Children of Terra

~2 June 999~ ~Infirmary Room~ ~Kaer Morgraig~ ~Pruflas of Terra~ It was a mite shock for the Witchers of Morgraig in finding Pruflas needed no external sustenance. Garmuk was pissy for weeks afterward that he had been feeding the demon of no want. But -- true to the demon's word -- he shared knowledge of his own world. Much of it was oddly familiar as the implications and subtleties blended past the cultural barrier. Many of the ideas he professed suggested that the alchemic formulae available could be enhanced further.       In return, Erland showed Pruflas the step-by-step process of creating a Witcher. The Trials Grass, Dream, and Elder. And the grim regimen in making good use of the mutations. The resultant Witchers far stronger, faster, and more resilient than Pruflas had before seen. He spent most of his time on the anatomical study -- how to stabilize, synergize, and fertilize the mutagens.       And finally, as more information was shared between the parties; Pruflas gained a better grasp on the nature of Spheri Mundi's magia -- harnessing it more effectively to speed recovery.       He was good enough to spar with Erland in less than two months. The Witcher won nearly every time unless given severe starting handicaps. Speed. Pruflas couldn't form and cast spells in the time it took Erland to throw a dagger, his blade, or cast the simple magicks of Witcher Signs.       Another fascinating subject. Specialized magia designed for skirmish battle and monster fighting -- minimizing mental distraction to the hunter while maintaining a level of efficacy enough to harry the prey.       Pruflas still couldn't get the hang of it by the time Erland bid them ready. He was meditating on the flow and muscle memory of a prior day's spar when the Witcher of Larvik tapped his foot on the floor. Another show of natural predatory instinct: Witchers walked so silent even he would be caught by surprise.       "You are well enough, Terran. We must head and close these contracts. Any longer and Queen Hevelete will send all of Ard Carraigh to eunuch me. I dispatched a messenger raven detailing some delaying excuse."       Pruflas snapped the string of aether forming in his mind with a gentle motion -- before standing. "You are too kind, Erland. Nothing bid you stay. You could have gone alone."       The witcher's eyes gleamed in that yellow haunt. "I am curious to see how well you fight after these months. Let's go."       It probably depended on the individual Witcher, but Erland himself packed so light Pruflas had to comment on it.       Erland's reply was: "I can eat monster flesh on the Path. Cheaper."       Eugh.       Kaer Morgraig was nestled on a minor tributary of Buina -- a creek snaking directly north south -- right in the mountain pass carving between the Kestrel range. They went south in the scant ravine, following the creek for the first day's travel. Erland's dinner was a pheasant felled by a dagger he threw from over 35 meters away. It almost severed the bird in twain . . . At least it abode mercy in the hunt.       The next two days were retracing Buina back to the crossing Erland saved Pruflas. It was here the first chance for the Witcher to mentor the demon -- in more efficient combat -- presented. Water hags had found the decapitated body of the Fiend, staking and prowling the area to protect the mound of flesh-buffet. Erland sighed at the sight.       "Here we see ecology's cruel game. I failed to maintain balance in the system, and now the corpse-opportunists are here to disrupt things. More importantly, Terran, I was busy -- saving you. Show me the balance in the choice." The witcher drew his silver blade, advancing to the crossing under a shield of Quen.       The duke conserved his breath. 3 water hags. Known to fling mud and use ambush tactics. While he had used to combat of one against many, having done so many times; he has been shown now his reflexes and instincts are not to par. Too many brushes with death. Too much research and not enough practice.       He filled his mind in the hatred, and the sorrow. Such thinking isn't natural to him. It might never be. But it must suffice; alas no other way now. He envisioned aether flowing down from his core to the legs, swirling in frosted bite. As the duke made for the crossing to attract the hags, his steps withered the green grass in frostbitten death. The air around him held reverse-mirage -- like chill wicked from ice.       One of the hags dove into Buina, hiding. Another ran for the reeds, while the third hissed at him as it bowed to gather a claw-ful of mud. The duke charged the air around in aether, causing frosting on the banks as he advanced. When the third rose to fling a mud-ball in his eyes; first he fired a gout to dry it into dirt -- the desiccation speed making it disintegrate with a sizzle -- then the flux aura of cold flash-shattered the dirt harmlessly around.       