Stillness covered the forest as a thick fog wound its way between the trees, giving the dense woodlands a ghostly air, almost magical. A few stray beams of sunlight speared down through the canopy overhead, cutting sharp shafts through the roiling white mist, the first heralds of the day.

Hugging close to the slopes of the mountain, the forest was thick, almost impenetrable to those untrained in the ways of the wilds. This was just fine for the occupants of the castle that perched atop the mountain's peak, the crumbling keep of Kaer Tiele. The ancient fortification had seen many owners, across the generations. Elves, soldiers, nobles, and now it was home to the Witchers, a guild of monster hunters. The School of the Wolf, one of the divisions of the centuries-old guild, now called the cold halls their home, training dozens of new hunters and huntresses with every passing season.

One of these huntresses now stalked through the woods, moving cautiously, barely making a sound. She crouched low to the ground, hiding her profile from any prying eyes. Her armour, a black cloth gambeson that reached down to her thighs, glistened with droplets of moisture from the morning's mist. Her heavy black boots left nary a mark in the dirt under her feet, so light was her tread.

Toril, for that was her name, moved quietly but swiftly, leaving no trace of her passage, save for a few swirling eddies in the fog. Her bright yellow eyes, the pupils vertical slits like a cat's, narrowed as she glanced about, scanning her surroundings with a predatory awareness. She breathed deeply, the nostrils of her delicately shaped nose widening just a fraction as she tested the damp air, allowing her heightened senses to search for any sign of her quarry. She reached up to sweep her dark brown hair behind her ear, listening cautiously. Lips the colour of a ripe cherry pressed together, a slight upwards curve at their corners betraying her satisfaction as the faint rustling sound reached her. She turned, gazing deeper into the woods. Her hand tightened around the shortbow she carried, anticipation in her clenching muscles. Then, with a burst of speed, she moved silently after her prey.

After minutes of careful pursuit, stopping occasionally to inspect a hoof-print in the mud or pick at a tuft of hair caught on a bramble, the Witcheress came across a green glade, the beginnings of a small, clear stream emerging from the ground. A fallen elm served as a platform for dozens of broad-capped mushrooms, their white stalks and red tops a bright contrast to the moss that coated the boulders, tree trunks and ground all around the clearing in a thick emerald blanket. There, in the centre of the clearing, lapping at the waters of the stream, was a small doe, her tawny brown fur glistening with dew.

Toril froze at the edge of the clearing, barely daring to breathe lest the sound alert her prey. She reached for the quiver slung across her back, drawing a single arrow, a yew shaft tipped with a sharp iron tip. The fletching was white goose feathers, trimmed neatly. Moving incredibly slowly, the Witcheress lifted her bow. The arrow found its place on the string, the huntress sighting along the shaft, lining it up with her cheekbone. Drawing in a deep breath, she pulled back on the bow, feeling the tension in the string as she took aim. The muscles in her torso flexed and pulled as she finished drawing, the back tight as the chest expanded. She paused, feeling a wave of calm wash over her. Her eyes focused, the slits narrowing under her command, allowing her perfect control over her gaze. The tip of her arrow twitched, a final adjustment in the heartbeat where the bow flexed to its full extent. Then, as the breath rushed from between her pursed lips, she released the string.

There was a twang, followed by a quiet whipping sound as the arrow leapt from the bow. The lethal shaft surged through the air, diving towards its mark. The young deer had no time to respond, the shaft piercing her side in a blink. The arrow drove itself deep, piercing the animal's side just behind the foreleg and vanishing inside the chest. Toril knew right away that she'd pierced both lungs, a lethal shot.

The doe reacted straight away, leaping into a flurry of frantic motion. She bounded away from the stream, loping across the clearing away from Toril. The Witcher stood, knowing that the animal would not get far. Sure enough, before she had even reached the clearing's edge, some fifty yards or so away, the doe slowed to a dizzy stagger, then fell to her knees, sagging into the underbrush.

Toril moved towards the stricken animal quickly, slinging her bow over her shoulder as she hopped across the stream. By the time she reached the fallen deer, a glassy sheen was already filling its eyes, death imminent. The Witcheress knelt next to the animal, drawing a knife from the sheath strapped to her calf. The doe didn't even register her presence, its mind already fogging as blood seeped from the wounds either side of its chest, the arrow having passed cleanly through the body. Scarlet bubbles frothed on its lips as it tried to draw in a few final breaths, its lungs filling with blood. With a practised motion, Toril slashed with the knife, opening its throat. A spurt of blood stained her hand, the main artery spilling its contents on the forest floor. The doe continued to twitch for a few seconds more before the last remnants of life fled its body and it finally went peacefully still.

