#morhen

And I just…cant help but love it bc they’re all just mothers making a safe space for their families, I had to draw them:

" They say that progress illuminates the darkness. But there will always, always be darkness. And in that darkness there will always be Evil, in that darkness there will always be fangs and claws, murder and blood. There will always be things that go bump in the night. And we, witchers, are the ones who bump back at them.” -Vesemir of Kaer Morhen

By: Hashkulov Murat (Left)

Guillem H. Pongiluppi (Right)

As Geralt was making his way back to Hankala, the atmosphere seemed to shift.  Only slightly, but to his keen Witcher senses he could sense the tiniest of differences. The mist became so thick that he couldn’t see even a few metres ahead of him.  Blinded.  Something was wrong.  Very wrong. Geralt drew his silver sword in safe measure.  Moments passed.  The White Wolf turned violently and rapidly, keeping on guard.  At first, he was dancing with the fog, back and forth. Back and forth.  More moments passed.  The air became thin and extremely unusual.  The whole scenario became… colder.  Then, he spotted it.  Out of the corner of his eye.  A strange black mass emerged from the cloud, quite leisurely.  Strange noises in a foreign language became embedded in Geralt’s mind.  He immediately knew that this method was the creature’s distraction technique; psychological effects.  Geralt tried to block out the sensory invasions and instead tried to focus on the black figure in the distance.  However, no matter how hard he tried, they dug in, creeping, settled behind the enemy lines. Unable to shift and destroy.  It wasn’t until seconds later that he realised that he had dropped his sword and was clawing at his own head.  The beast had also crept further towards him.  It was less than a metre from the Witcher, yet he could not see it.  Blocked out of his head – just like Stefan described.  Untouchable.  Invisible. Geralt tried to use his Witcher spells to delay or distract the ominous presence.  Aard… nothing.  Igni… nothing.  It felt like decades had passed by now, yet Geralt’s subconscious recognised that only seconds had occurred.  He fell to the ground and tried to retreat.  All energy simmered and evaporated; lost from his body.  All muscles were numbing.  The Cold-Hearted Thief descended with him, blinding all his vision with its huge nothing.  As a last resort, Geralt tried to cast one more spell, in desperate hope that something may happen; anything.  It was clear though that nothing could stop this unexpected threat from invasion.  He was too unprepared…

 Cold.  Geralt felt the cold against his cheek.  The rock and grit sheltered his vision.  A few slow blinks made them scatter. Thick dust clogging his lungs making it hard to breath.  He felt energy gently reappear into his muscles.  He tried his hardest to push himself up from the uneven earthy ground that currently supported his limp weight.  His muscles creaked and wobbled like they were going to snap like fragile bits of splinter.  As he steadily came into consciousness, he tried to breathe more calmly and rhythmic like. However, his body blurted out coughs of rejection.  Was this even air?  The horrific stench that owned the place was so abominable.  Geralt rubbed his face as he stood up.  Blurred vision finally merged into one.  Darkness.  Darkness so dark, even the devil would not see it.  Geralt came to the conclusion that he had been recklessly dumped at the bottom of a cave.  The only light that was visible was the tiny spot of light far in the distance – which silently glowed like a speckle in a pot of glitter.  Shit.  The Witcher recollected his thoughts.  Whatever the Thief was, it was powerful.  As ironic as the title suggests, The Thief had not taken any of his equipment.  His swords still perched.  Potions still remained.  Brain still intact.  Why would the beast move him to a confined space only to not remove or detain him of anything?  Geralt presumed that he would soon find out.

 He struggled to clamber his way out of this grave-like structure.  He felt like he was drowning in all the soot and dust that was disturbed by the sudden movements and gestures that he made.  He made his way towards the light one step at a time.  Some time later, he came to a point in the cave which proved difficult to climb.  Regarding his weight, it was more than likely he would dislodge some rock and risk falling. He looked down.  The bottom wasn’t visible.  Small rocks fell to prove it, wailing tiny screams as they rapidly descended. Geralt sighed.  This was risky, but he felt there was no other choice to be made.  He clung to the nearest piece that stuck out of the wall.  He only put weight on the ones he dared to.  More rocks fell to the abyss that loomed.  He continued.  If Geralt had to guess, he was maybe less than fifty metres until the top.  Until liberty.  The glow at the top laughed at his incompetence, the singular pin prick of the light dancing on his face mocking him.  He laid his foot on another step.  Then another.  Slowly making progress, Geralt maintained his soothing nature and level-headed intellect. In… two… three… Out… two… Shit. Geralt’s foot slipped.  Clashes of the ledge which was once comfortably holding his weight echoed – another helpless prisoner, consumed by the Cold Heart’s grasp.  Adrenaline kicked in for Geralt.  His entire control that he had on the vertical cliff was slipping.  He was so close now.  One more stretch!  He reached for the tree root that glistened in the sunlight…

 In normal circumstances, Geralt would be pleased to feel the sun radiate onto his skin.  Instead however, it blistered his face and withered his senses.  Wincing in pain, Geralt was unsure whether it was because he had been in the dark for such a long period of time or whether it was of the own phantom’s cause.  He had no passage of time – how long had he been unconscious down there?  Geralt took a long deep breath of the crisp island sea air. Hankala was west from here… Wherever ‘here’ was, he thought in doubt.

 He reached the village.  Finally.  He visited Deryk. On the verge of passing out, The White Wolf tried to export the information he had learned but struggled.  He dug his way for oxygen.  When he did try to speak, they would rapidly slur into a “hold on, I need to breathe” attitude.  After Geralt had fully recovered, he unveiled his cryptic discoveries: the scorch marks, the lack of blood or evidence of death, the encrypted letter.

“I will keep searching,” he promised.  For now, though, he requested a room at the inn for the night.  He was seeking desperately for rest.  Out of sheer kindness, Deryk lent him the room for free – as reward for the evidence he had gathered.  Geralt thanked him.

 Geralt was gifted with relief when he rested on the comforting bed that sat in the slightly melancholy room.  He was just glad he was gifted with sleep.  He slowly closed his eyes.  Composure, at last.

 The White Wolf drifted into tranquillity.  Although he didn’t wake, the Witcher felt pain in a part of his unconsciousness.  It was acid that had accurately spilled into his thoughts.  Evaporating thoughts, disappearing in a blink of an eye.  The Cold-Hearted Thief loomed.  Everything felt… darkened. Clawing at the edge of his consciousness, darkness tore it away bit by bit.  Geralt drifted deeper into an unescapable nightmare…

 “Come on!  Get up, you lazy Bastard.” Eskel tugged at his shoulder.  Geralt awoke from his sleep and looked around him.

“Awake, Geralt – we have work to do.” Yennefer expressed. He was at Kaer Morhen.  Geralt swiftly rose from his place.  Yep.  Definitely Kaer Morhen.  He mindlessly followed them upstairs towards another part of the castle.

This story is based off The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt.  Please let me know if you enjoy this by following my blog. If you have any feedback please comment.  If I find out people enjoy this kind of stuff, I may continue the story.  I’m literally just starting out so I would really appreciate it if you reblogged so I can get more recognition.  Thanks!

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