The Journal of a Witcher

The pellar’s ritual worked after all. The spirit summoned by the consecration of his unborn child led me to the peasants who had helped the Baron’s wife and daughter escape. The daughtet apparently lives in Oxenfurt, while the mother was carried off into the woods by some creature.

Upon my return to the Baron’s fort with what news of his family I had managed to obtain, I found the Pellar waiting for me. He requested my aid in a ritual done on a local holiday, Forefather’s Eve. The villagers gather at an isolated stone circle and call forth wandering spirits still tied to the country. They offer absolution to those that need it, and perhaps penance as well. Of course, violent spirits attempt to attend the ceremony as well, and these I drove off, fueled by a stamina-enhancing decoction I made from the remnants of wraiths themselves.

I'm surprised at the diversity of spirits in this country. The vengeful wraiths that attacked the ritual fought like soldiers, using tactics like thinking beings, something I have only ever seen once before, in the Vran catacombs of the Mage’s tower in Loc Muin. And on a contract for an old heiress, I found evidence that the wraiths haunting her old abandoned manor had been carrying on some imitation of living. Candles were newly lit, fresh flowers gathered and placed as decorations. The human spirit is truly a near-indomitable thing.

I spoke with the pellar, who suggested I conjure the spirit of the Baron’s stillborn child to divine his family’s whereabouts. Of course, his child has become a botchling, a bloodrinking but not aggressive monster, so a precarious ritual will have to be performed to coerce it into submission. For every witcher contract that is straightforward, there must be two more that are real ballbusters, it seems. The pellar did say he could attempt divination using the botchling’s blood, but I prefer to attempt to cure the cure on it. All that’s at risk in such an attempt is the baron’s own life, since he’ll have to be present for the ritual, and that sorry tyrant’s soul has got to be worth that of an innocent unborn child.

Various travails around the countryside have kept me busy in between my travels from the tower to the pellar and back to the baron. In sunken ruins by the now curse-free island I found two new swords, one definitely of Elven make judging from the designs on the hilt. The other is hard to place, but I believe it may be a Vran blade, judging from some similarities to a sword I found (and later was forced to sell after a dry spell of contracts) in the ruins of the tower of Loc Muine, which was formerly a Vran city. The sword had nothing mystical about it, but it’s made of some strange metal that is lighter to wield than normal steel but seems to hit with a heavier impact (perhaps the blade is weighted in some advanced way?) The elven blade had some existing runic enchantments that can freeze those it strikes, which I had a blacksmith enhance further with some runestones I’d collected.

I lifted the curse, though not without a cost. The wraith took the life of her lover as well as his apology, before I could intervene. Sad, but he knew the risk he took returning here and seemed willing to give his life for his beloved. Keira was quite pleased, even ended up (through a rather roundabout way) organizing a literally enchanted dinner date in the woods. I liked to think she’d taken a fancy to me, as I’ll admit I had her. Just as friends, “with benefits” to use her words.

A long time ago the siege of Vizima by the corrupted Order of the Flaming Rose, I happened to cross paths with Vaska, the headwoman of the swampfolk. She said she had a parting piece of advice for me, “Do not mistake the reflections in the lake for the stars in the sky.” At the time I thought it was her way of insulting me over the fact that I’d aided the Lady of the Lake in slaying Dagon, whom her and her people had been ignorantly worshipping as a god. But the words have stuck with me, and I find myself dwelling on them now.

Our midnight rendezvous had a purpose other than a playful romp in the forest. Afterwards Keira enchanted me with a sleeping spell, and stole into the mage’s tower to reclaim his notes. I woke up earlier than she’d anticipated, and met her at its base. She had intended to use his research has a bargaining chip with king Radovid, in order to be let into his court unafraid of the witch hunters from which she (like many sorceresses lacking significant political clout) live in hiding from. She ranted pathetically about living in the country here, among the rot and lice and uneducated peasants, which are torture for one accustomed to high live such as she.

