V M A New Path

[Geralt of Rivia]

As Geralt's eyes groggily flickered open and then shut again, all he could see above him was stone.

Sharp stalactites hung above him ominously, looking poised to detach from their perch atop the ceiling and run him through at any moment. Yet, they were still. Stalwart in their placement, just as he was. The ground beneath the Witcher felt cold and hard - as though he were lying upon a cruel bed of stone.

Stone... was the first thought that crossed his mind. And as his gloved hands pressed against the floor and he began to sit up, the first sensation came; a horrible, throbbing pounding in his head. The feeling was all too familiar. For an instant, he'd questioned whether or not he'd been pounded across the skull by the fist of a Mountain Troll and dragged off haplessly to the creature's lair. But as his hand pressed against his temple and the ache in his head only thrummed with further intensity, he came to realize that it was a distinct sort of discomfort that he felt in his head.

"Portals..." Geralt growled lowly. a sharp wince coursing across his weathered features. "Always hated portals." Indeed, this headache wasn't an unusual occurrence for him in the past. Whenever Yennefer had deemed it fit to conjure a portal and usher him through, sometimes out of convenient necessity and other times the result of a domestic squabble and her stormy mood, he'd always felt that same pounding in his skull that he felt now. Only this seemed... different somehow, still. More intense than any side-effect of magical translocation he'd ever felt in his century of life. And when his mind raced like a game horse to try and pinpoint what happened to get him in this predicament, there was nary a damned thought that entered his mind. Simply put, his head felt empty and void.

Geralt slowly staggered to a weak stand as he began to take further stock of where he was. Even in a state of delirium, a brief deduction and a bit of intuition told him he stood in a pit at the bottom of some sort of cave. There was no light here, an absence of sun or torch - yet as he focused and centered himself, weary eyes narrowing into a squint, the darkness of his surroundings began to fade. Several meters away from him a coiling thread of vines dangled downward from an opening up above, no doubt leading unto the rest of the cavern. His only exit, he quickly realized, but he'd have to climb for his salvation. Listening in close, he could hear the trickling of water. It was faint and distant, like some far-off river or waterfall.

But as his mind swam back to the here and now, and how he ended up in whatever mess this was, he still couldn't conjure a single thought.

"What the hell..." He grumbles to himself in near disbelief, and then, it hits him. The pain in his head surged and intensified tenfold, a sharp grunt of discomfort escaping the Witcher as he found himself pressing a hand against one of the cavern walls to stop his knees from toppling. And then for the first time since awakening, scant hints of memory began to flood his brain, his ruminations coming slow and steady like a slithering serpent that was sizing up its potential prey.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Toussaint, 1274

It had all begun with a contract.

Since the death of Detlaff just over two years ago, Geralt's career had slowed down considerably. He was all but in his retirement age except in officiality. But life in the luxurious, idyllic manor of Corvo Bianco had grown dull as of late, and the vineyard alone wasn't covering the cost needed for further renovations. Shockingly to himself, and even more shocking to Yennefer, the next project in the works was a greenhouse. A few passing conversations with a local farmer who lived down the road had given Geralt somewhat of a passing interest in botany and gardening, and one thing led to another - he still remembered well how Yennefer had reacted when he'd presented the idea to her.

"You, a gardener?" She'd questioned in that teasingly snide voice of hers, looking entirely amused. "You'd best trade out those swords of yours for shovels and spades." That's how he knew she was pleased about it, in actuality. Shocked, but pleasantly surprised. He knew her far too well.

But in truth, he just needed something to alleviate the boredom. There's only so much day-drinking and lounging in the sun one can do before it turns from merry to maddening, and so here he was - miles away from home, up near the border where the Archduchy of Toussaint separated into the Empire of Nilfgaard.

He'd arrived at a small village known as Campagnon at the behest of a passing merchant. The peddler had insisted that his cousin needed a Witcher's services, and so Geralt had told him to write to the man and had set out the next morning. Not even an hour away from the border, it had all the hallmarks of a quaint farming village tucked away in the golden Toussaint countryside. A windmill, acres of crops and wheat fields that'd prove for a bountiful harvest in the coming months, and several small townhouses and hovels littered the place, giving Campagnon a homely aura that only a rural hamlet can achieve. It almost reminded Geralt of White Orchard, only the people here were unburdened by the ravages of war and conflict, their spirits high and mirthful. It was a stark contrast to the sights he'd seen up North - villages and fields razed by the torches of foreign armies, their people beleaguered as the banner of the White Sun was hoisted high above their heads in further testament to their shame and defeat. War still ravaged up in the North, with rumors of an impending conflict brewing between Emperor Emhyr and King Radovid. It was an inevitability, Geralt supposed. Two tyrants stood at the precipice of ultimate power, and neither was the sort to set aside their grievances and rule their respective domains in peace. Such was the way of war, and such was the way of men. Neither Radovid nor Emhyr would know pain or suffering, but the people of the land and the soldiers conscripted to fight would witness horrors unspeakable.

It was just the way of things.

Geralt's hand grasped out for the handle of his mead tankard, sparing a glance about the inn as he raised it toward his lips. He was seated toward the back end of the tavern, in a squat and dusty booth. The place was a small affair, lined with several tables and garnished with banners of both the Toussaintian cavalryman and the Nilfgaardian sun hanging high above them. This early in the afternoon, it was a quiet affair here in the Quivering Lance. The only punters present were farmers and tradesmen on temporary reprieve from their duties and the youthful barmaid who stood behind the counter idly polishing at cups. Every so often, cautious and fearful looks were cast in Geralt's direction as they chattered hushedly amongst themselves. Geralt paid it little heed - he knew those estranged looks well enough. A century of dealing with that prejudice made him feel completely detached and unphased by it all. He lifted that tankard further to his lips, a sweet sigh escaping him as the honeyed mead trickled down his throat. They'd acquired this batch from a brewery in Vizima, the barmaid had kindly informed him earlier - top-shelf alcohol, and just as expensive to boot. Geralt mused in his head that this beverage would likely be one that the locals would have to work for months to afford. But if Nilfgaard knew how to do one thing right aside from conquest and committing deplorable acts during times of war, they knew how to brew a damn fine mead.

The front door to the tavern swung open then, and a newcomer made his entrance - a slender, older man with a prickly beard and long, shaggy brown hair. Most of the punters spared the man an almost empathetic look as he came in, though some only leaned further into their tables, their conversations growing more hushed as they spared him suspicious glances and quick looks. The man had a hollowed, almost nervous look about him, his eyes practically out on stalks.

The newcomer briskly rounded about the tables, gazing about frantically. As his tired-seeming eyes finally settled upon Geralt, he hastily made his way over to the Witcher's table.

"Excuse me, s-sir. You must be-."

"Geralt of Rivia. Witcher." Geralt cut him short from his stammering greeting, taking a firm sip of his mead. Geralt knew from the way the man looked at him like some beast that this was his first meeting with a Witcher. Best to keep the conversation flowing and give him a chance to relax, lest he ran the risk of making his client soil himself on the spot. "You must be Louis."

"Ay-Aye. That'd be I..."

Geralt's hand waved toward the seat opposite him. "Take a chair. I won't bite."

Louis's eye momentarily twitched as though he wasn't so certain, before skulking forth to lower himself upon the chair.

"Saw your cousin Pierre. He sends his regards."

