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Chapter 37 — Novigrad (Public)
🕑 Added 2024-07-01 12:03:32 +0000 UTC
It’s a strange, almost surreal experience to be in that twilight state of half-alertness and half-drunk, and right after we leave Crow’s Perch as well…
The booze sure knows how to be an inconvenience.
Doubling over in the saddle, I rub my eyes, trying to clear the fog.
This really took me back to my first brush with tobacco—an intoxicating mix of disorientation and calm that keeps beckoning me back again and again, luring me with promises of serenity it can never deliver.
It’s like swimming through a fog, a sweet; cooling and comfortable fog— ‘This isn’t normal.’
Alcohol doesn’t do this;
Even if it could, my body should’ve flushed the toxins out seconds after consumption; minutes, top.
The idea jolts me from my stupor as I glance over at Ciri for assistance, only to realize she’s in a dire situation herself. “Hey, Princess, you holding up okay?!”
Her limp hands hanging at her sides offer very little reassurance.
Ciri had not downed nearly as many drinks as I have, she shouldn’t be passed out cold unless… “Ciri!”
I shout in an attempt to rouse her, while our horses keep on galloping, their eyes rolled to the back of their skulls, revealing naught but whites. “Someone spiked our drinks…” Mine, specifically, which the Witcheress emptied to be cheeky earlier.
I’ve never been roofied before—wild parties and rave have never really been my scene, truth be told—but I guess there really has to be a first for everything.
Projecting a wave of calm into the steed’s frenzied mind, I tug lightly on the reins, my Od fiercely clashing against the Curse of Madness gripping the animal.
Once my horse starts to slow and calm, I make a daring leap on Ciri’s; nearly miss my mark too—numb, unfeeling hands slipping off the saddle repeatedly as I reposition myself in, all the while ensuring the Witcheress’ head will not kiss the ground, and her trampled beneath the mare’s quick hooves, which is easier said than done.
Tying her to the reins is out of the question; she’d be dragged for miles by the horse.
“Fucking…”
Mumbling a curse under my breath, I finally am able to breath a sigh of relief feeling the mare’s struggle weakening. The moment it halts, I roll off, clutching the she-witcher in my arms—the two of us tumbling down in a tangled bundle of limbs.
The Witcheress groans weakly but shows no signs of waking, muttering something incoherent in her sleep. “Leo… Something’s… Something’s wrong.”
Hurriedly, I climb to my feet at the insidious whisper. “Where are you, dear boy? I’m coming for you!”
“Weavess…” I croak the Crone’s name, my feet tangling together in an unsightly dance as my motor function begins to fail.
Fog drifts across the road, parting to reveal a woman stalking towards us—naked as a newborn and crowned with a wreath of flowers.
Each step she takes seems so smooth; unnervingly so, as if to signify her lack of humanity.
It screams of wrongness. Her appearance flickers with each blink of my eyes; one moment an ugly, foul-scented, boil-covered monstrosity, the next a stunningly beautiful woman. “Crone…”
“Demon! Such an ugly word to hurl about! Have the village wenches been flapping their gums again?!”
I scoff, letting loose a humorless snort. “There aren’t any wench left, you old hag. You saw to that, remember?”
The Crone's eyes, wild and manic, snap up to meet mine, then she sways, a dark smile twisting her lips. “As I recall, you were the one painting the grounds red… Bathing in a rain of blood and organs, not me.”
My nerves feel like frozen wires, my reactions sluggish.
I need to shake off this numbness.
“What I ended weren’t human. Not anymore.”
A cold, slimy tongue, reeking of rot and decay, drags itself across my cheek while I fight the urge to recoil, disgust twisting my gut. “Is that what you tell yourself, little one?”
Mind racing like a frantic hamster on a wheel, I try to ignite my Circuits.
Nothing.
The pain itself too is a distant thing, a phantom sensation relayed through layers.
I must shock my system back online, and the only method that claws its way to the surface of my brain is Shirou Emiya’s rather brutal hack—makeshift Circuits.
Despite being dormant, his Magic Circuits continued to passively hoard Od throughout his life—Od that he learned to brutally rip free not through proper channels, but by warping his nerves into crude, agonizing imitations of the actual spiritual organ. It’s a savage, barbaric technique—a relic from the Dawn of Magecraft; not recommended mainly due to the various side effects it has.
The initial agony of converting even a handful of nerves…
It’s a special kind of Hell.