A twinge of remorse tugged at the huntress' heart as she watched the animal's final moments, regretful that the kill was necessary, but a beast like this would feed the adepts in the castle above, at least for a little longer. With winter fast approaching, every morsel of food they could stock up on was essential. Putting aside all feelings of pity, the Witcheress leaned over the still-warm corpse, setting about the grisly task of butchery.

So absorbed was she in the task before her, Toril almost didn't hear their approach. It was only as a tell-tale itch awakened in the nape of her neck that the huntress began to pay attention to her surroundings again. Her ears, buried between the cascade of brown hair that tumbled over her shoulders, twitched as they picked up the faint rustle of displaced leaves, something moving close behind her. She froze, trying not to show any reaction to whatever was approaching.

The tread was light, too light for a human. They were far too clumsy. Even the hunters who had trained themselves to call the forest home from childhood moved with little grace compared to a Witcher. And yet, they had been loud enough for her to detect them drawing close. In Toril's experience, that could only mean one thing. A familiar scent reached Toril's nostrils, confirming her suspicions. The smell of damp earth, crushed verbena leaves and berbercane berries was a unique mixture that the Witcheress had learned to recognise over the years.

Toril rose from her kneeling position, turning to see two Elves watching her cautiously from the far side of the clearing. They were young for their kind, perhaps only sixty years between the two of them, and watched the Witcheress with wary eyes, clearly uncomfortable around one of her kind. Even so, they had not drawn their weapons, the broad-bladed swords that sat upon their hips. Toril could sense no immediate threat from them, so opted for the peaceful approach. She hesitated only a moment before her memory dredged up the relevant words she had learned in her younger years.

"Caed'mil!" The word felt awkward on her tongue, a strange language that she had not had cause to use for many years. The Elves twitched at her use of their own tongue, clearly surprised. She continued in the common tongue, her knowledge of the Elder Tongue too limited. "What brings you to these woods?"

The Elves hesitated for just a moment before one of them, tall and broadly built with his dark hair tied back in a topknot, stepped forward, electing himself spokesman for his kin.

"We seek one of your kind, Vatt'ghern." He spoke firmly, his tone just a little haughty, disdainful. "Our mother... our mother is sick, and needs aid."

"Then maybe you should seek out a healer, not a trained killer." Toril glanced down at her hands, still slick with the deer's blood. "I have no skill with herbs and medicines. I thought the Aen Seidhe had their own ways of healing their sick?"

"This is no ordinary illness." The Elf answered. "With every day, she withers. Our normal remedies have no effect. She claims that a curse has taken a hold of her flesh, and only the alchemy of the Vatt'ghern can cure her. She sent us to seek a Witcher of the old keep to lend their aid."

"There are other Witchers more qualified than I to-" Toril paused, considering her words before finishing.

At this time of the year, the only Witcher within Kaer Tiele's halls skilled with alchemy would be Meinard, and she couldn't imagine him offering his aid freely. The old mutagens Master always had his own agendas in mind, no matter the task before him. She looked to the Elves, seeing the worry that weighed heavily on their features. A swell of compassion pushed at her. She couldn't ignore their plea for help. Toril sighed, looking back to the half-butchered carcass. It would have to wait.

"Alright then, show me to her."

~o~0~o~

Compared to the rapidly warming day outside, the air inside the cave was moist, cool, and utterly still. Green moss crawled up the damp walls, an emerald carpet that deadened all sound. Faint dripping echoed from wall to wall while, somewhere deep within the cave, a low and mournful moan of moving air bored deep into the listener's core.

Toril's eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom within, a momentary thought narrowing her cat-like pupils. The two Elves accompanying her confidently strode deeper into the cave, leading the Witcheress further from the daylight.

The trio moved through several twists and turns before finally emerging into a large cavern. Thick pillars reached up from the cavern floor, while long stalactites dangled down over a pool of water. Somewhere far above, a slow trickle of water wormed its way down from a crevice in the cavern wall. Against the back wall of the cavern, close to the water's edge, a makeshift camp had been set up, a small fire burning weakly next to a large pile of fabric. With a quiet gesture, the younger of the Elves, a shorter she-Elf with golden hair, waved a hand towards the camp, encouraging Toril to approach.