My visit to the self-proclaimed baron of Crow’s Perch may very well prove to have been a waste of time. He met Ciri, one of his band brought her and a girl she’d rescued in the woods to him some time ago. Although he doesn’t strike me as the most trustworthy sort, she apparently stayed safely with him for a few days, then left in peace. Unfortunately he won’t tell me more than that until I help him find out what happened to his wife and daughter, who “vanished into thin air” some time ago. From what I could piece together searching his home, either the mother or daughter were extremely devout to the eternal fire, there was both a struggle that someone should have heard but didn’t, and someone took care to cover up the signs of it. All very mysterious, but nothing that gives much insight into what could’ve happened to them or if they’re even alive. Although I promised I’d follow up on our only lead, a talisman crafted by a pellar that lives in seclusion some distance from here, I have little hope of successfully resolving our compact.

Meanwhile, I’ve delayed investigating the bogs for Ciri’s trail in order to assist the locals further with their monster problems (and earn some much needed coin, as even witchers can only survive off bread and water for so long.) The countryside seems to have no shortage of monsters that have grown strong from uninterrupted hunting and made comfortable nests in the secluded parts of the wilderness. I’ve also aided Keira with investigation into a mage’s tower on Fyke isle, where I currently write this entry amidst the whispering voices of lonesome ghosts and squeaking of rats. A mage here was living with a noble family that sought shelter during the encroachment of war. He’d been conducting experiments with magic and disease, and Keira believed that was what had caused the island to become cursed some time recently, making it a beacon for necrophages of all sorts.

We have faced a member of the wild hunt in combat, and emerged victorious, though strained and badly bruised. When we’d caught up to them in the catacombs, they tried to stall our progress by conjuring portals to some frozen hell from which packs of their hunting beast constantly streamed until Keira could dispel them. I thought this odd; surely the several hunters would’ve been more than a match for us? But then one axe-wielding brute deigned to face us in combat and we made a startling revelation; they are not so powerful as one may think. His reactions were slow, his swings sloppy, his environmental awareness practically nonexistent. Keira suppressed his movements with conjured lighting and wind, while I struck and danced back in as unpredictable a pattern as I could. I wonder if the hunt has gotten so used to slaughtering foolish peasants that their dueling skills have atrophied?

To give credit where credit is due, Keira was amazing in the fight. She didn’t let the wraith have a single opening save for when I chose to charge it, and without a word between us we formed a rhythm of ebb and flow attacks that kept up near-constant pressure. Afterwards, when gained access to the inner chambers, she had some essential insights into the cryptic clues the mage left behind. Ones the hunt may not have been able to glean for themselves, pointing in the direction of some old crones that live in the eastern bogs.

First time that I can remember fighting a werewolf as big as this one, and I imagine if I ever have to do so again I’m going to need to be a lot better at it than I was last night. Wasn’t expecting it to be traveling with a pack, it was lucky that I brought plenty of bombs and a decoction I made from the griffin that started building me a resistance to their bite. I took a lot of nasty scratches, gouged through my armor enough that I’ll have to get something new made. But it attacked flailingly, clearly wasn’t used to opponents that would fight back, and despite its speed it was easy enough to dodge the worst of its blows.

Turned out the creature was the husband of the most recent victim, and was sicced on her by her sister. Explains why she was willing to pay me to not accept the job. Delusional wench actually thought she could win the cursed man’s heart. I chose not to bring her to justice; with the werewolf dealt with there were no witnesses, and I don’t have time to get involved in more small town matters. Besides, the wretched fool’s got nobody left now. The life she’s made for herself ought to be punishment enough.

After I patched myself up and fixed some salvaged armor from a Kaedweni trooper (they sew plates into the seams of their cloth gambesons, so it should prove more sturdy than the padding I was wearing before) I went off to seek the witch. To my surprise I found her to be a sorceress, Keira Mentz, former advisor to Foltest and apparently a former acquaintance. She said an elven mage had met with her, on Ciri’s track as well, and said to come to some old elven ruins if she had information. Unfortunately, we saw the Wild Hunt entering ahead of us. Keira tried to teleport us to get an advantage on them, but something in the ruins disrupted her spell. Now we are navigating a maze of catacombs, with no shortage of necrophages and magical traps and barriers tied to riddles the mage had set up especially for only Ciri to be able to complete. Or someone who knew her well.