I would wager good coin it can earn a spot among the top ten tortures the average Spell-Slinger will experience in their lifetime, but it’s not the agony that will do you in, it’s the deathly numbness spreading like an illness.
Much like rabies, once the symptoms have shown, total paralysis won’t be too far away.
I’ve never tried it,
Never felt the need to. ‘First time for everything.’
Musing, I channel Mana down the nerve in my pinkie, gritting my teeth as a symphony of warning alarms blare through my nervous system.
The pain, ironically, bridges the disconnect.
“Consider my curiosity piqued,” I rasp, voice thin and strained, “How did you slip the poison in our drink?”
How did I not notice her?
“I didn’t, silly!”
The Crone cackles, grabbing my nose and dragging its claws down my cheeks, leaving bloody trails in their wake. “Someone else did!”
Someone else?
“It was that fucking maid, wasn’t it?” I growl, simmering with fury.
That bitch better be gone by the time I get back, or she’s dead.
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
The Crone moans, the illusion of Humanity melting away to reveal the grotesque entity underneath.
“Holy shit, how are you even uglier than last time, you hag?”
Half its face is a mangled ruin, ripped apart like a pitbull’s discarded chew toy.
“Look at what you’ve done to me!”
Weavess hisses, its form slithering towards me across the ground, its lame left leg dragged like an oversized tail.
With a violent motion, it ragdolls me against the tree—once…
“Your flesh has a nice texture to it, but too chewy.”
Twice…
“It’ll be difficult to eat you.”
Thrice…
“But no matter. This ought to soften you up.”
Once again, its slimy tongue runs over my eye while I create another makeshift Circuit.
“I shall begin with your limbs… There are ways to keep you alive—aware, so you might savor the depths of the agony you have inflicted upon my sisters and I… Would you like that, demon-child? Would you like to watch your limbs slow-cooked?”
I chuckle, a low rumble of gibberish meant only to lure the Crone closer, and like a moth to flame, it leans in, all cocky like everything is under its control. “What was that?”
Idiot.
Legs still shaky but regaining their fire, I lunge.
My teeth, with all the force I can muster, clamp down on the Crone’s bulbous nose.
It’s surprisingly tough, like biting into a leather pouch stuffed with gravel.
All the better.
I hurl the entity skyward, then slam Weavess down with such bone-jarring force that my jaws dislocate, but the Crone’s clearly in more pain than I am which is about all I care about really.
The foul creature cowers beneath me, hands feebly shielding its face, its low groan like a cheese grater scraping against my eardrums.
“Wherever you wretched cunts end up after death,” I growl, towering over the last surviving Crone, my boot pressing down on the side of its face, gaze cold and pitiless while the mare–seeing the situation no longer as dire, eagerly joins us, trampling on Weavess.
“Tell them to direct you to the nearest Villainy 101.”
Like a overripe melon, its skull caves in with a sickening crunch, splattering a chunky soup of brain matter and blood across the dirt, which it taints black.
“You’d have lived longer if you had stayed hidden.”
I murmur, collapsing on the ground as the content of my stomach bubbles and boils like a chest-burster has climbed inside my guts.
Fist clenched, I do the only thing I can in this situation and punch my stomach repeatedly, even reaching down my throat to induce the gag reflex that’ll hopefully expel whatever the Crone laced our drinks with.
Toxic fumes rise from my vomit as I retch, doubling over, arm placed in the puddle of green. “Ciri.” She didn’t drink much of the liquid, but if I—a literal human with [All-Eater] for a Perk is having problem digesting and filtering this shit out of my system.
Scrambling towards her body, I shake the unconscious Witcheress. “Ciri?”
Hand sneaking under her bang, I almost shivers at the frosty sensation; it’d have been better if she had a fever… Tiring as it will be, fever is good.
It means her body’s fighting the poison.
For a moment, I fear she has breathed her last on horseback already, but the weak, nigh unnoticeable rises of her chest quickly alleviate my worries, if just barely.
“Goddamnit.”
I’m not sure what to do.
Crow’s Perch is nearer, but if nobody can fix Ygrin’s scratchy bum, I doubt they’ll be able to fix what’s wrong with the Witcheress either.
Novigrad’s too far away, even if I rush there on foot. “White Orchard.”
The tutorial village that every player had farmed cows and gotten brutally murdered by a Chort at least once—it has a herbalist and a healer, ‘Tom-Something.’
If anyone can heal the dying ‘Chosen One’, it’s her.
“Hang on tight, I’m getting you help.”
