how to gain an advantage.

In any case, before long—though he didn’t know exactly when—he would have to face the Wild Hunt, known as the Aen Elle in the books. They weren’t only hunting Ciri; they were also the reason for his own arrival here—the very source of his unrest.

A rainbow flash glimmered and vanished. He ladled the blue potion into test tubes. There was no longer any need to hide the stamina potion; with his improved process, Victor could now produce a brew with traditional alchemy that looked almost identical to the “extraordinary” one. He even deliberately left harmless impurities in the “extraordinary” batch, making the two versions virtually indistinguishable—only the drinker would know the real difference.

His thoughts drifted to the unused bear traps he’d recently collected. He’d noticed a faint trail of footprints—clearly, while he was wrestling with the bear, someone had been silently watching over him, only leaving once the outcome was decided. The memory left him both reassured and unsettled.

Being watched wasn’t the problem; the real issue was that he hadn’t sensed a thing. Had it been an enemy instead of a friend, he could have been taken out without warning. He needed to find a way to compensate for this lack of perception.

His goal: to leave Kaer Morhen in the spring next year…