Almost immediately, Toril could feel a pressure weighing down on her shoulders. An immensely powerful presence lurked before her, a source of power that caused the air to grow thick and heavy. The Witcheress felt her chest grow tight in surprise. At her breast, the wolf's-head medallion shivered in response to the magical aura. A Source. She'd had no idea. She pressed forward, drawing closer to the bundle of blankets and bolts of cloth that formed a makeshift bed.

The occupant of the bed was a she-Elf, the oldest that Toril had ever seen. Wrinkles criss-crossed the delicate features, deep from centuries of time. Her hair, once deep mahogany, was now run through with silver. Eyes clouded over, icy blue slowly fading. Those eyes rotated slowly to regard the Witcheress, a faint, slow smile twisting her features.

"Witcher."

Her voice, although frail, still thrummed with a deep, hidden power. It felt almost as though another being was talking through her, the she-Elf and this other creature somehow merged into one. Her tone pulsed with kindness, filling Toril's heart with warmth. The Witcheress felt a strong compulsion to bow her head, dropping to one knee. The she-Elf's smile deepened.

"It seems as though my children have exceeded my expectations. I knew of the ancient Witcher keep that looks over these lands, but had feared that none of your guild would agree to help us."

Toril could feel the ancient eyes examining her, probing her with far deeper sight than any mere Human's gaze could achieve. The pressure on her rose, a weight that tugged at her mind. Finally, after a long silence, the weight vanished. The she-Elf tried to sit up, clutching her bedding to her frail form.

"But then again, this isn't the first time that you've had dealings with our kind, is it?" Her eyes gleamed as Toril's head snapped up in surprise. "Yes, we know of you, Toril of Kaer Tiele. Ialeth speaks very kindly of you."

"Its… been some time." Toril admitted, glancing down at the armour she now wore, the scars on her hands, the medallion trembling on its chain around her neck. "A lot has changed."

"And yet still you remain the same person, deep down." The she-Elf countered. "Compassionate, driven, honourable. The kind of woman who would come to the aid of someone in need, like me."

"I- yes." Toril agreed, trust blooming within her. "Your children said you needed my help."

The she-Elf smiled, a small gesture that warmed the Witcheress' heart. Toril found herself smiling in return, her lips curving upwards almost by themselves. The she-Elf's eyes flickered with a deep, inner light.

"It is said that there is great power in the mutagens of the Witchers." She murmured. "That your mutations give you the lifespan of an Elf, the vitality of a Fiend, and total immunity to diseases..."

Something tingled in the Witcheress' ear, a faint whisper echoing through the cave, the tiniest rustle behind the sounds of dripping water. Temptation to turn towards the strange echo rose inside her, but the she-Elf's words kept her focus.

"I've lived a very long time, Toril." The elderly Aen Seidhe reached out to take the huntress' hand, squeezing it gently. "Over the centuries, the body begins to wear thin, to degrade. But your mutagens, your elixirs, your blood… they could save me."

Toril nodded mutely. It all seemed so reasonable. Whatever the she-Elf asked for, she'd happily-

Hairs rose on the back of the Witcheress' neck. Deep inside her, something primal stirred, screaming in alarm. Wrong. Something was wrong. She couldn't trust her eyes. She needed to-

There. Finally, the details sunk in for her. Toril looked down, down at the tangled, pulsating bundle of blankets, moving in a way that resembled no legs she had ever seen. The medallion, jumping on its chain as it only had a few times in the Witcheress' life. The hand, holding her own, fingers squeezing her tightly. Fingers that, in spite of what Toril's own eyes were telling her, felt long, slender, and covered in scales.

The Witcheress' eyes flicked up to meet those of the creature before her, the she-Elf's expression shifting. Eyes that had been milky, pale, now suddenly gleamed with emerald light. Her lips turned downwards, parting to reveal rows of pointed teeth, two inch-long fangs dripping venom.

Toril stumbled back as the creature suddenly lashed out, swiping at the Witcheress with hands that stretched and warped, sprouting long talons. The body of the she-Elf contorted, stretching into an unnaturally gaunt figure. The bundle of blankets shifted, their woven pattern transforming before Toril's eyes. Woollen fibres were replaced with glittering scales, the mass turning into a series of bulging coils of thick muscle as a long, serpentine body unfurled.