My chest heaves as I fight the drowsiness, nearly dropping Ciri in the process. “This isn’t working…” I mutter, turning to whistle for the mare.
No wonder Phillip was so reluctant when Ciri asked for her;
She’s quite reliable—loyal…
I’ll purchase fresh fruits for her later.
It’s only fair. I toss myself and the unconscious woman onto the saddle—the latter leaning against me, her waist bound to mine with a hasty vine-rope—and spur the mare onward toward White Orchard.
Consciousness comes in sickening waves as we ride; slumped on the saddle.
Five minutes in, the fog in my brain lifts; that creeping dread dissolving to be replaced by the jittery, hyper-awareness only six-pack of Red Bull consecutively can cause.
A short ride later, straw roofs appear on the horizon.
A few more blinks, and we’re already outside some Tom-Something’s hut.
Hammering against the healer’s door, fist nearly splintering the wood in my haste, I remind myself. ‘I will pay for it later.’
The thought lost as I continue pounding until the tutorial healer bursts out.
“Excuse—What happened to you two?”
“Poisoned. I heard a healer lives here.” Voice tight with urgency, I gesture at the pale and shaking Witcheress… The healer scrambles aside, waving us in. “Put her on the bed there.”
After examining Ciri, the healer–Tomira furrows her brows. “This is unlike any poison I’ve encountered.”
“What can I say, it’s one of a kind.” I echo, eyelids growing heavy.
‘At least it’s not magical,’ I think to myself. Mimir’s Eye would have detected the Mysteries otherwise.
And if it’s not magical, it can be counteracted.
Problem is identifying the poison itself.
My gaze snaps to Tomira. “Is there a way to alleviate the symptoms while her body filters out the poison…?”
Tomira nods, then shakes her head—a frustratingly vague gesture. “There is, but I have not the ingredients.” Eyes boring into me, sharp and assessing, she sighs. “And you don’t look like you’re in any state to fetch me herbs.”
“Will these herbs increase her survivability?” I bite back a groan, forcing myself to my feet. Even weakened, rare are the monsters that can take me out, and rarer are ones who have made their nests near White Orchard.
Most of the monster population are Ghouls, with the occasional Aghoul thrown in the mix if I remember correctly.
“Yes, but—”
“What do you need?” I interrupt, chewing on my nails.
A cigarette would do me wonders right about now.
Ciri sleeps through the day while I gather the herbs and Tomira brews her concoction.
Then the next.
And the one after.
On the fourth day, she rises.
“Finally awake, ‘Sleeping Beauty?’” I greet, relieved.
“What happened?” Ciri sleepily murmurs.
“Weavess did… Her and treachery.” Spitting out the venom-laced words, I sit next to the bes. My fingers curl instinctively, yearning for the familiar weight of Senza Esitazione in my palm. I like to think of myself as a pretty chill person, but that fucking maid—I will have her head for this.
Still fuming, I nearly jump when I feel her fingers interlock with mine. “Knew it.”
The Witcheress smiles weakly, a fragile thing against the paleness of her skin. “I… I felt your hand grabbing mine last night.”
Heat creeping up my neck as I cough, a bit embarrassed. “You were having night terror.”
“I know.”
Her eyes fix on the ceiling, a distant look in their depths.
“I was… I dreamt I was at Kaer Morhen, training with Geralt and Yen when the Hunt came and killed Vesemir.”
‘Coincidence,’ I wonder, frown deepening. ‘Or a prophetic dream?’
“You’re gonna get wrinkles if you frown so much.” Her voice, witty—melodic—plays in my ears.
“Smiling too much creates wrinkles too.” I counter, my lips quirking despite my best intentions. With a groan, the she-witcher sits up, her sweat-soaked forehead finding cool relief against the damp rag I press to it. “At ease; you’re not well.”
“Well enough to walk.” She retorts, swinging her legs over the bed and pushing to her feet. “My legs are restless.”
It takes a moment, but she finds her balance at last, stretching with a wince.
“Need me to accompany you?”
She shakes her head, a flicker of shyness in her eyes. Strange, what’d make Ciri of all people embarrassed? “I need to, uhm, relieve myself.”
“Oh,” Scratching the back of my head awkwardly, I wave. “Right, you do that… Just, whatever you do, don’t hurt the cows.”
“Why’d I hurt the cows?”
The Witcheress chuckles.
