Elven acquaintances

A week had passed since Shaerrawedd. The party was bound for Ban Gleán, a city located at the northern borders of what was once Kaedwen, now under Redanian occupation. However, their plans took an unexpected turn as they stumbled upon an expansive row of caravans and wagons laden with war supplies, a telltale sign of the imminent clash between Redania and Nilfgaard to the east.

Observing the soldiers stationed atop the walls, the witchers concluded that entering a city gearing up for war wasn't worth the effort. They understood that Ban Gleán would be on high alert, its inhabitants wary of anything deemed out of the ordinary. Moreover, the presence of outsiders, particularly those bearing supernatural abilities like themselves, would undoubtedly unsettle the guards and could potentially lead to unnecessary conflict.

Thus, they opted for a different route, one that would have them cross the vast woodlands running parallel to the Pontar River, completely bypassing any unfortunate encounters. Of course, such a detour would set them back by a few days, but it was a justified sacrifice to ensure a safer journey to their destination.

With frequent stops to check their surroundings and allow their horses to rest from the trek through the challenging terrain, they had plenty of time to concentrate on their training and further refine their skills.

Geralt and Atram would spar for minutes on end, their movements a blur of speed and intensity that left Elsa slack-jawed with amazement. As she watched the two superhumans clash, she couldn't help but marvel at their otherworldly prowess in combat.

During one particularly fierce exchange, Elsa witnessed something truly astonishing: Atram's regenerative abilities. As he attempted to deflect one of Geralt's blows with his bare hands, the force of the impact caused three of his fingers to sever from his hand, leaving Elsa gasping in shock. Yet, to her astonishment, she watched as the stumps began to twitch and squirm, miraculously regrowing before her very eyes, as if time itself had reversed around them.

After further inquiry that night, Atram explained why and how he could fight the way he did, deliberately omitting details about his own origins.

"The less people knew, the better," he had stated months ago at Kaer Morhen, as his arrival on the Continent was still an unsolved mystery.

Apart from their frequent spars, each individual spent time practicing on their own.

When Elsa learned about the grim fate of the people at Shaerrawedd, she became resolute in her decision to become a monster hunter. No longer the meek and timid girl she was just two weeks prior, she requested a more rigorous training regimen from the 'demonic duo', as she affectionately liked to call them.

The witchers quickly understood where that sudden fervor stemmed from but kept silent, wanting to respect her quiet resolve.

Unfortunately, four days ago, her 'monthly woes' started to hamper her training, and after a stern talking-to from her instructors—especially Geralt—she reluctantly relented. Relenting but not conceding, she instead shifted her focus to furthering her knowledge about her magical aptitude.

Always mindful of Atram's words, she dedicated herself to understanding the properties of ice and water in general. Admittedly, without a master arcanist to advise her, she was fumbling in the dark. How was one to comprehend the gift of magic without proper guidance?

Nevertheless, giving up wasn't in her nature. She persisted in processing the intricacies of her element with absolute determination. This commitment, to her delight, bore fruit twice, albeit in minor influxes of mana through her body. The only consistency on both occasions was her meditative stance, a trademark practice of concentration and relaxation that the witchers happily demonstrated for her.

Geralt and his companion sought to improve their ki manipulation and their pre-existing techniques. Each finding more success than the other.

The white-haired witcher already had a very good grasp on the Ki Blade. As such, the simple yet devastating ki art only required a few corrections and adjustments, which he finally completed after five days. Hence, the dismemberment of Atram's digits.

On the other hand, Atram had an entirely different experience with his pursuits. Despite being a master ki practitioner, he completely disregarded his own teachings about ki and compatibility, instead focusing on refining his abilities in external energy gathering. Needless to say, his endeavors had unpredictable and oftentimes explosive results.

The crux of Atram's problem lay in time. While accumulating and shaping energy within the span of ten seconds seemed theoretically achievable, in the heat of fast-paced combat, it proved utterly impractical. Rushing the process invariably led to the aforementioned explosive outcomes, rendering his efforts futile.

Moreover, even when he managed to channel the swirling mass of energy, the practice alone left him utterly drained, with no discernible improvements to show for his exertions. The exhausting nature of his attempts served as a constant reminder of the elusive mastery he sought to attain.

Still, Atram harbored a persistent hunch that there existed a missing piece to the puzzle, an elusive element he had overlooked yet couldn't quite bring himself to acknowledge. Undeterred by his previous failures, he persisted in his pursuit of mastery—the man was durable if nothing else.

So their journey continued, each with their own aspirations and challenges to overcome as they ventured deeper into the dense woodlands that lined the banks of the Pontar River. The trees, stripped of their autumnal glory, stood sentinel-like, their bare branches reaching towards the dreary sky in silent supplication.

