The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes

"Who are you?" The Witcher raised his head from the bloody, gutted belly of the monster.

A man and a woman, both drenched in sticky blood, stood before the wide-eyed ghoul's severed head. Their filthy faces bore faint traces of reverence that were hard to discern.

Behind them, Vesemir was speaking with a fat merchant, while a trembling coachman was repositioning the wagons that had formed a defensive circle.

Other Witchers were busy harvesting materials from the fallen creatures. The mercenaries leaned on one another, some retrieving the bodies of their comrades, others standing by the younger Witchers.

Whether out of interest in their techniques or curiosity about which parts of the grotesque, foul-smelling monsters were worth harvesting, the mercenaries lingered nearby.

"We are from the Angren Free Company of Temeria. I am the leader, Ryan, and this is Dana..."

"Hello, Ryan and Dana," Allen said, intrigued. "How did you recognize me?"

"Sir Allen..."

"Just Allen will do," the Witcher interrupted.

He was still unaccustomed to being addressed by a title.

Admittedly, "Sir Allen" sounded better than the juvenile moniker "Blue Death," but he would have preferred the straightforward "Master Allen." Unfortunately, perhaps due to his age, people rarely called him that even after he attained the rank of Witcher master.

Of course, he couldn't demand they address him as such—it would be unseemly.

Ryan exchanged a glance with Dana after being interrupted. "Master... Master Allen?"

Quick learners. The Witcher nodded in satisfaction.

Ryan sighed in relief. "Master Allen, half a month ago in the taverns of Temeria, bards were singing about how you, wearing a May Festival crown, defeated the hordes of spectral beasts besieging Ellander..."

"...Blue cat eyes opening and closing, Death summoned to the battlefield..." Dana recited, her tone deep and melodic. "...The fourteen-year-old knight of Ellander named his beloved silver sword, Elsa..."

Dana's singing was enchanting.

However, upon hearing the lyrics clearly, Allen glanced at Vesemir with a peculiar expression.

Though the senior Witcher hadn't mentioned it since obtaining his new sword, Elsa wasn't Allen's blade. Neither was the name chosen by him.

It was ironic that the sword he cherished had gained fame in the hands of another Witcher.

Tsk tsk...

Allen shook his head internally.

Of course, this didn't matter to him.

Songs by bards in the Witcher's world were short, typically comprising two repetitive or progressive stanzas. Dana's rendition lasted less than thirty seconds before she finished the main part.

"Master Allen," Ryan placed his right fist over his chest solemnly and bowed. "Thank you for saving me... for saving the Angren Free Company."

"There's no need for that," Allen stepped back slightly, gesturing toward Vesemir. "The caravan owner will pay the Witchers' reward."

"It's not the same," the burly, bearded man shook his head. "I, Ryan, and the Angren Free Company owe you our lives..."

"And so do I, Dana!" The woman, her face streaked with dried tears, looked at Ryan and solemnly declared.

Then, without hesitation, the two bowed deeply again, turned, and headed toward the caravan.

Allen stood there, stunned for a moment, then chuckled softly as he resumed harvesting materials from the giant ghoul.

-----------------

Both the caravan and the mercenary group had suffered significant losses in this old battlefield. However, in the wilderness, especially on cursed battlegrounds infested with carrion creatures, neither side considered bringing the bodies back.

Chopping wood, lighting fires, and arranging the corpses...

Eager to leave this place of sorrow, the merchant even paid an additional 200 orens for the Witchers to use their signs to stoke the flames.

"This is the fate of mercenaries. If not on the battlefield, then somewhere else," Ryan said as he stood beside Allen, his eyes reflecting the flames against the grim sky.

"To die beneath the searing flames is already a good end."

Carrion creatures often dug up graves in the wilderness, sniffing out buried bodies. So Ryan wasn't wrong.

To be consumed by flames and leave behind a few bones for loved ones to remember them by was, indeed, a fortunate ending for mercenaries scraping by in war zones and the wilds.

Had Allen and his group of Witchers not passed through, these mercenaries would likely have been annihilated, left to rot on the old battlefield, and become food for the carrion creatures.