"Aye... he wrote to me as such. Knew that I needed a Witcher, and sent me your way. I... I wasn't sure if you'd show...."

"A Witcher's word is his bond." Geralt speaks adamantly. "When I say I'm going to do something, I do it. How can I help?"

Louis's fingers began to twitch upon his lap, head bowing as a horrible wince of pain and fear ran across his wrinkled features. "It's my daughter Emmeline, Master Witcher. My sweet, innocent daughter. She's been missing for almost a week now. I fear... I fear that some creature might have got her. That she's in danger."

Geralt leant forth upon his chair, a moment spared for consideration. He needed more details. "I see. I'm going to need details. The more I know, the more likely I'll be able to find her. How'd she vanish?"

"It was during the night." Louis began to explain, his voice croaky and hoarse. He was in a great deal of mental pain, Geralt could tell it. But he needed to get him talking. "My wife Lucille and I had just snuffed out the candles, and gone up to bed. Wasn't even an hour that had passed before we heard her scream from her room. I... I ran up there as quick as I could, Master Witcher. But I weren't quick enough. By the time I'd gotten down the stairs, Emmeline was gone. Her window was open, and she never kept it open at night. Always said she was afraid of someone climbin' through durin' the night.." The old farmer reflects mournfully, his head bowing lower in shame and horror.

"And you're certain that it could have been a beast that took her?"

"As certain as I am the sky is blue! We'd been hearin'.... noises up in the hills for a few days before. Odd croaks and growls, like somethin'... monsterous. We thought it was just wolves or bears, then. Those ain't uncommon up in those forests. But if you heard the way she screamed..." Louis's eyes close over tightly. "You'd know it for certain."

"And there was nothing that could have caused her to run away? No disputes or disagreements?" Geralt's line of questioning continued, his voice monotone and neutral. He knew the pain of losing a daughter. When Ciri had went missing, the void he'd felt in his heart was indescribable. But this was business, and the more he knew now meant he more chance he'd find Emmeline. Dead or alive...

"N-no! My daughter ain't no runaway, Master Witcher! Emmeline's a good girl, a polite girl... always been well behaved! Aye, her mother and her were bickerin' here and there. Her heart was set on marrying a boy here in the village, a known scoundrel and charlatan, and we forbade it. She was angry at us, but she wouldn't do that! She wouldn't break her mother's heart!"

Geralt's lips thinned with doubt, a slow nod offered in Louis's direction. "Okay..." He sighs gently as he rises from his chair, lifting his tankard to drain off the mead that remains. "I need to take a look around your farmstead. Could be hints there that point us to wherever she was taken."

"What about your pay? I heard most Witcher's don't lift a finger without the promise of coin."

"We can talk about that later. I'm not most Witchers - and if she's been gone for this long, I should start working now."

Louis's face froze with dread for a moment, before a thankful little nod was offered. "Aye... thank you." He murmurs lowly as he stands to his feet, headed for the exit.

Geralt only followed, stepping out from the little tavern and out into the warm sunlight. His mind was already turning to make sense of the little information he had thus far.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Geralt's eyes shot back open, thrust back into the present. The swelling pain in his head had subsided from searing to only a mildly discomforting pressure that clouded his gaze with fatigue. He pushes himself from the wall, standing upright as he gazes upward - up over the length of the sprawling vines, and into the opening above. He could still hear the water trickling away in the distance, far-off yet distinct.

He began to orient himself properly. A hand lurched backward, feeling for the handles of his twin longswords - they were still there, sheathed within their worn leather scabbards just as always. His hands dipped downward for his pouch - devoid of potions and any further equipment, though there were a few food rations left to spare. A flask of water, a loaf of bread, a chunk of salted venison, a green apple, and a pack of trail-nuts. His medallion, steel carved into the shape of a wolf's head, still sat around his neck - Geralt's fingers trailed around it. It wasn't humming as it normally did when beasts or magic was near. That was a good sign.

"Great..." the White Wolf grumbled with chagrin as he reached out for the vines, making use of his upper-body strength to begin scaling upward. "What mess have I gotten myself into now?"

Wherever he was, whatever was happening, there was only one way forward. And he had to push on.

Maybe there's a still chance I'll get that greenhouse at the end of this... his mind mused as he dragged himself up those vines, bound for whatever obscure fate awaited him.

 

[Geralt of Rivia]

Despite it being his only option forward, clambering up into the passage above turned out to be a worthwhile gamble.

Geralt had been led out into a more narrow pathway, where the stone walls of the cavern had begun to close against one another. It was a tight squeeze - the Witcher could hardly fit himself through, having to awkwardly sidestep and shuffle to get to the other side. As he shimmied along through to the other side, he felt silently thankful that he’d chosen to go easy on pouring from the ale barrel back in Corvo Bianco. If he was a few pounds stockier, he most likely would have gotten stuck down here.

As he reached the other side, he found himself standing within a much wider cavern. The entirety of the cave stretched onward for a good fifty meters, and there was no source of light to guide him along but one - in the far distance, where mounds of crumbled stone rose upward in gradual, inclined descent, he could see the vestiges of dimming sunlight pouring in from up above.

That’s where I need to go, his mind had instantly decided. And so with his boots to the ground and a scant trifling of optimism now filling his heart, he pressed onward. The further he walked along that cavern passageway, the more that sound of trickling water from before grew into prominence. And then as he turned a corner, he saw the source - a waterfall trickled into a great cavern lake, the waters crystal blue and still. Squinting his eyes, Geralt could see several toads and frogs settled upon lily pads that bobbed across the lake’s surface. This cavern must be connected to a river of some kind, he quickly deduced. Geralt almost felt as though their beady, bulbous eyes were following him as he continued to walk by. What manner of place is this? His mind mused with irrational weariness. The walls felt as though they had eyes here as much as the toads. Geralt was eager to be rid of this place, and so he pressed forward more briskly, every step bringing him closer and closer to the rubble pile.

Clambering up the stones in cautious stride, having no wish to lose his footing and tumble. Every step across those rocks brought him closer and closer to sunlight, and as he emerged from the hole in the earth he took his first breath of fresh air.

The first thing he noted was that it was humid. Every breath caused an uncomfortable clammy feeling to sit in his throat. Taking stock of his surroundings, he seemed to be atop some sort of hillside. A small mountain range loomed overhead to the north. He must have been at the very foothill of these mountains. To the south, hundreds upon hundreds of miles of fetid, decrepit jungle stretched out beneath him, sprawling in every direction. Geralt took a moment to gaze over the canopy of the hillside. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before. So obscenely foreign, so alien that he sensed then that he was a long, long way from The Continent. And worst still, there was no sign of civilization anywhere close. For as far as he could see, all he could glimpse were jungle trees.

“Fuck…” the Witcher cursed in a gravelly tone, turning away from the cliffside. Behind him, six black pillars of obsidian rose from the earth. They were as onyx as the night, an ebony sheen glimmering off of their reflection as the rays of the setting sun glimmered against them. Odd runic carvings, entirely ineligible to Geralt in their design, sprawled across the base of the pillars. The Witcher stepped forth toward one to take a better look - there weren’t any patterns that he recognized. Neither of the Gods of Northern Pantheon such as Melitele, nor the more obscure cult of the Divine Dragons, the wyrms worshipped by the Zerrikanians. His doubt that he was still on The Continent, or even his world felt further proven.

He’d hopped between worlds before, after all. He was no stranger to interdimensional travel. But back then, he had Avallc’h to guide him. Here, wherever here was, he was on his own.

