C35: Crookback Crones (2)

Ciri's doing a fine job, I must say.

Of the Crookback Crones, Brewess is probably the easiest match for the budding Witcheress.

She's… The RPG tank—cumbersome and slow; a battering ram with a taste for human flesh. 

Every swing she takes, though clumsy, carries enough force to bash open heads and crush skulls.

It's a good thing Ciri can teleport, her [Blink] allowing her to reposition and dance between those bone-crushing blows with relative ease.

It's quite the hilarious sight from my perspective, though I doubt Ciri finds much of the humor I do.

To her, it is a life-n'-death battle.

"Aren't- Aren't you going to do something?"

The white-haired woman—Anna—asks, her voice shaking and trembling, arms wrapped protectively around the huddled orphans who are screaming themselves hoarse—a fragile barrier that will provide very little protections.

"I'll step in if she needs help." I answer, my tone clipped, gaze fixed on the duel, fingers tapping a steady rhythm against Equality's surface.

"But by the look of it," I add, a hint of amusement creeping into my voice. "She's got this handled." As if to prove my point, Ciri swiftly dances through Brewess' mindless flailing, her blade shinning like a sword out of a fairytale—the Grimms' given the context, connecting with the underside of the Crone's arm, but the thick hide absorbs most of the impact. Keyword: Most, not all.

A thin line of crimson drags across the Crone's wrinkled and clearly infected skin.

It is not the only wound Brewess bears. Dozens of similar cuts mar her flesh, each one going deeper than the previous.

Brewess is a dead Crone walking.

It's less a question of if, but when.

"She's pretty fucking awesome, isn't she?"

I prompt, watching as three temporal phantoms of the Witcheress take swings at Brewess, before shattering in a cloud of whitish green motes. Driving Zireael into the Crone's belly, Ciri drags the blade sideways, spilling its guts on the floor.

"Are t- they the 'Ladies'?" The old woman stammers, trembling like a dry leaf in the wind.

"Ladies?" I scoff, a humorless laugh escaping my lips. "The only thing ladylike about those Crones is their human façade. Don't let it fool you for a second. Underneath are disease-ridden witches who consume children to fuel their Magic and maintain their so-called youth."

The color drains from the woman's face, leaving her skin ashen. "Th- Then the orphans." She whispers, her eyes wide with dawning horror.

"Were meant to be their next meal." I finish nonchalantly.

What else would the Witches of the Woods want with children, if not as live sacrifice?

To house them?

To feed them?

Humans feed and house pigs as well, but they will end up under the butcher blade regardless.

Before I can dwell on it, Ciri, flushed with victory, spins on her heel, her sword a silver flashing in the light as she aims for a killing blow, ready to relieve the Crone of her head with a single, decisive stroke.

But the forest itself seems to rise up in Brewess's defense.

Dry, gnarled branches, twisted by age and maglinant Magic, snake out from the undergrowth, snaring Ciri's ankle in a vice-like grip.

"Hm…" I murmur with a spark of disapproval.

She got cocky, and while I can't fault her enthusiasm, recklessness is a dangerous game, especially in this world.

The Witcheress drops to the ground, rolling free of the grasping branches. 

She's back on her feet in a heartbeat, blinking behind her enemy, but it's bought Brewess precious time. 

The Crone fumbles with the raggedy pouch dangling at her side, retrieving a vial filled with a pulsating green liquid.

"Guess it's my turn then." I sigh, ready to move. Having learned from her mistakes, the Crone no longer plays fair, clutching the vial with both hands in an attempt to smash it over the Witcheress's head, who doesn't seem to realize her intention.

Yup, time for me to step in.

In a heartbeat, I'm moving, flickering with motions as I appear between Ciri and Brewess. One hand gently deflects Zireael, guiding it away from its intended target, while the other intercepts Brewess's attack, stopping her hand a hair's breadth from its mark. 

Brewess cackles and half-closes her palm to crush the vial clutched in her palm. 

The air fills with the acrid scent of acid as the viscous liquid drips down her hand, slow and deliberate.