The creature reared up, snakelike body uncurling as the humanoid torso was lifted into the air. The she-Elf's features vanished, replaced by glassy green eyes and a cascade of midnight black hair. A long, forked tongue darted out from behind the sharp teeth as a long, low hiss echoed through the cavern.

"It's been a long time since someone has managed to resist my glamour." The monster hissed. "Damn your Witcher senses! Guess we'll have to do this the hard way..."

Toril stared at the monster with wide eyes. A Lamia. She'd heard of them, of course, but never seen one in the flesh. A native of Zerrikania, her tutors had told her that it was a flightless form of Siren, extremely rare and hardly understood by even the most experienced Witchers.

The creature darted forward with unnatural speed, her sinuous body slithering across the rough stone of the cave floor. Her hands scythed through the air, clawed fingers slashing at Toril. The Witcheress ducked the attack, narrowly missing the razor-sharp talons. The Lamia hissed, her tongue flickering behind her fangs. The thick coils of her body bunched together, pulling her back as she readied for another attack.

Seeing the threat, Toril scrambled back, her feet light as she bounded from one rock to another. She dodged around a tall stalagmite, narrowly missing another lunge from the Lamia. She reached to her back, bemoaning the fact that she hadn't taken her sword with her. As it was, she only had the hunting knife at her hip, and the bow slung across her back. The huntress quickly unslung the bow, stringing it as she half-ran, half-scurried around the edge of the pool of water. Behind her, the Lamia wove between the rocky formations of the cave, the broad bulk of her body slithering through the narrow crevices. The sound of her scales scraping against bare rock echoed through the cavern as she released a low hiss.

Toril paused for just a moment, turning as her hand darted to the quiver at her side. An arrow was quickly nocked, pulled back and released in a single fluid motion. The arrow tore through the air, striking the beast in the side, finding purchase under one of the monster's scales. The Lamia released a snarl of pain as crimson droplets welled from the wound, small as it was.

Seeing her success, the huntress reached for another arrow, but a shape emerged from between the stalagmites, barrelling into the Witcheress with flailing arms.

"Leave our mother alone!" The taller of the two Elves yelled, a clenched fist swiping at the huntress.

Toril narrowly dodged the blow, turning to face the new threat. Now that she knew what to look for, the Witcheress saw the glassy light in the eyes, the mindlessness behind the actions as the Elf's body jerked to and fro, a puppet on a string.

The Elf took another swipe at her with his bare hands, the other Elf emerging from the gloom of the cave to close in on Toril's flank. Realising that she could not afford to be bogged down fighting the pair while the monster loomed closer, the Witcheress quickly ran through her options. Killing them would be easiest, but they were no willing participants in whatever the Lamia planned, innocent pawns swept up in the monster's games. And Axii, perhaps? But surely the beast's domination would be far stronger than anything the Witcher could hope to undo with a simple Sign.

Realising she had little choice, the Witcheress locked her gaze with the taller of the pair.

"Forgive me." She muttered, and struck. With inhuman speed, she twirled her bow, the carved yew catching the Elf under the chin. His head snapped back from the blow, exposing his neck. With another quick motion, the huntress turned and brought the end of her bow around to strike him just under the jawline, where the soft flesh of the throat met the ear. The Elf tensed, then went limp, dropping to the ground with a sigh.

Toril spun to face the younger she-Elf, bow twirling in her grasp like a quarterstaff. With her free hand, the Witcheress traced a magical rune in the air, a faint glow surrounding her fingertips as she cast the Sign of Aard. A bolt of compressed air leapt from her palm, catching her opponent squarely in the chest and throwing her from her feet. The young Elf's skull hit a rock with a hollow crack, her body going still.

Momentary worry seized Toril, but she had no time to check on her fallen assailant. As the slithering scraping of the Lamia drew close. A clawed hand wrapped around a stalagmite, the twisting body heaving into view. The large, slitted eyes glanced to the prone Elves, before looking to Toril with hatred in their gaze.

"You've broken my toys, Witcher." She hissed. "Now, I'll have to break you!"

The long body arched up, humanoid torso stretching towards the ceiling as she opened her toothy maw, fangs dripping as they extended even further from red gums, her jaw almost unhinging as her throat released a low hiss of challenge. Her head reared back, readying to strike.