Geralt’s hand pulled away from the pillar as he felt a vibration against his chest. He looked down - his medallion was humming. An ill omen. Something was approaching. It was only seconds after he heard the ominous flapping of wings amongst the winds, and then a loud thump against the earth. Geralt turned.

Spoiler

And before him stood a beast most familiar to him - a manticore, a ravenous monstrosity that feasted on the flesh of men and cattle indiscriminately. A snarling head surrounded by a lion's mane glared down at him hungrily. This thing must be starving, and it found Geralt adequate to become its dinner. The beast's elongated claws scraped against the stone as it towered over him, flecks of drool oozing from its jagged mouth. The tail of a scorpion, as venomous and toxic as a hundred hornet stings, swished and swayed behind it. Its wings, black and dreadful like a bat, angled skyward, occasionally beating and swiping through the air. Two crooked horns jutted out from its skull, giving it the visage of some demon cast from the charnel pits of hell for those who were none the wiser of its origin.

Spoiler

The manticore let loose a horrendous, deafening screech. Geralt wasted not an instant in jumping to action - within moments his silver sword was drawn, the handle of his blade grasped with two hands as he leveled it toward the beast. He had no potions nor bombs to rely on, so he resolved that he had to face the creature up close. Gripping that silver sword tighter, he rushed forward, raising it for a swing.

And the manticore’s wings began to beat harder, the creature ascending from the ground into flight. Geralt managed to leap upwards as it began to soar, the tip of his blade scraping against the manticore’s underbelly. The monster gave a shrike as a small yet scathing cut was rendered upon its flesh, crooked red blood beginning to drip and drain from that wound. It began to circle the skies a few feet above Geralt. It was toying with him, Geralt knew all too well. The White Wolf stood his ground, longsword raised high as he kept his mutant eyes upon it. It swirled around like a vulture, beginning to grow impatient. Soon enough it would attempt to pounce down upon him, and Geralt had to be prepared.

As predicted, the manticore began to swoop down from above, wings beating more intensely. It bound straight for Geralt, seeking to pin him beneath its mass. Geralt had just managed to nimbly roll to the side, and as the manticore’s clawed limbs touched the ground, the Witcher swung his sword in a horizontal arc across the beast's side. Another shriek was heard as the blade pierced and scathed across its skin. It staggered slightly from the blow rendered against it, yet such an impulse was only temporary.

Geralt knew what he needed to do next. He needed to cause this beast enough pain that it wouldn’t think to reach the skies again. His left hand drew upwards, waving deftly through the air as he drew the sign for igni across an empty canvas. His palm thrusted out toward the beast. Time to burn…

But nothing came. Not even a whiff of flame licked out from his palm.

“What?” Geralt said, stupefied

Too little too late. The manticore had turned to face him properly now, malice and hunger permeating within its inhuman gaze. Its foremost claw snatched outward, locking around Geralt’s outstretched arm. It had him in its grasp, now. The manticore’s wings began to beat again as it soared back up into the skies, darting from the cliffside with its newest catch dangling helplessly beneath it.

Geralt wriggled and squirmed. The manticore’s tail had begun to engorge, its stinger drawing outward. Geralt still had hold of his sword, locked within his right hand. Gripping it tighter, he prepared to reach upward and slice at the manticore’s limb. A plummet to potential death had better survival odds than taking a manticore's venom and laying paralytic as it feasted on his bones.

But then, an arrow zoomed through the air, imprinting into the arm that held him. The manticore screeched and howled, its claw retracting as the Witcher was released from its grasp. Geralt felt himself falling through the air. Down…

And down…

And down…

 

[John Connor]

Nighttime for the newcomers in this strange land. There’s a cave in the distance with a strange box shape carved out for something called a “television”. One that makes the Spartans hoot and holler with joy over everything they can suddenly see and watch during the night.

After all, while King Leonidas is away, they indulged in this foreign form of entertainment until late into the night.

With a few Spartans occupied with the new moving box that showed the Carnival Rosa and their King fighting, a few Spartans weren’t too distracted and found solace in old traditions. They immediately began to pack firewood for the nearby campfire for the night.

One Spartan in particular is flipping the channels, bored until he lands among the news and the Carnival Rosa broadcast. “Hey, guys, look! Our King is still fighting in the tournament!”

A few Spartans around the campfire turn back, rather confused and interested to hear their King was in a tournament of some kind.

"Where is he?" "This Carnivale Rosa thing." "He's in the box."

 

[Geralt of Rivia]

Back in Toussaint…

Geralt and Louis had wasted no time in saddling and mounting their respective horses, galloping off through the village of Campagnon and back out into the magnificent golden countryside of Toussaint. Louis’s farmstead was a few miles off, and in an attempt to break the estranged silence between them, Louis had begun to recant the chronicle of his farmstead about midway into their journey as they were passing along a trail leading toward crop fields of bountiful wheat. Geralt could tell he needed the conversation to keep his mind off of his missing daughter, and so he obliged him.

Louis spoke of his grandfather, one Sir Perziec, a paltry knight of minor standing who served in the household of Anarietta’s late father when he still ruled as the Archduke. Though a dutiful man to his liege, Perziec had one significant flaw - he’d been known to drink far too much wine and spend his evenings cajoling with the local women. One night, Perzeic had in his inebriated stupor attempted a flirtatious advance upon the wife of a higher standing gentryman. The lady was appalled by Perziec’s attempts at wooing flattery, politely turning Perzeic down - and immediately telling her husband of what had happened the next morning. So in entered our next character to this scandalous romance tale - Sir Desmond de Mortain, the husband of the lady in question, whose name old Louis recounted with quite the vehement spite and loathing. Sir Desmond didn’t take kindly to the attempts at infidelity upon his lady wife - not at all, so that very same morning at breakfast Desmond had stormed into the feast hall where the Archducal court had supped, throwing his gauntlet onto the table before Perziec in the Toussaintian tradition of challenging an opponent to a duel.

And thus came the twist of the little tale - Desmond wasn’t out to kill Perziec. No, not at all. He wanted to humiliate and indignify him. Perziec accepted the challenge, the two combatants arming themselves with sword and board and making their way to the courtyard. Louis spoke of an intense and rivetous battle, one worthy of a song for the ages. But in the end, Desmond had pushed Perziec back over a fence post, the lecherous drunkard tumbling over into a berry bush. And falling splat into a pile of goat manure.

Louis adamantly claimed that the placement of such a manure pile was not pure chance, but a coordinated scheme on the part of Sir Desmond and his subordinates to bring further dishonor to his grandfather's name. The whole crowd observing the duel erupted into a fit of ravenous laughter - Perziec was not a well liked man, clearly. From that day on, he came to be known as Sir Perziec the Brown, a cruel homage to the shitpile he was thrown into. Humiliated and shamed as both an adulterer and a loser, Perziec fled from Castle Beauclair several weeks later, using what coin he had to mount the farmstead where Louis still lived to this day. And that’s where the tale of the Brown Knight began and ended, up there on that old ranch of yonder where his descendant still lived to this very day.

“Some story.” Geralt hummed as they rode onward, his voice as monotone and neutral as ever. “But hardly a new tale. Knights in every realm will always jump for a duel when their honors are on the line.”