I don't hesitate. With a sharp tug, I pull Brewess into the path of her own concoction and whisper, "Dumbass."

Her laughter morphs into a shriek of agony as the acid eats away at her flesh, peeling it back to the bone. 

"Leo…" She gasps. "The other Crones—"

"Whispess is dead," I interrupt, kicking the screaming slob away from me. "Weavess has managed to cheat death… For now."

"You'll regret this! You'll regret this!" Brewess shrieked, her voice raw and guttural.

I shift my attention from the Witcheress, my gaze cold as I pin the thrashing Crone beneath my boot. "You wanna do the honors, or should I?"

Ciri hesitates, her gaze flickering between the beaten form of the Crone and my impassive face.

A flicker of something akin to empathy crosses her features, quickly replaced by steely resolve. "Do it." She tells me, her tone soft yet firm.

With finality, my foot connects with Brewess's face. Bone crunches against my shoes, a sickening thud that echoes through the clearing as a Legend's ended for good.

Two down, one more to go.

"C'mon… You get the her and the orphans out," Gesturing at the estranged wife (Ex) of Phillip Strenger, I move towards the Fiend. "I'll harvest their body parts."

"Wait."

Ciri's voice stops me in my tracks.

She's at my side in a heartbeat, pressing a pair of worn leather gloves—hers—into my hands.

"Monsters carry diseases the human body might not be equipped to handle," She explains, brows furrowed with concern. "Use these. Please. It's safer."

"Alright, alright," I grumble good-naturedly, putting my hands into the oversized gloves. They're warm, imbued with the lingering scent of woodsmoke and something distinctly… Ciri. They're not the most comfortable, but they are warm and smooth to the touch. "Thank yo—"

A sudden chill cuts through the clearing, raising gooseflesh on my skin.

Beside me, Ciri pales, her hand instinctively dropping to the silver hilt of her sword. 

"They're here," She murmurs regretfully. "I shouldn't have used my Magic."

The Wild Hunt.

They've caught up to us and brought with them the White Frost it seems.

"Get Anna and the children out of here," I instruct, sighing as my fist connects with my palm with a solid thud, a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

"I'm not leaving you!"

But instead of listening, Ciri protests, her jaw set with stubbornness—nay, worry.

"Hey," Turning to face her, an easy grin spreading across my face, I reassure. "Remember that promise I made? Besides, you know I can handle a few knife-eared bastards."

My gaze sweeps over the approaching figures, their black armor glinting menacingly in the dappled sunlight, the salivating jaws of their monstrous almost pitbull-sized hounds foaming with anticipation. "It'll be over before you know it."

The Wild Hunt has slaughtered their way across countless worlds, leaving a river of blood in their wake—human blood.

Being human isn't just about breathing and bleeding, it's about showing the Universe exactly why they should tremble at the mention of our species.

I'm making it my personal mission to deliver that message.

Though, I have to give credit where it's due.

The Red Riders, despite their rather fearsome reputation, have been surprisingly... Civil.

They have been holding a tight leash over their Elemental Hounds' while we chat,

The usual rabble I deal with would've charged us already. "If you two are quite done, humans…"

"Can you just—" I gesture between Ciri and myself, letting the unspoken words hang in the air. "Read the room. This is a very… Emotional moment for her!"

"What room?" The elven navigator, with a sneer curling his lip, motions to the endless expanse of sky and sun-baked earth. "We are in the middle of nowhere, or has your savage species devolved to a point it considers this a room."

"Ever heard of metaphor, pointy? Just you wait until you learn about hyperlobe."

If he wants to play the species card, I'm happy to deal a few back. Fair's fair. "Gonna blow your mind wide open, asshole."

If it doesn't work, I'm sure Equality will be happy to finish the job.

If that fails too—unbelievable as it is—my boot is always at the ready to kick in teeth and cave in skulls, and kill more people too.

'Oh, look, it ryhmes…'

The elf twitches—the motion minute and nigh unnoticeable inside his armor, but I catch it still.

To my surprise, he actually listens and keeps his mouth shut.