This man, whoever he is, was either very close with her or has studied her very closely. His tone in the magical messages he left behind for her remind me of a school instructor. A mentor, perhaps? Despite having to navigate so many of his traps, I actually feel comforted knowing that Ciri had such a cautious and powerful ally. I hope I can learn more about him when we find the inner chambers of this place.

Once the griffin was slain the captain informed me that Yennefer was less than a day’s ride away, in Vizima, the whole time. I won’t say I left his company on bad terms, but it certainly left a bad taste in my mouth. Didn’t have much time to dwell on that, though. She arrived at the inn herself later that day, just as me and Vessimir were through handling some ruffians that had been looking for a fight. And she came with a Nilfgaardian escort. Turns out she’s been on the trail of Ciri, a girl I’ve started to remember more and more about from my past life lately. A girl who we were raising together, to become a witcher. A girl who was born to Emperor Emeries of the Nilfgaardian empire, before fate put her in our hands. A girl who was kidnapped by the Wild Hunt.

Yennefer seems to have little interest in rekindling our former relationship; she told me how to get on Ciri’s track and explained that the Hunt was now after her, making her a liability if she continued the search herself even with the help she was now getting from the Emperor. My less magical and more resourceful methods would be much better suited to the task.

I’d wondered for a long time how I’d feel when I met Yennefer again. It wasn’t like seeing an old lover, which is what she was. More like meeting the woman of your dreams; familiar but strange all the same. I feel some loss over finding that our romance is dead, but then that relationship wasn’t really mine anyways. I remember more about Ciri than I do about Yennefer, for that matter.

The Hunt already found the person I was supposed to meet up with in the little countryside of Velen who’d been collecting rumors of a white-haired woman with a scar on her face being spotted here and there. Fortunately they didn’t take his notes. I’m a few steps behind, and the idea of having to race the Wild Hunt itself is frankly terrifying. Especially since even I can’t operate tirelessly. I’ll still have to take on witcher’s work for coin, and my sympathies for these villagers are too strong to avoid helping them if I can. I don’t just have a responsibility to her; this land, this world needs me too.

Vessimir and myself have traveled to White Orchard on the trail of Yennefer. She sent a letter to Caer Morhen, urging us to meet in Willoughby. But that village has fallen prey to the war, which came more swiftly than I was anticipating. The houses are ransacked, though whether it was by the invaders or the native military I honestly don’t know. So now we must track her across the countryside and pray she remains safe.

White Orchard, the next nearest village, is under Nilfgaardian occupation now. The captain appears to be a decent fellow, taking only what supplies the villagers can spare. “Decent” by a peasant’s standards anyways; he holds information on Yennefer hostage until I slay a griffin hunting in the nearby countryside. “For the safety of peasants” of course. Not because he’s a cheapskate and wants to rid himself of a threat to his men without paying a crown for it.

I’ve begun making preparations to set a lure for the griffin, but I’ll confess I’ve delayed significantly to assist the villagers with some other troubles (for a fee, of course.) Outside of the coin it’s been worth my time; some bandits ended up having diagrams for witcher’s blades designed by the Viper school. They’re nice and light, balanced in the hilt to allow for defter movement, and I’ve been finding my long-honed reaction speed counting for more than usual with them in my hands.

It’s clearly been a long time since a witcher or even a competent mercenary came through here. A nearby well has been haunted for decades, by the villagers’ account, and until the war fouled the river they were all happy to just go without using it. I looked through the area and found the telltale signs of tragedy; the skeleton of a fisherman with a bag over his head hanged in his hut, bloodstains set deep in the wood of the houses, and a journal indicating the wife of the settlement’s founder caught the eye of the feudal lord they’d abandoned to come here. No surprise the place was haunted.

I now lie with Triss in a makeshift camp, on the road away from that ancient elven city. For now, our battles are over, but I fear there will be many, many more in our future.

We interrupted the peace talks to testify against Sile de Tanserville, and expose her involvement along with Philippa and other sorceresses who went rogue and employed the kingslaying witchers to murder Foltest and Demavend. When knights of the Order attempted to arrest her so she could stand trial, she assaulted them with magic and summoned Saskia in her dragon form, apparently somehow controlling her with Philippa’s spell. She attacked them and retreated to a nearby tower. I gave chase, despite the dragon, the walls and stairs crumbling underneath its assault. At the top I found her amidst a magical apparatus, in the process of teleporting away. But it had been sabotaged, and as the magical energies began to slowly tear her apart piece by piece she screamed for me to assist her.