“Sir Desmond was no man of honor.” Louis growled beneath his breath, his grip upon the reins of his horse drawing tighter. Sparing a glance at his knuckles, Geralt could see they were lined with bruises and cuts. Awry, for a man of the land. “He was an opportunist and a fiend. If it weren’t for him, my daughter could have grown up in a castle. Not opposite a pigsty.”

The conversation quickly drew to a close as they rounded up toward the farmstead, galloping up a small slope. The place was a modest affair - decadent and worn, it had certainly seen better days. Several of the main house's windows had been boarded up, the glass windows cracked and smashed. An old broken wagon sat outside by the front porch, the front wheel splayed across the earthen ground where several chunks and planks of wood had been entirely ripped out from it. Even the holding pens for several cows and pigs looked worn and weathered, fragile in their upholstery. If the animals really wished too, they could quite easily batter those fences down and run off into the hills for their freedom.

No goat pens, though, Geralt’s mind mused a bit malignantly as he took a quick glance around. His grasp around the reins of his horse tightened and then he pulled, drawing the morgan to a slow and steady halt.

“Woahhhh, Roach.” He hummed down to his most stalwart companion as they stopped, Geralt’s left leg swiping over the saddle as he hopped down. Louis, too, had returned to the ground. His bruised hands clasped onto the leash of his horse, meticulously hitching his mare onto a nearby post. Geralt had no need for such restraint when it concerned Roach - that old stallion was as loyal as they came, coming and going precisely when the White Wolf needed him. And through any obstacle.

“I’ll need to take a look at her bedroom first. If that’s where she was taken from, something could have been left behind if there was a struggle. Something that could point me in the right direction.”

“I… I haven’t been in there since she was abducted that night. I’ve not the stomach for it, I’ve kept her room locked this entire time…” A pained frown curdled across Louis’s lips, the old man's slender arms wrapping about himself like a futile blanket as his head cowed.

“You don’t have to come in with me. I just need it unlocked so I can take a look around.” Geralt assuaged him, his own arms folded across his chest momentarily. The elderly farmer eventually glanced back upward with a solemn nod.

“Right you are, Master Witcher. Well, we… we’d best get to it.”

And together they walked, bound for the front door of that worn country cottage.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Present day…

The first thing Geralt felt was that he couldn’t breathe.

The second, coincidentally, is that he felt very, very wet - and once his eyes flickered open, they stung with searing discomfort, as though someone had dashed his eyelids with salt.

It was in another split second he realized - he was not on land, but bobbing underneath murky waters. His hands began to paddle and his legs thrashed as he sought to reach the surface. He breathed deeply inward as his head rose above the waters, a gentle current flowing against his body.

It didn’t take much longer to realize where he was - he was floating in a river down in that dingy old jungle. It must have been the same one that he discovered the end of earlier, the one that flowed down into the caves where he woke up, for he could still see the cliffside in the close distance and where the river forked down into the undergrowth. The water must’ve been deep enough to break his fall - and fortunately for the Witcher the currents weren’t too ferocious, as he found himself not far off from the point in which he’d plummeted.

Seeking land once more, Geralt quickly swam the river's edge, clambering up onto the bank by pulling himself across several overgrown roots jutting from the soil. Scrambling across his knees as he rose to a stand, his whole body ached from where it’d smashed against the water - yet, shockingly to himself, he fared no worse for wear. He couldn’t feel any broken bones…

A familiar, ominous screech overhead plucked Geralt from his thoughts of self-preservation. The Witcher glanced upward to see the manticore still encircling the skies like a rabid eagle, the creature let forth another rumbling bellow as its wings flapped harder, soaring off to the east. Geralt knew where it was going - he’d seen the arrow that had struck the beast in the arm on his way down. And he could tell the arrows general direction from the way the tip had embedded into the beast's flesh.

But there was one thing he knew for certain. Manticores were carnivorous beasts with an insatiable hunger. It preferred to hunt not cattle, nor men whenever it could find them, in solitude. It preferred targeting herds and groups where it could indulge further in its gluttony. If that was a lone hunter or good samaritan that had shot off that arrow, the beast likely would have dived down through the skies to continue pursuing the Witcher out of pure virtue that he was far closer to it.

But the fact that it’d chosen to fly away made Geralt suspicious that it was not just a single bowman, but a group of them. The manticore smelled a feast, and it was on its way to take up that invitation.

Geralt’s next move seemed clear - he had to find those people before the manticore could turn them all into corpses. If he ran quick enough, he might be able to save a few. And that’s all he needed to find out where in the hell he was.

Geralt glanced up into the sky. It was dark, much darker than it had been before. Through the trees he could see the waning light of the sun poking through in dissident rays.

The Witcher began to move, then - advancing into a full sprint as he bound eastward, not entirely certain where to go yet following raw instinct alone. As he hurried through those forests, not giving himself a moment of rest or reprieve, an eerie feeling of uncertainty cast over him. There was something tainted about this jungle, something wretched and foul…

Something dreadful…

 

[John Connor]

A loud screech was heard literally miles away plus at night . Whomever was stopping at night to watch the King fight his own battle in the Carnival Rosa gritted their teeth and grabbed a horn, trying to alert whatever Spartans were around the area, anyone and anything.

This jungle was full of awful things, but this was only the first danger the Spartans had faced since they came here.

The giant lion beast looked frankly terrifying but hoping for a victory for the King when he returned or at least they hoped he returned victorious, they would eat heartily tonight.

The creature was a mix of lion and a scorpion and it flew up in the sky, screeching as it flew toward what looked like a miniature all you can eat buffet for the creature in itself.

This time, however, the King was in his own fight and these Spartans had to figure out things their own way.

“FORMATION, COME ON, COME ON!”

“What about our ! “FORMATION!”

This was much different than the normal creatures they’d fought in previous years and worse, their fearless leader was not here to lead them.

A Spartan from a distance hoped to anyone in this strange new world would hear the ancient horn before it was too late.

And with covering their heads in the Phantlax in perfect order, the creature would try to stab the Spartans in with their poisonous scorpion tail.

While allowing just a tiny room, another arrow pierced the creature as it roared. Was it a misplaced spear or a arrow to the beast?

The creature was angry it couldn’t get an easy meal even though a single arrow and or spear had pierced its side.

The Spartans were now all on guard, grabbing their shields and spears, holding them up tightly to make sure nothing else got through because of whatever the hell this is.

 

[Geralt of Rivia]

((Optional Combat Music))

Among the Witcher’s code, there was an unwritten rule. A universal law that all upon this path had to understand well and understand young, or die within their first year out on the road. You hunt, or become the hunted.

A Witcher has many enemies - and few they could call allies. Such was the nature of their trade. Monsters dreaded them and men feared them, yet only one of those needed a Witcher’s services. And the line between was always tenuous and fragile at best. Amongst kindred freaks, drifters and strangers, a Witcher might find an ally. Perhaps even a friend.

And now, more than ever, Geralt needed one of those - an ally or a friend.

That feeling of dread hadn’t left him as he rushed through the jungle, trampling over root and twine as his boots smacked against the sodden muck and damp soil. The White Wolf raced between trees that sprawled infinity to the skies, the overgrowth of flora and fauna brushing against his legs. No matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched here. By some diabolical force, one unseeable and unknowable…

Fear is an illness. The recesses of his mind yelled as he sought strength. Fear is poison. A sweet voice that whispers for death. He couldn’t let that paranoia overcome him. Far from a world he knew he might be, but he’d been in worse situations than this - the White Wolf would endure, or he’d die trying.