Atram grumbled as he adjusted his large vest, using it to shield himself from the incoming droplets. "I hate this weather," he muttered, his tone sour. "Don't get me wrong, I can tolerate rain and even enjoy it, but only when I'm cozied up at home with a good book in my lap, a pipe heavy with freshly minted tobacco between my lips, and a bottle of whiskey within reach."

Geralt smirked as he shook the water from his cloak, casting a glance at Atram. "And here I thought you liked damp and cold environments," he quipped, his tone teasing.

Atram chuckled wryly, shaking his head at Geralt's remark. "I like snow. I love snow! May it be forever frigid and eternal!" he delcared, sounding like a frenzied fanatic. "But rain? Rain is like the unwanted cousin you have to associate with at family gatherings."

Elsa gave a giggle from behind him. "Come now; don't be such a sourpuss. I'm sure it will clear up soon enough," she said optimistically, patting Atram on the back.

Promptly after Elsa's words, the rain picked up the pace. What had started with a light drizzle quickly turned into a torrential downpour, thunder rolling through the darkened sky like a symphony of wrath.

Atram spun around to face Elsa, his eyes narrowed in mock accusation, a playful glint shining through the raindrops. "It was your doing, wasn't it?! You're a jinx of the highest order!" he exclaimed.

Elsa pouted and rolled her eyes. "I can barely put two snowflakes together with my magic. It was you. Must have angered the gods with your blaspheming."

Atram feigned offense, clutching his chest dramatically. "Me? Blaspheming? Never!" he protested with mock sincerity, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Not my problem that rain is as pleasant as a knife to my-"

Geralt cleared his throat loudly enough to interrupt their banter. "Whatever the case, we must find shelter. The horses won't last long."

Atram turned his attention toward him. "Agreed. Any ideas?"

Geralt nodded. "Flotsam is five hours from here. But there's a cave nearby, previously used as a drug den."

Atram raised an eyebrow. "Were the previous occupants 'evicted'?" he asked with a vicious grin on his face.

"Permanently," Geralt confirmed, his expression as inscrutable as the depths of the forest they traversed. With a firm nudge, he urged his steed onward, its hooves deftly finding purchase on the slick terrain beneath.

Navigating the treacherous path with the instinctual grace of a predator, Geralt relied on his honed witcher senses to guide them through the labyrinth of soaring trees. Each step forward was a calculated risk, his keen eyes scanning the surroundings for familiar landmarks.

Despite the relentless patter of rain overhead and the slippery ground below, they managed to reach a clearing nestled at the foot of a steep hill. Towering trees encircled the open space, their branches forming a protective canopy that shielded the area from the worst of the downpour.

Atram, having cast Dancing Lights a few minutes prior, sent the luminous orbs swirling ahead to illuminate their path. As the ethereal lights danced through the air, they unveiled the secrets that lay ahead, casting long shadows. Puddles formed in the depressions of the ground reflected the shimmering light like scattered stars.

There, amongst nature's splendor, rested the entrance to the cave they sought. Moss-covered rocks framed the yawning abyss, their surfaces glistening with moisture from the rain.

"Finally!" Atram exclaimed triumphantly, dismounting hurriedly, eager to seek shelter from the elements.

"Wa-" Before Geralt could warn him about the muddled footprints, a projectile came flying at Atram through the opening of the cave.

It would have landed straight at Atram's neck had the tip not glimered in the light. Instead, he titled his head to the side, and reacting on pure instinct, his fingers closed around the shaft of the arrow with lightning speed just before it found purchase.

Atram clicked his tongue in annoyance, snapping it like a twig. "A coward's weapon," he muttered. Bringing the orbs closer to the cave, he discerned a figure heavily obscured and mostly concealed behind the hefty rock formations, its eyes narrowed and poised to unleash another shot.

As he caught sight of his attacker, Atram channeled his inner energy, empowering his body with ki, and charged forward. Swiftly, he raised his arms to shield his head just in time, causing the second arrow to strike his forearm instead. It failed to penetrate deeply enough to cause harm, dropping harmlessly to the ground.

His assailant, caught off guard by Atram's sudden advance, fumbled for another arrow, their eyes widening in surprise at the display of recklessness and pure tenacity. With a curse, they drew back the bowstring, their fingers trembling with uncertainty as they prepared to unleash another shot.

That shot, however, never came. Atram seized the moment of hesitation and closed the distance with a Flash Step. The absurd burst of movement propelled him towards his enemy almost instantly. With a swift kick to their stomach, he sent them staggering backward, their grip on the bow faltering as they struggled to maintain their composure, battling to keep their insides in place.