Guy's fucking hilarious. 'I'll spare him.'

Fixing my voice, I return to Ciri. "So… Where were we?"

There goes the moment—right out the window.

"Get out of here. Head back with the Baron. I'll catch up." I give Ciri a little nudge towards Anna and the orphans, hoping my nonchalance was assuring enough.

She throws me a worried look, one last flicker of hesitation before herding the group away.

No sooner are they moving, one of the Elemental Hounds lunges, a blur of teeth and claws aimed right at my head. 

I pivot, a spinning kick catching the beast square in the jaw and sending it careening Into a nearby tree. It strikes true with a sickening thud, snapping the tree in half and unearthing the massive web of roots beneath, yet the beast scrambles back to its feet suprisingly quick, shaking off the impact like a dog shaking off water.

A whimper escapes the Hound, something I really ought to be happy at, but the numbing, burning cold seeping into my flesh puts me on high alert.

The tips of spikes on the Frost Hound have found their way past my skin somehow.

Even Castle Einzbern, with its eternally frozen halls and a steady temperature of minus 20°C, had always held a certain bite.

But even its stabbing winds couldn't compare to the bone-deep chill now radiating from the icy barbs.

Flexing, I force the shards of ice to erupt from my skin, a spray of glittering needles flung aside.

I've never been fond of the Hounds.

They may not be as annoying as Drowners or those ankle-biting Nekkers that liked to dogpile Geralt like it's a staged WWE match, but they are definitely up there on the top 5, right under the Trolls, whose thick hides made them more tedious than terrifying.

It destroys the rhythmic elegance of Geralt's sword-dance, and as a filthy [Whirl] and Stamina abuser, these particular Hostile-NPCs were my absolute nemesis… And it seems that's gonna continue to be the case.

"Leonis!" Ciri calls out.

"I'm alright, keep going!" I reply, giving her a thumbs-up.

If fists and feet fall short, Equality and Senza Esitazione will tap in.

Aiming my shotgun at the mutt, I pull the trigger, blowing its brains out just as it gears up for yet another attack.

The Elemental Hound's corpse slides toward me in a cloud of dust.

Heat and cold collide in a sizzling standoff as the Red Riders and their pets eye each other warily.

Storing my shotgun in my ring, I summon the Swordspear, spinning it so fast it generates a gust almost as powerful as a plane's engine roaring to life—helped by strategically-placed [Kinetic Blast], of course. 'Always wanted to do that.' That is another thing to cross off my 'Evil Overlord' list.

"Who's first?"

From what I recall, the Red Riders are divided into two factions: The regular soldiers and the Mages—the navigators who trace the Elder Blood whenever the Witcheress taps into it. Although their abilities seemed rather simplistic in Wild Hunt, I have always chalked that up to budgetary constraints and such.

There is no way that the Elves and their Sages would be slinging half-baked elemental spells.

Every Witcher player remembers the disappointment the Wild Hunt brought. In comparison to the Vampires with their near dozen subspecies, the main antagonist just felt… Lackluster.

That can't be the case in reality; it's best to keep my vigilance up.

"You can still turn back, human. We only want the girl. Do you value her life more than your own?" The navigator sneers.

I chuckle at his nerve. "I should be the one asking—you think she's worth more than your own lives?"

"For the survival of our people?" The Red Rider counters, stepping back as his less friendly comrades unsheathe their swords. "That's an infinitely miniscule price to pay."

Senza Estazione finds its mark with relative ease, piercing the diminutive form of the first Red Rider before [Tyche's Favor] can even take effect.

He crumples, a puppet with severed strings; blood painting a modern abstract art of crimson and bone.

With a disdainful flick of my spear, I send his remains crashing into the treeline—an admittedly gruesome game of skittles that ends with a sickening thud against the third trunk.

Whatever was inside the armor must've liquefied from the impact.

"Next?" I purr, beckoning the rest of the Riders with a confidence and eagerness that flutter like a flock of birds flapping away in my chest.