A piercing screech filled the air as Geralt at last halted, listening deeply to his surroundings. He could hear the thumping of boots hitting the ground, as well faint yet tense shouts that carried across the air.

“FORMATION! COME ON, COME ON!”

He’d made it in time. And his suspicion had been correct - the manticore was pressing an attack on this troupe just up the hill. Geralt spared a glance up a muddy slope-trail that segwayed up to where he could decipher the noise coming from, hurrying back into a sprint as he scaled his way upward.

Emerging from the dense, overgrown brush, Geralt caught a clear view of the situation - he saw about twenty warriors, perhaps more, all armed with long spears and strange shields. Their heads were shrouded by golden helms, crimson capes trailing down their backs and fluttering with their every motion. They’d all assembled into a shield wall, packed tightly together like sardines and roaring cries of battle and war. The manticore was right in front of them, drooling and salivating with rabid hunger. An archer up above a cave opening loosed an arrow which struck into the manticore's shoulder, a wrathful howl emitting from the monstrosity as it barrelled forward. The regiment of warriors only dug their boots deeper into their ground, raising their shields higher as the manticore stood on its hind legs and began to press against those shields with its hind claws. A manticore's strength was ferocious, Geralt knew this well - yet to their credit, the warriors were tenacious and unwavering in their resolve. And cunning in their teamwork. Each man in the shield-wall pushed back, keeping the manticore at bay - though Geralt caught glimpses of several of their arms beginning to rattle. They wouldn’t hold for much longer.

There was no more time to plan. He had to act. Geralt’s right hand whipped backward as he unsheathed his silver sword, flecks of the manticore's dried blood still coating the edge of the weapon. The Witcher charged forth then; with the beast's back still turned to him and its attention focused on the warriors, he had the element of surprise in his back pocket. And he sure as hell intended to make use of it.

With the agility of a jaguar, Geralt lept upwards, landing upon the manticore's back. The beast jolted, but Geralt held firm, the tip of his blade angled downward. He raised it high, and then thrusted down low, impaling the weapon through the back of the manticore and tearing through flesh. The creature screamed beneath him, its wings beginning to smash through the air as it began to take flight again. Geralt slid off the back of the monstrosity, ripping his sword free as he tumbled down toward the ground. Rolling across the soil, he jumped back to his feet, watching as the manticore encircled the skies and plotted its next move.

Around and around it flew, before it catapulted into a bombing dive directly toward Geralt. The Witcher had incurred its ire, and it was out for blood - Geralt leapt to the side as it landed, just escaping its claws as it reached the ground. Rolling back to his feet, Geralt’s blade raised in a defensive stance as the creature let forth a hissing bellow.

From behind Geralt, a warrior at the foremost of the shield wall troupe - one that carried a far longer spear and wore a helm of magnificence raised his pike.

“SPARTANS! CHARGE THE BEAST! TONIGHT, WE DINE ON ITS BONES!”

Several cries of valor and courage sounded out from the Spartan troupe as they charged forth into the fray, spears, and shields raised boldly. Several to the left of Geralt made it toward the beast, slashing and swiping at the manticore with their spears. But a few to the right took the brunt of the monster's tail as it coiled and swiped across for them, smashing against their shields with resounding force and sending them hurtling backward into the dirt. As that tail was lowered, Geralt saw his chance - the White Wolf leaped forward, blade still raised high. And in a downward horizontal arc the Witcher swung for the beast's extended limb, metal ripping through meat as part of the manticore's tail and the entirety of its venomous pincer was now severed, flopping uselessly across the ground.

The manticore screeched again and again as the spartans surrounding it thrust their spears back and forth, puncturing stab wound after stab wound as the beasts ichor drained across the soil. Despite acting on primitive, instinctual hunger, manticores were intelligent creatures - they knew when to pick a fight and they knew when it was futile. And this one seemed to have finally learned it was far outnumbered and outmatched. The manticore’s wings began to beat intensely, generating enough wind to cause the spartans to stumble backward and create a gap between them and it. Then, it soared back up into the air, releasing anguished howls and cries of pain as it flew off across the skies.

The spartans watched it go, their breaths heavy and thick with adrenaline. Their spears lowered as their shield arms relaxed, a few of them assisting their comrades that had been knocked over back to their feet.

“By the Gods…” One of them cursed. “What sort of beast was that?”

“Never seen a manticore before?” Geralt peeked over his own shoulder as he slotted his silvered sword back into its rightful sheath upon his back, watching the skies wearily for a moment to ensure that it would not return. Then, he turned toward the troupe of spartans. “You handled yourselves well. If you’d all separated or pushed to charge too early, it would’ve been a different story. That manticore would’ve filled your veins with poison and you’d be watching helplessly as it devoured you rather than speaking to me.”

There was nary a shudder nor a gasp upon the spartans as they all gazed toward the more grandiose amongst them - the one with the mightier spear and the plumed golden helmet. Geralt presumed this one might be their commander, then. The man in question stepped further toward Geralt, sword and shield still clasped in his hold.

“We would’ve found a way to slaughter that monstrosity. Spartans do not back down when it comes time to fight.”

Geralt squinted a bit at that word. Spartan. He didn’t recognise it at all, and that old nagging hunch that he was far, far away from The Continent began to cloud his mind.

“Mhm. You’ve got the numbers for it. You called yourselves Spartans, is this your homeland?”

“No.” The commander answered quickly. “We are a long way from home. This world is known as Kraw.”

“You and me both.” Geralt grunted with chagrin, arms slowly folding across his chest. And there it was. He had his answer as clear as day, one that he’d suspected for quite some time but he was hesitant to confirm. He was in another world entirely.

“You are an outlander too?” The spartan commander's head tilted, and Geralt gave him a nod in affirmation.

“Yeah, I’m not from around here. Don’t quite remember how I got here, though. Woke up in a cave on the mountainside, and that manticore attacked me on my way out. My head starts pounding every time I try to think of anything before that.”

“I know your plight. My own memories were skewed when I first awoke in this… strange, strange place.” The commander's head strangely tilted up toward the dark night sky, where constellations and beaming stars painted a dusky canvas. Then, his focus snapped back toward Geralt. “I am Telemachus, captain of this regiment.”

“Geralt of Rivia. Witcher with tenure.” The Wolf introduced himself in turn, and Telemachus’s head began to tilt.

“Witcher? What is a Witcher?”

Ah… right. Different world. Geralt had almost managed to forget that pesky little detail.

“Hrm. Easiest way I could explain it? We kill monsters for coin.”

“Ah… you are a mercenary.”

Geralt’s face scrunched up for just an instant. He loathed that comparison. “Yeah… okay, we’ll go with that. One of your men shoot an arrow at that manticore earlier? Got you to thank for getting me out of a sticky situation if so. The beast was flying off with me, but it dropped me once you shot at it.”

“One of us?” Telemachus’s head tilted with confusion, before shaking. “No, we-.” Telemachus’s words were cut short as the bristiling of several leaves amongst the brush, the Spartans immediately turning and raising their spears again as if anticipating a second fight. But one of their own emerged from the wilderness - much shorter and scrawnier than the rest of them, he carried a shortbow beneath his arm, struggling to catch his breath.

“The beast…” He huffed, his voice scratchy and juvenile. He was young, Geralt could tell it. A runt of the litter. “Am I… am I too late?”