Acting on instinct, Toril's hand twitched, another arcane symbol woven around her fingertips. The symbol of Igni flared bright, a gout of flame spearing forth from her fingertips as she thrust the hand up towards the monster's eyes. Brilliant light, painful in the gloom of the cave, blossomed out from the white-hot flames for a mere instant.

The Lamia screeched, rearing back from the burning brilliance, hands rising to shield her lidless eyes. Her coiling body writhed in sympathetic pain, tail lashing out at Toril, but the Witcheress was already moving. She leapt to one side, dodging the whip-like tip of the creature's tail as it cut through the air.

The Witcheress dropped into a roll, clutching her bow close to herself to protect it from the impact. As she erupted from the roll, her legs were already pumping, launching her even further away. She leapt like a fawn, bounding off the side of one stalagmite to plant a foot on the cave's wall, allowing her to power further away from the beast. Her mutations had given her agility and stamina beyond any Human, and she would take full advantage of that. She leapt for a shelf of rock some feet off the cave's floor, her boots finding the precarious perch as she spun, lifting her bow. An arrow quickly found the string, drawing back as she turned to take aim at the monster.

There was a wet sound, like a faint slap mingled with a cough. Before Toril knew what was happening, a wet, slimy substance hit her. A strange, acrid smell filled her nostrils, followed an instant later by a fierce burning sensation in her eyes. The strange material mingled with her tears, the skin around her eyes feeling like it had been set aflame. The Witcheress let out an agonised howl, clawing at her eyes as she tried to rub away whatever the caustic matter was. Her vision faded, replaced by blurred images.

Venom. Of course the creature had some kind of venomous spittle, Toril realised. And now, as she heard the monster's scales slither across the rock towards her, the Witcheress was blinded.

Before she could do anything, the rustling of the Lamia's scales drew uncomfortably close, a rope-like tail wrapping around her ankle and pulling harshly. The huntress' foot was yanked out from under her, overwhelming the Witcheress with the dizzying inertia of her body falling. Her back struck the rocky shelf she'd been standing on, driving the breath from her lungs. Her fingers, numbed by the impact, released their grip on her bow, the weapon clattering across the stone away from her. The Lamia's tail continued to pull on her, dragging the huntress off the ledge and down to the cave floor.

Rough scales passed over her, the muscular coils of the monster curling around her legs, pinning them in a tight grip as they constricted. She could feel the beast's breath as it hovered over her, a forked tongue whickering past her face as the Lamia hissed cruelly. A wisp of greasy hair brushed against her cheek, the monster so close that their faces were almost touching. The beast's maw reeked of rotting meat and caustic venom.

"I've never tasted the blood of a Witcher before." She gloated, a low chuckle passing through her chest and reverberating down the length of her serpentine body, the muscles that pinned the Witcheress in place pulsing with each low, throaty chuckle. "It is said that the mutations change each of you in unique ways. Do you think that would change the taste? I wonder if it is like that of a Mage? Oh, it has been so long since I tasted blood mingled with magic..."

A clawed hand grasped Toril's chin, the talons digging painfully into her cheeks. The Lamia's fangs were so close, she could almost feel them. The Witcheress struggled to open her eyes, but the pained burning in her vision prevented her from seeing anything more than a dark blur, a sinister shadow looming over her. Her pulse began to race, desperate thoughts assaulting her, frantic attempts to find a way out of her predicament. Sensing her distress, the Lamia chuckled again.

"Ah, no matter. I will find out in time. Sampling the students of your little school on the mountain will be an amusing way to pass the time..."

At the mention of the students, images filled Toril's mind. Thoughts of the adepts, running their drills in Kaer Tiele's courtyard. Of students poring through books in the libraries. Of apprentices receiving their first swords. Of new Witchers, looking up to the Masters who had made it their life's work to prepare them for the trials ahead, the monsters they would face. As these thoughts overcame her, swiftly followed by the thought of this beast preying upon them all from the shadows, a desperate energy sparked in the huntress' muscles. Her fingers found the hilt of the hunting knife sheathed by her side. Before the Lamia could close its coils around her upper body completely, the huntress' hand tugged the blade from its home and slashed wildly.