I did not. An action I may regret, as now she’ll never stand trial and there may always be question about her involvement or her goals. But I couldn’t leave such a monster roaming free. She plunged the North into chaos perhaps unlike anything it has ever faced, and were she left alive she’d only sew more destruction and despair until she was finally put down. As to the morality of letting her die so, my conscience is clean. She had no more right to mercy than a bruxae or a ghoul.

Once she was dealt with I subdued Saskia. With the magical protection of both potions and witcher signs around me, I could walk right through her fire and mount her head. In her effort to throw me off she impaled herself on a tree. I could’ve finished her there, but I chose to let her limp away. This woman may yet be a great leader among our people, and while now she remains in Philippa’s thrall (wherever she is) as long as there’s any chance of saving her that chance must be taken. Besides, witchers don’t kill dragons.

All that remained now was Letho. When I returned to the city Triss told me he’d sent a messenger to say he was waiting for me. I thought it was some strange matter of honor that led him to desiring a final confrontation, but in reality it was just because I was one of the few remaining people alive who knew of his involvement. And maybe the only person with any intent to harrow him until justice was delivered. He gave up any information I asked for, over a bottle of vodka, hoping his amicability would soften me up to the idea of letting him go his own way. So I learned about how the Nilfgaardian empire had assigned him and his fellow witchers to get cozy with the sorceresses in the North, take any opportunity they had to weaken the kingdoms, and slay kings when they could. How he’d gotten involved with Nilgfard in the first place from being on the run with Yennefer, my beloved in the life I had before amnesia, and how they’d cooperated in exchange for protection for her and for themselves. How they’d only kept Yennefer in their company because it was my last request before giving myself over to the Wild Hunt in her stead. How we’d traveled together, long ago, seeking the Hunt to confront them in what could’ve been the grandest fight between witchers and monsters solely because of my love for her.

When I was done learning, I drew my sword. This man might’ve been a friend of another Geralt, but he was undoubtedly my enemy. He had framed me for murder, threatened my friends, thrown my home country into disarray, and nearly stained the reputation of all sorceresses and mages with the taint of treason. So great was his selfishness, it never even occurred to him that I might look beyond my own immediate self-interest when determining his guilt.

Ironically, he had little regard for his own self-interest when we fought. The man charged like a bull, which was befitting of his great stature but unexpected given his cunning. Perhaps he judged me a superior fighter on even ground, and thought catching me off guard early was the only way to best me. I blinded him with a flashbomb and while he swung wildly I dispersed a number of traps about the courtyard. When he began regaining his senses, I provoked him with a wind spell, daring him to approach. As I’d hoped, he took little notice of the shrapnel and gas launchers that were now between us until they began biting at his legs, and as he avoided the few he could I struck.

So ended the life of perhaps one of my greatest enemies, more than my match in conspiracy if not in combat. What now, then? Do I make preparations to join the side of my country in the coming war with Nilfgaard? Do I try and reclaim my lost memories? Do I seek out Yennefer? The Wild Hunt? Somewhere safe to dwell in peace with Triss?

After Triss was rescued and safely hidden in the city, I found myself time to spare for a few days before the peace talks began. With Philippa apparently escaped on her own, and Iorveth nowhere to be found, I decided to follow a lead on Philippa’s  treacherous apprentice, who was leading an expedition into an old mage’s tower. When I confronted her, she made a deal that if I  spared her life and assisted her and her compatriots in finding the mage’s ancient treasures, she would reveal secrets of my past learned from old Nilfgardian intelligence reports.

 I accepted the spy’s bargain, temporarily. When I learned that the mage’s treasure was a device capable of reading minds from afar, I slew Cynthia and her partner in crime to destroy it. This was only after finally penetrating the depths of the tower, which involved (among a confrontation with a golem and numerous illusory doors) a surprisingly clever and pleasant little riddle I will replicate here, while it’s fresh in my mind, to refer back to in the future and possibly win some coin in taverns some day.