“Alexios!”” Telemachus balked, beginning to stomp toward him. “By Zeus, where have you been, boy?!”

“I saw that winged lion flying up by the mountains… I-I thought that I could bring it down and slay it myself. Prove that I am ready to call myself a true spartan!”

“Fool!” Telemachus only cursed him, Geralt surveying onward with a ruminative gaze. He knew how it was to be a young glory hound. But those sorts more often than not were the ones that got themselves killed.

“Thanks for the assist, kid.” Geralt inclined in Alexios’s direction, voice gravelly and monotone. “But it was stupid of you to try and shoot at that thing on your own. It would’ve killed you in seconds if it’d seen you.”

Alexios’s head bowed with shame, Telemachus sizing up his young recruit for a moment. From beneath his helm, his facial expressions were unseeable, though Geralt could only assume it was contorted in seething frustration. “King Leonidas shall know of your error.” Telemachus only sighed then, his temper seeming to quell. “It is not my duty to punish you, but his.”

Telemachus turned back toward Geralt then as he stepped away from Alexios, leaving the boney recruit to brood in silence. “Witcher, you were a great aid in helping us repel that monstrosity. We offer you our hospitality. You are free to rest at our camp for the night, if you wish. We have lamb over the fire and fresh water that we can share.” Telemachus pointed his spear toward the entrance of the cave then, a bright light flickering from within.

For as much as he wasn’t keen to enter another cave anytime soon, it was dark out - exhaustion racked at Geralt’s body from the events of the day, and sustenance wouldn’t go amiss. Rest and meditation would do him a world of good - especially if there was much more jungle to cover in the morning.

And these were the friendliest faces he’d come across since waking up. They might even have more to offer in the way of information, he suspected, despite being strangers to this land such as he is.

“Sure.” Geralt finally answered. “I could do with the rest.”

 

[John Connor]

The Spartans took a load off their busy nights as the manticore was finally at bay for now. Inside the cave, they ate lamb skewers along with Geralt's reaction as they stared at their new television set.

Geralt just raised an eyebrow and stared “One, what the hell is that thing?! Two, where did you guys find a thing like that anyway?”

One of the Spartans shrugged and looked back “We found it as a “gift” to us.

Alexios grunted “It was stolen from a cart.”

The Spartans chuckled at Geralt's reaction, taking another bite of their lamb skewers before answering. "Ah, this little beauty? We found it during our last journey to the outskirts of town," one of them explained, pointing to the television set. "It was abandoned in an old merchant's cart, and we thought it would be a nice addition to our humble abode."

Geralt shook his head in disbelief, still trying to wrap his mind around the concept of moving images on a screen. "I must admit, it is quite fascinating," he muttered, leaning in closer to get a better look. The Spartans shared a knowing glance, already aware of the mesmerizing effect the television had on visitors.

Geralt raised an eyebrow and leaned in closer to examine the foreign object. "I never thought I'd live to see such wonders," he muttered, mesmerized by the flickering images on the screen. The Spartans exchanged smirks, knowing they had just introduced Geralt to his newfound obsession.

Within the extra hours of the night, The Spartan Captain and the group of Spartans took the time to stare at the tv set to stare at movies and other fascinating dramas they had never seen before.

From gripping stories from their own to the enemies they faced in the past, most of the Spartans were stuffing lamb into their mouths as if it were popcorn. As the dawn crossed into nighttime, most of the Spartans took watch outside while others stayed to watch television with their brothers.

While English was unfamiliar to them, they switched the language to Greek subtitles for both them and Geralt while the foreign language played for them.

Alexios was sent out to be the Spartan on watch, he was just a kid, but he was strong enough to be a Spartan. His captain could be unduly harsh at times. The boy was frustrated yet kept quiet enough, so the others didn’t think he was weak. He knew the consequences of showing any sign of weaknesses in front of his fellow Spartans.

Yet as a child, how could he hold the responsibilities of his King on his shoulders?

As Geralt slept near the new tv with the other Spartans inside, Alexios felt his eyes begin to get tired yet forced them open again.

Alexios tried his best to stay awake and alert, leaning against the rough cave walls for support. As a young boy among hardened warriors, he constantly felt pressure to prove himself and hide any sign of weakness. But deep down, he struggled with the weight of responsibility placed on him at such a young age.

Meanwhile, Geralt slept soundly near the television, unaware of the internal conflict brewing within one of his newfound companions.

Alexios’s own dreams of Sparta and the new world they found themselves on seemed to collide.

He at least had a piece of lamb, not sure if the captain would refuse to let him eat for a change of pace.

Moonlight and the stars crossed over the harsh jungles of Kraw and at least everyone had shelter for the night.

 

[Geralt of Rivia]

The events of the day were only destined to grow stranger and stranger, it seemed.

The moment he’d piled into the cave after the host of Spartans, Geralt’s eyes were drawn to only one thing - a strange metallic box that hung on the stoned walls of the ceiling, flickering with lights. Though as he got a closer look, he realized they were not only lights - but faces, people and places. He suspected it to be some object of obscure sorcery, at first, but the Spartans were quick to correct him. They explained that this object was known as a television, and that the events being shown on it were being broadcasted in real time through another object that was similar to a megascope. The television itself was connected to a large metallic box with a lightning bolt displayed on it, and these Spartans called it a generator - another wonder capable of generating electricity on a whim and a dime.

The semantics of it all made Geralt’s head spin and whirl, in truth. But he couldn’t deny that this thing fascinated him innately. So much so, that he’d almost lost track of his true objective as he’d sat wedged between two burly Spartan soldiers on a tattered old couch, letting an hour or so tick by as he watched the screen intensely alongside them.

Even the content being shown on this television was passingly interesting - the Spartans told him it was called the Carnivale Rosa, a sort of tournament that was hosted every so often in this universe. But it was no joust or duel in the arena like Geralt was accustomed to - it was a series of challenges and puzzles set in the backdrop of a fairground. And it was a game to the death. As Geralt watched, he observed the faces of countless strangers undergo annihilation.

But such was the nature of those contests. You play stupid games, you more often than not win stupid prizes.

The Spartans beside him perked up as they saw a particular figure emerge onto the screen, though. A dark-haired, bearded warrior that wore armaments reminiscent of their own, only far more grandiose and regal. A golden circlet enshrouded his head, granting him the disposition of a warrior monarch.

The soldier to Geralt’s right, a towering man who’d introduced himself prior as Dimitrios, began to nudge Geralt’s elbow.

“There. That’s our king!” He spoke excitedly like a giddy toddler.

“Mhm. But you’re not there with him. Why’s that?” Geralt questioned.

“We came here to hunt.” The Spartan to Geralt’s left answered - a thin, lankier man known as Markos. “We’d heard this world was ripe with dangerous beasts. We seek to slay one such abomination in our King's honor, and present him with the monster's head to celebrate his victory.”

“When that day comes.” Dimitrios chimes in with a grunt, the titan leaning forth as his enclosed left knuckle buried against his right palm.

“So… let me get this right. You carried that television and that generator all the way through the jungle after you snatched it from the merchant's cart?” Geralt queried, a lone white brow of his raising.

“We did.” Markos nodded slowly, before glancing across to DImitrios. “Well… the big man here did much of the heavy lifting. I was moreso, how do you say…. moral support.”

“Hah! You couldn’t even lift a baby ox with those arms of yours, Markos!” Dimitrios jested to his comrade in well-faithed ribbing, spurring a laugh from the other Spartans that were seated around them. Markos could only roll his eyes, and Geralt just nodded silently.