Perhaps they'd even serve as nourishment for the next generation of monsters or turn into wraiths fueled by resentment, perpetuating the cycle of terror on humanity.

Such restless souls, unable to find peace, would be denied entry to the divine realms of their faith.

That was a fate more intolerable than death for most in the Witcher's world.

"By the way," Allen asked quietly, "judging by your skill in dealing with ghouls, you don't seem like an inexperienced mercenary group. Why did you come to this old battlefield?"

"You must know this is the sort of place where ghouls are most likely to appear."

"Of course we know..." Ryan sighed softly. "We're not professionals like you when it comes to hunting monsters, but as seasoned travelers, we know which places to visit and which to avoid. However..."

Ryan's gaze instinctively shifted toward a particular spot.

Allen followed his gaze and saw two little girls being held by a portly middle-aged merchant, likely their father. They watched the crackling flames with an eerie calmness.

"Sally... the girl on the left. While the caravan was resting, the cat she was holding suddenly darted into the forest, and she chased after it immediately..."

"And, like every foolish tale, when we found her in the woods, we also attracted the monsters..."

"The caravan, under the cunning guidance of those creatures, panicked and fled here."

"The casualties were severe."

Staring at the flickering shadows in the flames, Ryan's tone faltered. "But it's also our fault."

"Children and pets are always the elements most prone to causing accidents during a journey."

"I wasn't prepared..."

"Ryan..." Dana reached out and clasped his hand.

Ryan's expression turned slightly awkward. He tried to pull his hand back, but Dana held it tighter, leaving him unable to withdraw.

Perhaps because Allen was present, Ryan merely tugged once, failed, and gave up.

Seeing Allen's gaze lingering on the two girls, Ryan looked at them with a trace of pity.

"Sally has learned a lesson..."

Ryan paused. "A very painful one."

"Sally's mother, Lady Lys, was dragged off by the ghouls to save her—Sally and Dona," Dana sighed.

Before she finished speaking, Allen suddenly remembered the woman's scream he had heard earlier in the small forest.

He finally understood why the two girls were so unnaturally silent for their age.

"That's truly... truly..."

-------------------

The simple cremation was complete, and the caravan resumed its journey.

The witchers accepted the generous payment offered by the plump merchant and continued traveling with the caravan. Their destination was also the smuggler's trail, though their ultimate goal wasn't Vergen. Instead, it was Lassstor Fortress in Lyria and Rivia, after passing through Aedirn.

As for why the plump merchant was traveling with his family through this war-torn region, he didn't say, and Vesemir didn't ask.

Everyone has their secrets.

They were just companions for a short stretch of the road, and there was no need to delve too deeply.

Of course, the most important factor was...

The money was good.

"Clink~"

Under the eager gaze of the young witchers, Vesemir tossed a pouch of coins to Allen.

"Jingle~"

The crisp sound of coins colliding echoed.

"Eighteen hundred Orens. Half for you, half for me," Vesemir said, pulling his reins to ride closer.

Not bad—almost a thousand Orens in his account again.

In the days before the Wolf School's decline, and before monsters became as rare as they were in the games, the income of a top-tier witcher master was indeed this substantial.

Unlike Geralt's generation, Allen wouldn't have to fight tooth and nail for a handful of coppers, only to have his earnings slashed by unfair discounts or find himself facing the villagers' scorn, suspicion, or outright expulsion.

At least in this era, no one was "selling their daughters" over a hundred orens.

From this perspective, Allen's timing for traversing into the witcher world wasn't so bad.

At the very least, witcher masters weren't short on cash. After lavish expenses, they could still afford to support a large group of apprentices at Kaer Morhen.

"Alright, alright, you'll get your share when we reach Vergen," Allen said with a smile, unable to resist the pleading looks from the young witchers.

"Long live the leader!"

The young witchers immediately cheered.

In truth, these young ones, fresh from the mountains, were technically still apprentices under their mentors' guidance during their travels. Whether or not they got a share of the money was entirely up to their teachers.

Naturally, Allen wasn't going to be that stingy.

"Clop, clop, clop~"

Riding alongside the long caravan, Allen listened to the young witchers discussing how they would spend their share of the money—an amount even he hadn't decided on yet.