In the following instant, he spun on his heel, ready to strike the final blow, but Geralt's voice gave him pause.

"I know their uniforms. Scoia'tael," Geralt declared, his tone full of apprehension.

Atram froze mid-motion, his gaze fixated on the squirrel tail protruding from the elf's cap. "What do the elven rebels have against us?" he mused, observing the man sprawled on the ground, clutching their abdomen.

The elf in question wore a torn gamberson, dirty and tattered from countless battles. His cloak hung loosely around his shoulders; its once vibrant color faded to a dull gray by the elements. Mud and grime coated his boots, evidence of the long journey he had endured to reach this desolate place. His features were sharp and angular, betraying a lifetime of hardship and struggle. Every line and crease told a story of survival, of triumphs and defeats in equal measure.

Despite his ragged appearance, there was a steely determination in his eyes, a fire that burned brightly with conviction. But as his gaze met Geralt's, a flicker of recognition passed through his eyes, softening the hardened lines of his features.

"G-gwynbleidd? Geralt of Rivia?!" The elf stammered, taken aback by surprise and disbelief.

Geralt sighed, arms crossed. "Mmm-hmm. Mind telling me what the Scoia'tael are doing so close to Flotsam?"

The elf shifted uncomfortably, still reeling from the earlier blow. "Bloede(Fuck)!" he hissed, shooting an accusatory glare at Atram. "Are your feet made of stone, Dh'oine(Human)?!"

Atram arched an eyebrow at the elf's colorful language. "You know what they say: 'Sticks and stones may break your bones,'" he replied dryly, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Geralt groaned at Atram's juvenile comment before turning his attention back to the elf. "Answer the question," he demanded, his tone firm but not unkind.

Pressing his back against the wall, the elf winced as he attempted to steady himself, his gaze flitting nervously between Geralt and Atram, seemingly oblivious to Elsa's presence.

"We were att-"

"Who goes there?" Geralt's voice sliced through the elf's words like a sharpened blade, his tone low and dangerous as he unsheathed his sword from its scabbard, the metal ringing with a menacing echo.

From around the corner, a figure emerged from the darkness, possessing the elegance of a king and the lethality of an assassin. The elf moved with a controlled grace honed through years of battlefield experience. His movements were fluid and effortless, as if he were born to wield a blade and dance with death.

A knee-length gambeson shielded his body, layered beneath a chainmail vest atop a leather breastplate. Affixed diagonally across the breastplate, a strap displayed insignias representing the elite units he had defeated throughout the years as a commander of the Vrihedd Brigade.

His single, unbandaged eye pierced through them, scrutinizing their every gesture, their every inhale. "Is this how one greets friends these days?" The newcomer's voice dripped with sarcasm, his smirk widening as he observed the tense atmosphere.

"Would you look at that? Iorveth, as I live and breathe!" Geralt voiced his delight, recognizing the old elf.

They clasped hands like old comrades, exchanging a warm smile.

"Good to see you again, Gwynbleidd," Iorveth remarked affectionately, his attention then shifting towards Atram and Elsa. "Though I must confess, the company you've brought is rather... unconventional. Another Vatt'ghern(Witcher) dressed like a vildkarrl(berserker) and bearing the countenance of one as well. And a young dh'oine, doe-eyed, yet imperious."

Iorveth's observation held a hint of intrigue; his words laced with curiosity as he took stock of the unique group assembled before him.

"Share your shelter with us, and I'll tell you all about it." Geralt replied with a smirk.

Iorveth let out a sigh and turned around, motioning for them to follow. "What the hell, things can't get worse than they already are. Besides, you might provide some much-needed help with a problem I have." He glanced back over his shoulder and winked at Geralt. "For old times' sake, eh?"

Geralt blew air through his nostrils and rolled his eyes. Every single time I meet an old acquaintance, there's a problem that needs solving. Do it yourselves, people!

Despite his inner rant, he begrudgingly followed Iorveth deeper into the bowels of the cave, his steps echoing softly against the stone walls as they delved further into the unknown.

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Author's Note: Greetings, everyone! It's been quite some time since my last update (almost a year, to be exact). But fear not, I haven't forsaken my work; life just threw some unavoidable hurdles my way (ah, the joys of college!).

Anyway, enough about me. I'll keep this brief—I just wanted to let you know about a few tweaks I've made to the previous chapters:

--A few improvements for better coherence and fluidity.

--Spells and ki abilities are now bolded for easier identification.

--Characters' inner musings are set in italics to distinguish them from the narrative.