The door creaks open, revealing our resident healer, Tomira, arms heavy with a basket overflowing with herbs and dried, crushed plants. “Ciri,” I announce, “Meet Tomira. She’s the one who patched you up, and, well.”
I clear my throat awkwardly, “Tended to your… Bodily needs… While you were out.”
Someone had to.
It wasn’t like I could, and the Witcheress couldn't exactly be left to stew in her own waste either.
“As I recall,” Tomira trills, a mischievous lilt to her tone, “He was by your bedside the entire time—worried sick. Except, of course, when I was seeing to your hygiene."
Damn snitch…
“Pleased to meet you.” Ciri greets softly, offering a hesitant wave before practically fleeing the room.
“Shy, isn’t she?”
I snort. “Wouldn’t you be?”
“I suppose.”
Humming, Tomira fixes the basket for a better grip.
“Need some help with that?”
She shrugs.
“I can handle it.”
“Please,” I insist. “You saved our lives, this is the least I can do.”
I’ve already prepared a pouch for her—half my earnings from the Baron’s ordeal at least, but the result’s well-worth the cost.
“I know that ‘look.’”
“What look?” I hum in response.
“You adore her, don’t you?”
“She’s… Pretty, resourceful, fun and have you heard her voice? It’s like chimes. What’s not to adore?”
Reluctantly, I answer.
It’s the best Tomira’s gonna get out of me, and that’s that.
“Not that it matters. We can’t be together.”
I’ll have to return to Nasuverse eventually, and she’s not the type to settle down either.
She has her calling, and I mine.
Furthermore, the things I aspire to… It’s going to be dangerous…
“Well, it’s up to you. But I pray you two don’t get blinded by ‘love’ like I was.”
The mention of ‘love’ brings back the entire backstory about the healer in an instant.
Yikes.
We must’ve been quite the eyesore for her, but besides that, I also get reminded of the healer’s rather grisly end at the hands of the witch hunters.
"Tomira, could I ask a favor of you?"
"That depends on what the favor is."
"Once we are gone, would you consider moving to Crow’s Perch? Go see the Baron and mention that I sent you. He'll arrange a comfortable place for you to stay."
She crosses her arms defensively. "And why would I go and do that?"
"Because it's safe?"
Certainly safer than being stranded in the wilderness while war ravages the continent and monsters roam the forest.
"Nowhere's safe, Leo."
"It is safer." I clarify.
“I heard rumors—the Cult of the Eternal Fire’s gathering everyone they believe Supernatural and setting them ablaze. One woman; alone in the forest brewing potions? They’ll come after you sooner or later.”
“I… I see.” Letting loose a weary sigh, she cleans up a few dusty bottles. “I was beginning to like it here too.”
“The Baron will treat you well, that I can promise you.”
In these war-torn times, even the blind can see the immense value of a healer, unless they are fucking senseless.
Unfortunately, nobody has ever accused the mad dog Radovid of having sense.
The fool issued for the execution all herbalist, alchemist and healer after assuming control of Temeria if my memory serves right.
My disdain for Philippa asides, Radovid cannot be allowed to live.
True, he is a tyrant, but also a competent and astute strategist, who’s arguably as shrewd as Emhyr, if a tad more reckless.
If allowed to, he would surely conquer the world, and in a few centuries, the Witcher-Verse would be reduced to the ‘Normal-Verse’, and there’re few things quite as tragic as the extinction of the fantastical.
“Last I heard, he’s a drunk who likes to fistfight. How well can he treat a person?”
“There are certainly aspects he can improve,” I shrug and speak up for my homeboy. “But he’s a better man than you think.”
We stay for two more days, before saying goodbye to the good healer.
I even leave her another smaller pouchful of coins, which should be enough to buy a seat in a hopefully well-defended caravan.
“It’s been a week, hasn’t it?”
How quickly time passes.
“There it is…”
Novigrad in all its splendor.
This is where I, playing Geralt, spent a significant chunk of time—admittedly because I kept getting lost, but also due to all the itty-bitty details and pretty compelling plotlines. If Velen captures the atmospheric essence of Witcher 3, then Novigrad is where its storytelling truly shines. “Beautiful place.”
With its reddish tiles, near-identical yet undeniably charming houses, bustling economy, and cultists lurking in every corner—what’s not to love?
“Halt!”
As is customary, the guards stop us at the entry, but once we present our letter of safe conduct, they wave us through without further hassle. Smart move on Radovid’s part—tight security is necessary, but if the guards harass merchants and visitors too much, his army will end up isolated.