A group of travellers wandering through the dark, three guides above them so three were marked.

At night they trailed a drake serpentine, and a silver lady, shining and fine,

If only her visage she would deign to unfold. By day they followed a mountainside vault - its riches untold.

 Set 1

1. Ouroboros surrounding an hourglass.

A serpent swallowing its own tail is a well-known symbol for infinity, a concept of time. This portrayal of the serpent could symbolize the time of the traveler’s journey.

2. A constellation of stars forming a multi-headed dragon breathing fire.

This dragon, which is another word for drake, literally appears in the night sky. Additionally, in western European literature dragons are invariably portrayed alongside fire.

3. A man emerging from the neck of a winged serpentine dragon.

In alchemy, a winged serpentine dragon is a symbol for prime chaotic matter, an essential component of transformation. The first verse could be an allegory for this transformation.

 Set 2

1. A woman in white armor on a white horse holding a cross.

A white lady was a common symbol among medieval Christian monastic orders. Additionally, in heraldry silver is rendered as white, and the fresco illustrates an armored rider, a common heraldic symbol.

2. A woman whose face is also the moon against the night sky.

In alchemy, the moon represents silver and is associated with femininity. Many mythologies also represent the moon as a lady in white.

3. A woman in battle dress atop a giant skull. 

The mage originated from Nilfgard, whose most famous military unit was the imperial Naussica brigade. The symbol of the brigade was the death’s head, or skull, and Naussica is a woman’s name.

 Set 3

1. A stony ravine with a river flowing into it from a mountain.

A core principle of Hermeticism is “as above, so below.” This image portrays a high mountain distributing its riches into a low valley, possibly as a metaphor for that principle.

2. A grand mine built in the heart of a mountainside.

Mountains are known for the wealth of minerals they contain, and mining is how those treasures are extracted. Earthen minerals also make up all the essential ingredients of alchemy.

3. A tall tower on a mountaintop being struck by lightning.

When we arrived at Loc Muine, I was surprised to discover the Order of the Flaming Rose camped outside, Siegfried among them. Though not there in an official capacity, like many kings in attendance Radovid of Redania had request additional military presence, and the Order was happy to oblige. He informed me that Philippa had been arrested by the Redanians under charges of treason, and was currently held in a dungeon awaiting execution. He granted me passage into the ancient elven city, I stole away into the sewers in order to find my way into the prison.

Once there I found Philippa being tortured by the Nilfgardian ambassador. He fled at the sight of me, and I hurried to gather an explanation from Philippa, discovering that it was in fact she who was behind the kingslayer’s actions along with members of a secret society known as the “Lodge of Sorceresses,” its other members including Sile and Triss. She refused to reveal more until I freed her, even trying to barter with control over Saskia, but I knew that Triss’ life would be at risk if I tarried with rescuing the recently blinded Philippa. So instead I caught up to the ambassador, used him to force my way into his country’s camp, and then slaughtered every Nilfgardian I saw.

They fought intelligently, their commander trying to let their crossbowmen do as much damage as possible before sending in his footsoldiers. He even shot the ambassador himself to prevent his use as a human shield. But, as was the case in Vergen, not even a small army is any match for me. It’s more than just potions; my body has mutated from constant use of elixirs to enhance it, allowing for superhuman processing of adrenaline. I can fight longer and harder than perhaps any soldier on earth without tiring, as proven during the siege in Vergen when I required no rest even after an entire day’s worth of battle. Additionally, I’ve nearly mastered the magic of witcher’s signs; I can manipulate the Power to even alter their effects in slightly more tactical ways. No battlemage or knight can equal me in swordsmanship or combative magic, at least none that I’ve ever met.

The battle with mortals ended up being considerably more difficult than the one with the draug. Henselt and the Kaedweni army began their siege on Vergen once the mist was gone, and I joined Zoltan and the other commanders to aid the Aedirnian side. I won’t say I didn’t sympathize with their cause; the idea of a free state led by an elected leader and inhabited by elves, dwarves, and humans united together is a nice dream. But not one I had any intention of laying my life on the line for. Ensuring the safety of the one woman who seems capable of pulling the dream off, however, is something I would risk my life for. The northern kingdoms  are in enough disarray with two of their kings dead, they don’t need a warmonger gaining more power right now. Besides, any woman that can lead an entire nation’s worth of people (albeit a nation of miners and cowherds) is one worth safeguarding.