“Right… you seem certain that your King’s going to win. But it looks like he’s got dangerous competition. Not much of a betting man, but I’d put the odds against him.” Geralt responded as he reclined back upon the sofa, arms folding staunchly across his chest.

“Our king is a warrior before he is a ruler.” Dimitrios spoke up again then, words infused with reverent passion. “And his is one the sharpest tactical minds in all the lands. It takes such a man to rule all of Sparta. He shall find a way to prevail - by the gods, I know it.”

Falling back into silence, the trio continue watching for a short time. But Geralt’s head was beginning to pang and ache - the more he stared at this foreign creation, the worse his headache got. So the Witcher eventually took a stand, excusing himself wordlessly as he began to walk through the cave. The majority of the Spartan troops were huddled around the television, practically glued to the thing. The few that weren’t observing the show were seated on their bedrolls that were scattered across the cave, polishing and dusting off their weapons and helmets. In the further corner sat Telemachus - cross legged on his bedroll, he grinded a whetstone across the tip of his spear in slow, meticulous motion. His golden plumed helm now sat beside him, his face revealed - he was an older man in comparison to the rest of his troupe, perhaps in his forties nearing his fifties, if Geralt had to wager a guess. His raven hair ran down toward his shoulders, flecked with strands of gray, as a scar ran across the side of his left cheekbone. It looked to be imprinted by some manner of blade or sharp weapon, running across his flesh in a straight line. He sported a trimmed beard, jostled with gray hairs similar to the hair that sprouted from his scalp.

“Got a minute to speak?” Geralt questioned him as he stood before him, the Spartan captain glancing up from his handiwork.

“Of course.” Telemachus nodded slowly, watching him with those weary and hollow eyes of his. They carried a certain despondency, a constant mourning as though he’d witnessed a dozen different horrors. “How are you feeling, Witcher?”

“The lamb and the wine revived me a bit. But to be honest?” Geralt paused, knees bending as he crouched down. “I’m tired, confused and out of my depth. More than I’ve ever been.”

“The adjustment is… difficult.” Telemachus assuaged calmly as he picked up his whetstone again, gliding it across the bladed-tip of his spear. “There are many trials and tribulations ahead of you. These worlds possess… strange inhabitants, and stranger sights to gaze upon still. That television over there is only a minor oddity compared to what else that I daresay you will experience soon.”

“Yay. Can’t wait.” Geralt sighed, his tone reeking with ill sardonicism. He came to seat himself upon the stone ground, a foot or so away from Telemachus’s bedroll. “I won’t be staying here for long. Need to find a way back to my own world. Once I do, you won’t see me again.”

A pained frown aligned Telemachus’s lips. There was something he wished to tell, yet he seemed hesitant to do so for a few moments. “That is the problem, Geralt. There is no way back to our own worlds. Not one that we’ve managed to discover, at least.”

“There has to be something.” Geralt’s head snapped back toward Telemachus, peering over his shoulder. “This isn’t the first time that I’ve ended up in another world. If I was sent here, there has to be some magic that can send me back. I just need to find the right person to do it.”

Telemachus stared at him contemplatively for a moment, chuffing a breath through his nostrils before he nodded slowly. “I understand. There is a place you could begin your search. A town known as New Abraxes, to the north of us. There is a ... university there, as the locals called it. A hive of scholars and philosophers.”

A university? Like Oxenfurt? Hook-nosed academics are exactly the sorts he needed to be speaking to right now.

“Then I’ll set off there at first light. Try and get some answers.”

“I wouldn’t advise you to travel alone.” Telemachus protested. “These jungles are perilous. As treacherous as the fires of Hades. Go in solitude, and you shall perish.”

“I’m a Witcher. Isn’t the first time I’ve had to travel alone through a forest full of monsters. That’s just a regular day at work for us.”

“I don’t doubt your capabilities, Witcher. But you do not know this land. Even with twenty of us, we were fortunate to survive the journey here. We were assailed by plant-beasts, spiders the size of hounds… and you are a man low on resources at this moment. It’d be foolhardy to strike out on your own.” Telemachus began to reflect. “I’d advise patience. When our work here is done, we shall guide you to New Abraxas. We are bound that way again inevitably - once our hunt is over, we must return to our king.”

The old commander had a point. He didn’t know this land, not at all. He could set out on his own, and hope beyond hope he’d make it to the other side.. or he could help these Spartans, and journey to New Abraxes with them. That way, he had a guarantee of protection. And their rations would keep him going far more than the paltry odds and ends he had in his satchel.

“What is it you’re hunting? You want to finish off that manticore?” Geralt asked.

“Yes.” Telemachus responded quickly and affirmatively. “I couldn’t think of a finer prize to give to the King of all Sparta.”

“You and your men wounded that manticore badly. It’s probably gone off to curl up and die somewhere. Wouldn’t be much of a fight to take it down, you’d just be putting it out of its misery.”

“A worthy trophy, nonetheless. And good sport for my men. They’ve been itching at the bit for some action for quite some time now. Your skill as a tracker would aid us in getting the job done far quicker, Geralt.”

“If I help you do this…” Geralt slowly arose back to his feet, mutant gaze leveled firmly upon Telemachus. “We’re going to New Abraxes afterwards. No detours, no misadventures…”

“You have my word.” Telemachus nodded firmly. “On my honor as a Spartan. Once the beast is dead and we have its head, we shall take you there.”

“Good enough for me.” Geralt mused, glancing back at his assigned bedroll. “Gonna go and get my head down, then. It’s been a long day. Think tomorrow will be even longer.”

“Rest well.” Telemachus bid as he set aside his spear, taking up a rag and his helmet as he got to work on polishing it of dust. Geralt silently made his way over to his bedroll, unclasping his twin longswords from his back and setting them up against a jutting stone.