Sure, the position is defensible, but without food and supplies, they’d have to rely solely on naval resupply.
The logistics of that would be a nightmare, especially while he’s at war with Emhyr.
From a purely logical standpoint, his decision to support the religious extremists is quite shrewd, considering the White Flame’s history of using them—Witchers included, if you count Letho, who’s now either dead or hiding like a rat. Quite the irony, given the emblem of his Witcher School.
Marching purposefully to the market square, we halt before the pyres, where a group of battered and bruised prisoners are being led to the chopping block.
An elderly man, fighting against his restraints, is positioned above the pyre.
“No, please! You’ve got this wrong! I’m just a fucking healer!” He screams, and plead for mercy to a merciless crowd.
He’s telling the truth too…
Evidence of Mysteries can linger on a Magus weeks after their last Spell, which [Mimir’s Eye] can reveal.
Beside me, Ciri hisses, “Your eye’s doing the shiny thing again.” And grips my shoulder.
“They’re wrong… He’s no Mage.” I murmur absently.
He’s an herbalist or, at most, an alchemist.
“—Pray that you see through his deceit! He was seen with cursed artifacts and—” The preacher’s tirade fades into the background as I focus on the pleading man, whose eyes are fixed somewhere beyond; a spot amongst the crowd.
My gaze traces the man’s desperate line of sight to a woman shielding her younger son from the gruesome spectacle, while another elder struggles to restrain the older son, who is frantic to reach his father. “The apples don’t fall far from the tree! Guards, seize him!”
The crowd roars with approval.
“I haven’t done my good deed for today yet,” I mutter, drinking in the chaotic scene.
Then, turning to Ciri, I ask. “Are you afraid of religious zealots?”
“Dealt with my fair share… This defeats the whole purpose of sneaking in, won’t it?”
Throwing her a grin, I jump off the black mare we’re sharing, since mine ran off a days ago—probably back to Crow’s Perch—I push my way through the crowd.
“You go find your friends first. I’ll handle this.”
After a brief silence, Ciri responds with a simple, “How do I find you?”
“You don’t. I’ll find you.”
Pebbles appearing in my palm, I stand and wait at the edge of the crowd.
“Watch the heathen gets set ablaze! Cheer to a world cleansed of FILTHS—CLEANSED BY FIRE!”
He roars.
I’m guessing this is the main attraction, then… The rest of the prisoners are just side dishes, which is rather ironic considering four out of the twelve are actual Mages. All of them, however, are shackled with Dimiterium cuffs. Instead of showing myself, I gather pebbles to flick at the cultists—snuffing out the torch and breaking bones, that kind of stuff.
Once the preacher’s men finally clue in that someone’s intentionally sabotaging their operation, he dispatches them to scour the square, scattering my ‘cover’—the crowd, but by that point, I’m already on somebody’s rooftop.
I can hurt these fanatics… I can hurt them bad.
Not that I have any personal qualms, mind you, but I’d rather not provoke the witch hunters into ramping up their security either.
After knocking the preacher and his goons senseless with a few well-aimed pebbles, I free the prisoners via the same method, letting them slink off into the night.
Hopefully, they’ll be long gone from this city by the time the sun rises.
With the situation handled, I track down Ciri to an unassuming house nestled in a dark alley.
Knocking on the door, I’m greeted by a glimpse of red.
“Ciri said you’d be arriving. Quickly now, slip inside before you’re spotted.” Triss Merigold herself ushers me into the building, its air thick with the scent of herbs, decay and bread.
“Has Ciri filled you in on what I need?”
“You wish to expedite your aging process, correct?”
“That, amongst other things. Where is Ciri?”
My gaze sweeps the room.
“Upstairs, resting. You’ve certainly been through the wringer this past week from what I heard. Come, our hosts aren’t welcoming.”
I can hardly fault them, given the bullshit being tossed around town.
“I require a magical artifact that will permit me to shift between my current form and an older one. Let’s cut to the chase, what do you need in exchange?”
“Very direct, aren’t you?” Smiling, the Sorceress as we settle in the corner of the room. “Ciri’s told me about your… Talents. Novigrad’s in a terrible state, as you can see. It’s not safe for us. I heard you’re also a man of profits, so let’s negotiate.”
“Yes. Let’s…”
Comments
Ano Nymous
Aye, I've returned, with more Ciri romance!!!
Hoang Nguyen Bui
Bro has returned for another Jedi lessons. I have future foresights!