My Mystic Code snaps out, a viper striking, and intercepts the second Rider's blade with a metallic shriek. 

I don't give him the satisfaction of a fight. Instead, a brutal sidelong strike to his helmet sends his head snapping with a wet crunch, like a broken Ken doll.

His armored form, denied even the dignity of a soaring arc, crumples, impacting the earth with enough force to crack the very ground beneath us.

The earth groans as it swallows the second Rider, and the third, who had sought an advantage from behind, stumbles, momentarily off-balance. 

His moment of vulnerability becomes his last as my Swordspear blurs towards his neck, a golden meteor cleaving through his defenses.

The armor, once meant to protect, betrays the elven soldier, trapping him within its embrace as the edges bite deep, digging into flesh and bone. I cut short the symphony of agony as he chokes and cries and claws at his breastplate. 

"A warrior's death." I grant him, the whisper lost as his head detaches in a crimson spray, launched skyward by the lethal teeth of my spear.

Better a clean end.

But for every fallen Rider, two more seem to take their place.

They swarm me, a tide of steel trying to overwhelm me with sheer numbers. 

I meet their aggression with mine.

Four more join their brethren, some finding the mercy of instant oblivion, others cursed to linger and cling to life.

As I move to grant the still-living the gift of finality, the very air—Space itself shimmers and fractures. 

Portals, rippling gateways of frost and the unknown, snap wide open around me, and from their depths surge the Frost Hounds, fangs bared in hunger.

Clicking my tongue, I launch myself skyward, spear held aloft, my gaze sweeping over the battlefield until it lands on them—a cadre of elven mages fiddling their staffs on the far side of the clearing. They're fucked, they just don't know it yet.

With a sharp twist of my body, I unleash the spear, a projectile of blinding speed aimed at the heart of the formation. 

Even I am uncertain if I could've reacted to the attack as it tears through the air like a thunderbolt, scything down the first rank of mages before they can even react. But then, familiar ripple appears, devouring my weapon whole and spitting it out from a second portal positioned just behind the group.

"Hm?" 

Surprise, pure and unfiltered, laces my tone. 

To react to the spear itself would have been impressive, a feat few could boast. But to anticipate its trajectory, to pinpoint the exact location for that portal… Such foresight is not simply honed, but instinctual. 

'Even the priest—'

Even I'd have been nicked by the attack.

It seems I've underestimated the Wild Hunt. 'Good.' Hopefully the Eredin Boss Fight will be more entertaining and less irritating this time around. Perhaps having realized the futility of their meaningless struggle, the navigator barks something in their Tongue, before vanishing in a hail of ice and snow.

They even took their pets with them, while I drop to the ground. "That was…"

Decisive of them.

They disappear with the swiftness of a breath, leaving only the telltale signs of their passage: A biting chill in the air and delicate snowflakes gracing the earth. Even sections of the swamp lie encased in ice, half-frozen in silent homage to the Hunt's fleeting visit. "That ought to show 'em."

My gaze sweeps the area once more to confirm the coast is clear. With a measured exhale, I allow the tension to drain from my muscles and approach the fallen.

The Fiend beckons first; the allure of enhancing my 'Dojutsu' proving too potent to resist. The Third Eye, nestled on its forehead, is my prize—a delicate extraction and frankly disgusting process, but necessary regardless. 

The Crone is next, but as my fingers delve into the depths of her pouch, a figure comes crashing through the treeline—movements fluid and silent as a panther's tread. "Ciri!"

I casually greet, my hands still occupied with relieving the 'old woman' of her worldly possessions. "This isn't what it looks like!"

Ciri does not seem very amused; though she does look amusing with leaves and twigs in her hair. "The Hunt's—"

"Dead! Most of them." 

My voice rings out, a touch too enthusiastic considering the carnage that paints the ground around us.

I gesture at the deceased with a flourish. "A few escaped. Better luck next time. Wanna help me with these?" The Swallow… Well, swallows thickly, her green eyes widening like a deer caught in headlights. "What are you, Leonis?"

"Leonis Magnus the Extraordinaire, my friends call me Leo for short." 