Once the enemies breached the outer gate of Vergen, I stayed by Saskia the Dragonslayer’s side at the top of the battlements, fighting back what troops could make it over the walls with magically-infused bombs. I escorted her as she went into the tunnels at our rear to route a side force dispatched to flank us. They had a mage with them whose reckless spellcasting collapsed part of the tunnel on me, and if Saskia had not revealed her true form as a golden dragon, I would’ve been slain by him. She explained that she had sympathy for nonhumans and wished to provide a better world for them, whatever it took. This included fighting against Foltest during the siege I was at, to secure support and arms from his enemies. I’ll admit I found the idea of a dragon queen leading the first independent free state this continent has seen in a while...disturbing. But it seemed to be its only chance.

I was unable to rescue Triss. Even with the aid of Roche, who guided me into the Nilfgardian camp behind the Kaedweni forces, I was too late. The Nilfgard ambassador had her petrified by magic (Philippa’s apprentice Cynthia is a traitor and spy, apparently) and according to the letters I’ve found, will be taking her to Loc Muine, though for a part in some scheme. I barely escaped the camp in one piece, and returned to Philippa with the news.

But there was no time for regrets. The curse had to be lifted, so that we could finally depart this place. Cleansing the curse turned out to be easier than I expected, all things considered. As Philippa had determined, artifacts of significance to the battle from which the curse was born were required to break it. I acquired a commander’s old sword from Saskia and tricked a wraith in the catacombs into giving up his unit’s flag, while Philippa recovered a knight’s armor and a war medal. With these, I was able to enter the spectral recreation of the Battle of Brenna safely, and witness its events through different soldier’s eyes.

I quickly determined that it was the reanimated soul of Commander Vandergrift, now a vengeful draug, who was infecting the other spirits with his rage and bloodlust, driving them into reliving the battle endlessly within the bounds of the cursed mist. Vandergrift fell by my hand rather easily; his giant ironclad body was ill-suited to maneuvering around the battlefield, and a simple pirouette during one of his howling charges was all I needed to flank him. Then I leapt upon his back, my silver blade coated in specter-killing oil, and plunged it deep in between the plates of his armor. The monster collapsed in ruin, its form dissipated, and with it so did the mist.

I sit now in the tavern of Vergen, the Aedirnian dwarf hold where the rebels are stationed, preparing for a journey into the cursed phantom mist to rescue Triss. The sorceress Phillipa was finally able to locate a sign of her magic with her rituals. Funnily enough, despite having been in a rush to find her before when I was forced to wait, now I’m waiting of my own volition to make all possible preparations. If I’m to cut my way through hordes of Draugir, the pure embodiments of a fallen soldier’s bloodlust, I’ll need to be in top form.

Not that I’ve wasted time while waiting, of course. As usual, I’ve gotten myself wrapped up in the local politics. The freedom fighters here intend not just to fend of Henselt’s invasion, they wish to secede Vergen and all the Pontar Valley from Aedirn as well. Saskia “the Dragonslayer,” their leader, has managed to not only pull together a fighting force of the local human and dwarf peasants, but Iorveth’s Scoia’tael rebels and even most Aedirnian nobles back her cause, more willing to surrender their rule of the valley to locals than to invaders.

Unfortunately, Saskia’s been poisoned, and the Aedirnian prince jailed for the crime. The latter isn’t an issue I have much chance at sorting out myself (though I did what I could to see him only jailed and not lynched by a mob before a trial) so I am working with Phillipa to see Saskia cured. Or rather, I’m doing all the heavy lifting of trying to break the curse while she devotes her time keeping Saskia alive with her magic. I’ve obtained one ingredient we need, a wreath woven of immortelles, flowers that only grow deep underground. Zoltan and a band of dwarves went with me into the necrophage-haunted depths of the mines to fetch the flowers. The dwarves fought like madmen, which was handy when facing hordes of corpse-eaters charging through the narrow tunnels. It was significantly less handy once we had to confront a much larger monster, a Bullvore. The web of explosive and magical traps I’d woven through the passage preceding its lair ended up being wasted as the dwarven warriors charged ahead to confront it before it could be led into them. Though they provided a handy distraction while I flanked it and cut its back to ribbons. The ogre-like corpse eater howled and charged, but the damage was done; in its weakened state I could dodge and riposte at will until I saw an opening for the coup de grace. Though that hunt was successful, I do think I’ll be trying my best to work alone on such future expeditions.