Steel parted scale and flesh, eliciting a wail from the Lamia. As the muscles involuntarily twitched, allowing Toril greater freedom, the Witcheress raised her knife before her, her grip reversed to protect her wrist. She slashed again, finding the creature's body again. The Lamia snarled in fury, backing away slightly. Toril could feel the absence in the air before her, the dim shape of the beast pulling back. Then, with that serpentine speed the Witcheress had come to expect, the monster lunged again, her head darting forward as the fanged maw opened wide.

Toril tossed the knife from one hand to the other, bringing the point in front of herself as she jabbed straight up. Her hand slipped past the long fangs, one ivory point scraping her skin and burning where it made contact and drew blood, before the tip of the blade found the roof of the monster's mouth, piercing flesh and burying itself deep.

The Lamia screamed, backing away from the Witcheress. In her dim vision, Toril could see the monster reach for her mouth, clawing at the knife jammed there. Her snarls suddenly became much more damp, her breath gurgling as blood flowed into her airways. Her body thrashed wildly, tail whipping about. As one of the thick coils writhed in agony, it caught the Witcheress across the chest, throwing her back off her feet.

The still-blinded Toril hit the ground once more, quickly rolling onto her belly and scrambling to get away from the thrashing beast. Her hands reached out, feeling her way across the rough stones, until the questing fingertips touched familiarly carved wood. Her bow, cast aside during the struggle. The Witcheress quickly snatched up the bow, rising into a kneeling position. Behind her, the Lamia's pained snarls were slowing, fury rising as it pulled the knife from its maw and cast it aside, the steel blade clattering loudly across the stone.

Toril reached down to her quiver, fumbling as her fingers found one of the arrows there. She carefully nocked the arrow on her bowstring, twisting her body to face the direction where the noises of the wounded Lamia were coming from. Unable to focus her vision after being exposed to the venom, the Witcheress squeezed her eyes shut, drawing in a deep breath as she stilled her mind.

As the pounding of her heart faded from Toril's ears, sounds echoed all around her. The faint dripping of water, leaping from stalactite to stalagmite in a centuries-long process to cultivate the forest of stone pillars that surrounded her. The groans of pain from the Elves, still dazed on the rocky floor of the cavern. The faint moan of shifting air passing through the tunnel network. And over it all, the sounds of the Lamia. Her shrieks of agony, the choking gasps she made as blood continued to flow down her throat, the scraping rustle of her scales.

The Witcheress' world went utterly still. She focused on the sounds, taking a deep breath in through her nostrils, tasting the air. The tang of blood and the cloying stench of reptile filled her throat as she breathed in, powerful and heady. Her knee, planted firmly on the ground, sensed the minute vibrations that passed through the rock beneath her, the shiver of movement as the Lamia's bunching coils writhed through the maze of rocky outcroppings that filled the cave. Suddenly, the motion stopped, the Lamia releasing a primal, fury-filled screech as her body tensed, ready to launch itself at her foe. Toril heard every scratch of scale on rock as the muscular body wound up, a spring ready to unleash itself.

Breath flowed into Toril's lungs, pausing for the briefest of moments between one heartbeat and the next while she steadied her hand, adjusted the tip of her arrow just a fraction of an inch, and loosed. The deadly bolt leapt from the bow, string slapping the Witcheress' wrist sharply. At the same time, the Lamia's screech grew in intensity, rapidly drawing closer as she lunged across the breadth of the cavern towards her prey. The screech abruptly cut off, replaced by a short gasp as the large creature slammed into the rocky floor mere feet to Toril's side. The beast writhed in agony there, feral snarls and moans in her throat. The sounds were strange, as though something blocked her airway. The moans quickly gave way to wet choking noises until, with a gasp, the creature stopped moving, silence rolling through the cave.

Toril sagged, the bow hanging numbly in her grasp. She waited just a moment longer, wary of any kind of trick from the monster, before turning and, feeling her way with clumsy hands, moved towards where she remembered the pool of water to be. The moment her boot found the water with a splash, the Witcheress dropped down on the shoreline, scooping the icy cold liquid up and splashing it into her eyes. After a few brief moments of this, her vision began to return, although her eyes still burned with a ferocity that she knew would take some time to pass. An examination with Meinard would likely be in order.