Suddenly, he noticed Vesemir's furrowed brows as the older witcher occasionally glanced back toward the desolate wilderness behind them.

"You're worried about pursuers from Ban Ard, aren't you?"

It was a statement, not a question.

Vesemir had just withdrawn his gaze and was taken aback by Allen's words before he nodded slightly.

"Don't worry," Allen reassured him. "Since we left Ban Ard, we've been traveling nonstop for six days. Those pampered sorcerers couldn't possibly catch up with us so quickly."

He wasn't dismissing Vesemir's concerns but was confident that the sorcerer named Sunny would be unable to match their pace.

The lessons Allen had learned from Vera and Ianna, especially regarding water and fire divination rituals, gave him a good understanding of how sorcerers tracked their targets.

Tracking the traces left behind by witchers, the sorcerers would either set an ambush in a specific location or pursue them on horseback. There was hardly a third option.

Riding non-stop for five days without rest, with their thighs rubbed raw...

Even if the sorcerers had the will, their unenhanced bodies wouldn't have the stamina to match the witchers, whose physiology had been altered through the Trial of the Grasses.

Besides, once they crossed the smuggler's trail, they'd be in Aedirn territory. At that point, it was the lone sorcerers who needed to worry about danger.

Allen believed the real threat would be on their return journey when they might have to take a more circuitous route.

As for Vesemir's anxiety, Allen figured it stemmed from past encounters with Sunny.

"Hmm..." Vesemir hesitated for a moment before nodding again.

"Rather than worrying about spoiled sorcerers catching up to us, we should be more concerned about what lies ahead in Vergen," Allen joked. "After all, a certain 'dwarf princess' besieged by an army is waiting for us to rescue her."

"You brat!" Vesemir chuckled, shaking his head.

"But you have a point..."

"I should probably warn the caravan. If there really is a Kaedweni remnant army near Vergen..."

Before Vesemir could finish, he pulled his reins and rode ahead to the front of the caravan.

"Clop, clop, clop~"

The urgent sound of hooves soon blended with the rumble of wagon wheels over gravel.

Allen watched as the weary merchant, his eyes red from lack of sleep, poked his head out of the wagon. He forced a smile as he spoke with Vesemir.

After a brief exchange, the merchant's expression turned anxious, and he quickly summoned the leader of the Free Angren Mercenary Company, Ryan.

"Vergen, oh Vergen..." Allen muttered, glancing back at the path they had taken.

A faint scent of scorched flesh still lingered in his nostrils. The old battlefield where many had been buried was now hidden beneath sparse woods, overgrown bushes, and pale stones.

Allen's eyes clouded with thought, his expression inscrutable.

------------------------

"Rumble~"

Amid the summer floods, the raging Pontar River was left behind by the caravan.

Thankfully, there was no clichéd scenario where a massive enemy force awaited them just past the Kaedweni-Aedirn border.

The caravan pressed on without rest, encountering only a few foolish drowners along the way. The Angren Free Company quickly dispatched them before the witchers even had a chance to act.

This mercenary group was quite skilled. After observing them during the journey, Allen had formed some ideas, though they were not yet fully developed.

After crossing the Pontar River, the caravan soon arrived at the familiar crossroads where Allen and Vesemir had, two months earlier, slain the Pale Widow and captured Tomas Moreau and Marco.

At this familiar site, Vesemir, who had been tense throughout the journey, visibly relaxed.

Allen didn't tease the witcher master about it; he felt the same sense of relief.

Traveling through Kaedweni territory always carried a pervasive sense of dread, as if an army could appear to surround them at any moment.

Once at the crossroads, it was only a short distance to Vergen, the dwarves' fortified city carved from the mountains. However, night was falling, and Vergen's current situation remained unclear.

After discussing with Vesemir and Ryan, the wealthy merchant decided they would camp at the crossroads.

"Erni, Claral, you stay here and protect the caravan..."

After returning, Vesemir gave instructions to the young witchers, then turned to Allen.

"Come on, let's go see if our 'princess' Houghton really needs knights to rescue her!"

.....

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