I will briefly note the success I had in slaying the Kayran, with the help of a visiting sorceress by the name of Sile de Tanserville. With Triss’ help I had collected samples of its mucus from the riverside and analyzed them to discover the Kayran was suffering from some kind of toxic mutation, one that made it grow much larger than is natural for it but also covered it in poisonous growths. These growths made for excellent weak points, and once the sorceress had pinned the Kayran into a cove with a magically summoned storm, I was able to slay it in battle.

In short the battle was trivial, owing in large part to my experience and skill as a witcher, but I am not at ease. I do believe a great and terrible change is on the horizon. Too much strangeness surrounded the king’s assassination. A dragon attacked the castle during the siege, but seemed to only be interested in assaulting Foltest’s men. The Scoia’tael assisted the assassin’s escape, and judging by his eyes, the assassin was likely a witcher. And likely one that’s undergone some substantial mutations, judging by his size and speed. There was another attempt on the king’s life some months ago, and that assassin too bore similarities to a witcher, or at least a mutant. I am filled with dread when I think of the implications, but I cannot penetrate the mystery. Why witchers? And why now?

It feels like years since I’ve last had the opportunity to sit and write, though in reality it’s been mere months. Some nobles got themselves involved in a dispute for the crown, and King Foltest demanded my assistance by way of special request. I kept by his side as he fought a number of pitched battles that culminated in the siege of the political rival’s castle. I’d hoped to be done with the matter and be on my own way, but no such luck: he was cut down by an assassin while we were alone in a tower, and I was left framed for the murder.

Fortunately (after some needlessly brutal interrogation) I was able to convince the intelligence officer Vernon Roche of my innocence. He staged my escape from prison, with Triss’ help, and now we’ve begun the hunt for the assassin to seek justice and clear my name. Our only lead is that I saw the man escape with the help of Scoia'tael rebels, leaping from the castle tower into the river where they waited with a boat. A group of the freedom fighters live in the forest near the town of Flotsam, not far downriver from the castle where I was held prisoner. We’ve started our investigation here; to my surprise Dandelion and Zoltan both awaited us. Apparently the bard’s taken up work as an informant for Roche, and Zoltan has been sticking by his side as of late since his engagement fell through. I’m glad to see my old friends, but I’m worried that their presence will complicate things. Especially since within moments of meeting them I had to talk the local commandant out of hanging them under false accusations.

After I write this entry, it’s likely I’ll not be able to bring myself to open this journal again for some time. Triss examined the amulet I took off of Jacques de Aldersberg’s body and confirmed my worst suspicion. It was in fact the very same I gave Alvin mere weeks ago, but with the wear of a lifetime on it. So, when Alvin teleported himself after that skirmish in the village, he didn’t merely travel through space but through time, hurtling himself back into the past. Where he later grew up to become the greatest villain the present has ever known.

I did wonder at how he presumed to know so much about how I think, when we faced in his dreamworld. I see now that his twisted rationalizations for his plan were born from the guidance I’d tried to give him when he was young. He talked of changing humanity’s fate by taking it into his own hands, whereas I had once said we were all masters of our own destiny. He spoke of how witchers were but a step in evolution to a new breed of human, whereas I had told him of both our great power and fallibility.

If only I’d had more time with him. I had so wanted to set a good example. I had hoped that with his great powers, he might’ve grown up to be someone truly incredible. Someone better even than me, the “savior” of Vizima. Instead, he became a zealous madman, terrorized by the future he dreamed of and driven to avoid it even if it meant dooming humanity. We are lucky he apparently never learned how to control his teleportation powers, or he might’ve sought to alter time itself to fit his plan.