With her vision at least partially restored, the huntress turned to look behind her. There, the body of the creature lay in a pool of her own blood. Scarlet foam gathered on her lips, blood seeping from the corners in narrow rivers. Slitted emerald eyes gazed lifelessly at the cave's ceiling, already filling with the fog of death. Some of the coils of her sinuous form still twitched, signals still running through the nervous system, even as the life had fled her. And there, directly above her collarbone, where the soft flesh of the neck and throat met the hard bone of her sternum, the shaft of an arrow protruded. The missile had pierced the neck entirely, ripping through windpipe and jugular before piercing the spinal column, the iron tip of the arrow just visible through the nape of the neck. An almost instantly fatal shot.

Toril sagged with relief, her breathing deep and laboured. Her body hurt, bruises blossoming on her back and legs. Her head pounded, the adrenaline of battle beginning to wear off. With a sigh, she stood, turning towards the other two prone forms in the cave.

~o~0~o~

Daylight was slowly fading from the sky, the gloom of dusk beginning to close in. Dark rain clouds gathered on the horizon, the rumbles of thunder still hushed murmurs at this distance.

Toril shuddered a little as she stepped from the cave's entrance, a small bundle slung over her shoulder. It had been grisly work, collecting samples from the Lamia's corpse, but Meinard was sure to want to analyse the remains, even if he could not study the living specimen. Now, the creature's head, her fangs, and a few select organs sat in a makeshift bag that the Witcheress had fashioned from a few scraps of torn fabric. Thankfully, the creature's skull was intact, the brain unharmed. Given the creature's ability to influence others, and her seeming ability to pluck knowledge from Toril's own mind, the more studious minds of Kaer Tiele would want a closer look at the brain.

The two Elves waited for her outside. The younger of the two sat on a log, still clutching at her head, wincing as she tested a small lump rising on her scalp. Beside her, her brother paced uneasily, his dark eyes rising as the huntress emerged from the cave.

"Vatt'ghern!" He exclaimed, something close to a smile appearing on his lips.

"I thought you were going to leave." Toril's brows rose in a question. "You've a long way to go to get back to your people, and Temeria is not the safest place for your kind to wander."

"We wanted to thank you. For freeing us from the beast." The taller Elf gestured to the cave. "If you hadn't intervened, then we'd still be enslaved, or worse..."

"I didn't plan for it." Toril looked away at the Elf's words, unused to gratitude. "I was just doing what I needed to do to survive."

"But still, you saved us!" The younger Elf countered, her eyes rising to pierce the Witcheress. Genuine warmth filled her gaze. "She had us ready to kill you to defend her, a distraction to be thrown at you. You could have slain us where we stood, and nobody would have blamed you."

"It was… the right thing to do." Toril opened her mouth to say more, but hesitated. The Elves caught this momentary uncertainty, but did not press further. The tall one was the first to break the silence.

"So, what will you do now?"

"Return to Kaer Tiele." Toril answered quickly. "The adepts need training, and the winter will be on us soon. Someone has to make sure our stores are full before the snow closes the mountain passes."

"You won't join your kin out on the trail?" The young she-Elf asked. "Isn't it the way of your guild to spend your lives out on the hunt?"

Toril felt a pang within her chest. She missed the Path dearly, to be out on the road, hunting beasts and fulfilling contracts. Honest work, relying on nothing but her bow and her wits. But, Svar had a different vision of how the guild must grow. A different role for her to play in the coming years. Many more adepts flowed into the castle, with some of them even surviving to become Witchers in their own right. Her duty, to her own Master and to her students, took priority.

"Times change, and so must we." She shrugged. "Kaer Tiele needs me, and I won't turn my back on them."

The two Elves nodded silently. The tall one reached out a hand to his sister, helping her to her feet. He turned a final glance towards Toril.

"You have to look out for your kind. I can respect that. Caed'mil, Toril of Kaer Tiele. I hope one day that we will meet again."

With that, the pair shuffled off, vanishing into the forest in moments. Toril watched them leave, before turning back towards the mountain that was home to the ancient Witcher stronghold. Night was fast approaching. She chewed her lip, debating how long it would take to return to the castle. Then, suddenly, a rustling in the forest caught her sharp ear. Golden eyes narrowed, looking for the source of the movement, while tense fingers reached for her quiver. Maybe the castle could wait a few more hours.

Her pulse began to race as the Witcheress dropped into a crouch before she also vanished into the forest, already on the trail of her latest prey. One more hunt before returning to her duties. She could allow herself that, at least.