A grin stretches across my face, and I hook a finger at her playfully. "C'mon! We gotta go get our rewards afterward."

Half an hour later, with a Fiend's head sloshing inside a blood-soaked sack, the Witcheress and I retrace our steps back to the Baron, to whom the Witcheress left the unwell woman and the orphans to.

The whole way, Ciri is unnervingly quiet, her silence amplified by the rustle of leaves and the chirping of startled birds. "Be honest with me, Leonis."

"Leo." I correct, casually swinging the gruesome trophy as if it were nothing more than a child's plaything.

"What are you? You claimed to be a Mage, but the Crones called you a Demon…"

My legs still, following her example. "You fight like one—you're faster, stronger than even the largest and most dangerous beasts a Witcher can face."

Our eyes meet, hers a swirling emerald pool reflecting the unease in her own gut. "What exactly are you?"

"Does it matter?"

Her lips part, then close again in a quick, reflexive motion, as if she's tasting words before daring to utter them.

The silence stretches, filled only with the symphony of the forest. Finally, she speaks in hushed whisper. "It matters to me." 

Just as quickly, the Witcheress backpedals, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. "Forget I asked. I have my secrets, and you have yours."

"Then let's trade… You tell me 'bout yourself, and I'll tell you about me."

"Well,"

She hesitates, having an internal debate no doubt, before succumbing.

"My real name is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon. I am—was the princess of Cintra, I'm the heiress to…"

Her words dissolve into a troubled silence, her head shaking slightly as if to dispel a bothersome thought. "Never mind that. You next."

"I'm Leonis Magnus…"

Snorting, she rolls her eyes. "Is that even your real name?"

"It's the only one I remember." The mere thought of my old name sends a spike of pain through my skull—a rather visceral reminder that some doors are better left closed.

The harder I try to pry open those forgotten chambers, the more agonizing the backlash.

Hell, maybe I am some kind of Cosmic Horror who's cobbled together a mundane life story as a distraction.

Improbable, sure, though not impossible.

But that's just a theory! A game theo—

"I was 22 when I died… Slipped off a staircase."

A snort escapes her, and I can practically see the image forming in her mind – utterly absurd, of course. 

"You? Slipped off a staircase? I just saw you jump as high as a bird and land without a sound."

"I was weaker then," I admit, a touch of melancholy tinging my words. Pathetically weak, truth be told. Back then, sixty push-ups had me gasping for air. Not exactly something to brag about as a man in his prime. "A God offered me a second chance, and well, the rest is history."

"God? Or Demon?" Cautiously curious, she asks.

"Again, is there a difference?"

A sharp cry slices through our conversation, jolting us back to the present.

We exchange a look, a silent agreement passing between us, and then we're running towards the source of the commotion. The sight that greets us is almost comical. The Baron, red-faced and frantic, is bellowing at his wife, who seems to be stuck high up in a tree. "Anna, please, come on down! You will hurt yourself!"

Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I sigh.

"Least they haven't killed each other. That's gotta count for something, right?"

After getting the old woman safely to the ground, I clutch my ears as she shrieks and screams—terrified at the sight of the Baron, who stands quite a distance away, shifting awkwardly, obviously unsure of what to do. She does not curse; neither does she insult or try to goad him to hurt her.

She.

Just.

Wails.

Incoherent, disorderly moans and cries that sound like it belongs to a wounded animal instead of a human.

As much as I loath her for the treachery she committed, seeing her like this makes even me… Uncomfortable.

Hell, even the Barom's soldiers are steering clear of the scene.

Burying her face in my neck, the old woman sobs nonstop, her tears; spit; snot staining my shoulder.

Reluctantly—awkwardly, I run my fingers through Anna's hair to console her, until she can cry no more, drifting to sleep like a child. "Let's go back. The kids need shelter; we need food and a place to crash for the night."

The Baron nods, sullen and visibly hurt by the reaction as he turns around, fists clenched tight—shaking violently to his sides.

"Aye, I'll tell the steward to prepare yer rooms."