As he laid down to rest, the roaring cheers of the Spartans gathered around the television booming across the cavern chambers, Geralt imagined the scent of lilac and gooseberries…

~~~~~~~~~

((Optional Ambience))

Some time later…

Darkness…

That was all that surrounded Geralt, now. The firepit that once illuminated the cave had long been snuffed out, the television powered down as every Spartan had returned to their bedroll, hunkering down for the night. They all slept soundly, a chorus of snores heard amongst them. But Geralt couldn’t sleep. He found his eyes wide open, his only company the stony cavern ceiling above him.

With a sigh, the White Wolf pushed himself to his feet. If rest wouldn’t come to him, then he sought meditation. In this strange, nonsensical world that was next best comfort that could be afforded to him.

Ambling out from the cave, the Witcher’s gaze turned skyward. A litany of glistening stars aligned the dusky sky, radiant and majestic in their aura. The jungle ahead stretched on endlessly, the brushes enwreathed in ominous shadow. The odd croak and gentle howl sounded out from that abyssal rainforest every so often - the Spartans slept, but the jungle was well and truly alive at night, like some hungering beast that stalked the eventide. But it seemed, for now, they were in no danger.

Geralt spared a glance down to his side. Alexios, who’d been assigned nightwatch duty as a punishment for his earlier transgression, slept soundly in a slump against a nearby rock. His spear was splayed flat across his lead, head cowed as he breathed inward and outward gently.

Geralt lowered himself to his knees, assuming a meditative position as his gloved palms pressed against his lap. His eyes closed gently, as he began to breathe in slow, rhythmic paces. In, then out, then back in again… as he lulled into meditation, he felt his body begin to relax and lose its tensity. But his mind still raced like a whirlwind. He thought upon the events of the day, and these newfound allies he’d come across by chance. He thought of the circumstances that might’ve led him here… but his head only ached and throbbed again. He could hardly remember a damn thing.

All he could recall was that it began with a contract. Always a damned contract. He remembered Yen trying to talk him out of taking up those odd jobs in the passing months. She’d always insisted that he’d done his duty as a Witcher - that he could hang up his swords finally, and spend his days lounging in peace at Corvo Bianco.

But Geralt knew better than anyone that once you’re a Witcher, there isn’t any turning back. Once you’re on the path, there’s no stepping off it - you’re in it for life.

There was one thing he could ponder upon right now, though. Something that’d been bothering him since his first encounter with that manticore. His signs. He was unable to conjure them here, like when he’d tried to summon igni against that beast. So far, he had two running theories - the first was that magic worked differently here. The second was that it was a lingering effect of whatever force transported him here. Some remnant sorcery that held him back.

No matter. It was time to see if he could reacclimate himself. He searched through the depths of his mind, recalling a particularly grueling lesson from his youth. Vesemir had tossed him into the pit with a basilisk, stripped of all weapons. All he had to fight it was his bare hands and the scrapings of knowledge he had learned on the signs. That was a long day - and he acquired the first of many, many scars. But in the end, when it’d seemed like all hope was lost, he drew the sign of igni across the air and rivulets of flame burst forth from his palm in a fiery crescendo. That was enough to destroy the beast, and the basilisk squealed and squawked in anguish whilst it cooked.

Geralt’s left hand extended forth as he focused on that memory. On Vesemir's teachings. The old coot's words resounded in his head, as it so often did.

Trust in your instinct, Geralt. Let it guide you.

His hand dashed across the air as he signaled that sign, eyes shooting open to review the result. Dots of flame dashed across his fingertips, emergent for only a second or so. They were as fleeting as the wind and rain, and as soon as they’d materialized they were gone, snuffed out into oblivion.

Geralt sighed gently. That was small progress. It’d take some time to gain back all that he’s lost.

Just then, he heard a shuffling to the side of him, accompanied by a sharp gasp. Alexios had awoken with a start, eyes gawking and beady as he seated himself up against the rocks. His breath was thick and heavy, a beadlet of sweat rolling down toward his brow.

“Rough dream?” Geralt asked coarsely as he heard the kid stir to wakefulness, not even sparing him a glance.

“I… I dreamt of my home. Of my mother.” The youth answered a bit sorrowfully as he brushed his palm across his face.

“Doubt that’ll go away anytime soon.” Geralt hummed solemnly. A moment of silence passed between the pair of them, Alexios’s legs curling against his chest.

“I don’t remember much about her. I was taken to be trained by the Spartans when I was young. I just… remember that she had red hair, that she’d sing songs to me sometimes.” As the boy spoke, Geralt listened quietly. His words rung with familiarity, a feeling that he knew well. “In the dream… I knew it was her. I recognised her voice, how sweet it sounded when she sung out a melody. She… cursed me for leaving her, said that I was doomed to die just like every other soldier. Then the house we were in began to burn… and I woke up.”

“Dreams are just dreams. They don’t always mean anything.” Geralt assured him, though in his heart he knew differently. Alexios’s gaze squinted as he studied the Witcher curiously for a time, his head tilting.

“Do you know your mother well?”

“No.” Geralt answered after a few moments, shaking his head. “I was taken too. When I was a young child. Witchers are created from boys…. to kill monsters.” The Wolf slowly turned his head, side-eying Alexios. “There’s never a choice involved in becoming a Witcher. Fate chose that road for us.”

“I didn’t get much of a choice, either.” Alexios’s head bows, a searing look of pain and sorrow cresting over his youthful features. “It’s Spartan law that all boys have to become soldiers. We’re sent to the capital by the time we can walk, trained with spear and shield… moulded to become Spartans before we can truly understand what that means.”

“You had to kill a man yet?” Geralt questioned the boy, tone far more somber in reverie.

“No. Not yet..” Alexios shook his head. “I was meant to be sent off in the war against King Xerxes before we all ended up here…”

“Don’t think about it whenever you do.” Geralt advised him firmly. “Just go away inside. Don’t mull over it, don’t let yourself fall into sorrow. Just do what you need to do and move on.”

“You say that as if you’ve had to kill a lot of men. I thought you were a monster slayer?”

“Men can be monsters just as much as any beast. Sometimes, the lines just blur.”

“Oh..” Alexios looked deflated at that. His head bowed somewhat, hand scratching against the side of his face.

Silence passed for a time. Geralt remained knelt against the soil as Alexios looked up toward the stars, dreaming forlorn dreams of home.

“Go and get some rest, kid.” Geralt intoned then. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Are you sure? Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping with the others?”

“Mhm. Not gonna sleep a wink. Couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

Alexios nodded slowly in understanding, arising to his feet. “Thank you..” He bid the Witcher, plucking up his spear as he trudged back toward the cave.

“See you in the morning.” Geralt bid the boy as he vanished beneath the caves entrance. From there on, the Witcher’s meditation resumed.

Hours passed by… and by the waning of the morning, as the sun rose anew over the green jungle canopy and the wildlife beyond the expanse began to quiet, Geralt tucked himself against a rock and closed his eyes, seeking a few hours of sleep.

 

[John Connor]

The King of Sparta took a long breath and turned toward Travis “Heh, good luck in your travels out there.”

The Man in red simply looked over at the King and disabled the collar after he asked how to take the device off. The man in red snapped and the device was deactivated.

The man wanted to jump in light fear but left it laying there without smashing it.

He took one last look at the group as he walked toward the planet where his men would be, hopefully.

He stopped in the Spectator’s area as the two Spartans stopped “My liege! My King!” “You survived?!”

“But.. But how? Didn’t you teach us differently?”

Leonidas stopped, putting his hands up “Enough talk, where are the rest of the Spartans?”

“T..They are on Kraw, hunting for a sizable hunt for you, sire. The Spartans nodded
“Then very well, we should take off as soon as we can. Leonidas hid his face, moving toward the nearest “taxi” or so they call it.

The Space taxi was something almost unbelievable outside. Leonidas and his men almost choked at the fact there was something outside this place. Unbelievable.

They stared at the black void with stars while things passed by them.

——————————————————————————
A few spaces hours later…

Kraw’s morning was coming upon everyone as the Spartans gathered supplies and packed up their bags as the captain blinked “Come on, we should follow the Manticore. Our hunt shouldn’t of gone far.”

Alexios and got up “I must go join my Spartan brothers, Geralt.”

Geralt nodded “Just remember what I told you.”

The kid gave a light smile and nodded “I appreciate it. Are you joining us for the hunt ahead?”

Geralt nodded “Of course, I promised, didn’t I?”
___________________________________________________________

King Leonidas and two other Spartans arrived in the middle of the afternoon from the Space taxi.

“Sir! King Leonidas?! What? Where were you?”

The Spartan king frowned “It took us quite a while to track you guys in the Kraw jungles but the blood from a huge creature leads straight to you.”
“You mean the Manticore died before we got to it? It was supposed to be a surprise for you, sire!”

“Sir, how do you plan we take this with us while escorting Geralt toward his location?”