Envision heavier fire. Not enough. Like the brimstone of Phlegethon . . . He advanced firmly into Buina, part of the training being fearless in battle. The surface of Buina downstream began condensing as his frigid aura caused a rapid temperature drop, the third hag screeching as it glided toward him in a flash; and then he heard it, the rush of water behind denoting the second coming for an ambush.       Pruflas' right hand folded across his chest to aim behind with a stream of true hellfire, while the left hand in front fired a torrential gust of tempest wind. He stepped to face left and put both in peripheral view as the wailing sounds of the hag-now-left dove back to quench her scalded face. The hag on the right was blasted through the air and tumbled back to the opposing bank in a squelch. It hissed as it tunneled into the murk, like some horrific river rat.       All three are now in hiding. Focus. He lifted one foot up from the silt bed and focused chill magia on the sole, stepping back down on now permafrost flooring. Same then to the other foot. The water around him whistled as heat was forcibly extracted from the atoms in unnatural speed. Fish began to die as they swam by, floating to the surface of Buina past. His waist was icing over, every movement causing frostings to break off and re-meld.       Water swelled around him as two of the murk beasts burst from the silt, intent on gouging him with a simultaneous attack. His left hand came up -- and in that moment -- the third hag tunneled just below the silt bed to grab at his ankles to root him. There she is. He envisioned around him a thin layer of cold. Just past it he poured his magia, like imagining pouring boiling water on a block of ice -- except outward, in all directions.       As the claws of all three inched closer in that split moment -- duke motionless -- suddenly a horrific squeal pealed the very air of the world itself. None of the hags had the reflexes to see it -- but the frigid cold air rippled in a split second -- rapidly expanding as hellfire magia suffused it. Water flashed to steam, permafrost below became shotshell pellets, and the condensed air whined as it reached supersonic velocity in milliseconds.       That is to say, in that moment, Buina cried out. Flash steam humidified the area as the explosion worked to abide physic's game -- heat whinnied like horses battering all in the way, dragging any unfortunate matter along in a quartering execution. Unfortunate matter like the three water hags.       Pruflas didn't have the experience to protect his eardrums. They burst immediately from the pressure wave, making him double over as hot wetness gathered behind the sides of his jaw. He whimpered as Buina worked to right itself -- water thunderclapping back down from being tossed high. The area around was heavy steamed, blocking vision.       When the torrent of current rushed back to its rightful spot, miffed at his unnaturalness, it collapsed the dried crumble-stilt beneath him. He yelped as he began to fall backward into Buina -- before a hand braced him from behind.       "That was . . . impressive." Bone conduction. The deep basso of the witcher's voice carried through the arm into his back.       "Better than even I - " When Pruflas turned to look at Erland over his shoulder, he noted immediately the red line sinking from the ear, already past the neckline to into armor. He blustered as he righted himself. "I'm sorry, I didn't - "       Erland's eyes slit as he reared his head back in a laugh. "Takes a lot to reap a witcher's hearing! Don't worry, they're half healed already." He thumped the duke in the back -- who was mortified and failed to catch most of that.       They decided to take a day in the nearby clearing -- still destroyed from the Fiend -- to recuperate. Pruflas lost his fine balance control as his poor semicircular canals and vestibular nerve were absolutely ravaged with force not oft seen in Spheri Mundi. He had to rely on Erland for support. At least he could help expedite camp.       The witcher left once readied, to check and confirm the hags were dead. Going back to the crossing -- now almost normalized save pungent odors -- scorched flesh and decay. The first two hags were easy to find: they both had been blown apart and flayed to bone from extreme force. Erland took some cuttings and ate a strip like jerky as he gathered the corpses into a pyre. He began the burn so the third could be tossed in.       Doubling back to the scent trail, he waded into Buina to where it ended -- and took a breath to dive. It took a moment to find the tunnel the third used, but not much for a witcher. He dug in, looking for signs of life. Nothing. Seemed to be mashed inside. Just to make sure, he resurfaced and wicked a Grapeshot bomb with a fatty-nitride sheath to burn underwater. He snapped his fingers lighting it off and primed it to the entrance of the tunnel, swimming away. After the muted swell, he went back to confirm tunnel collapse before heading back to camp.       Evening was firmly set in when the next conversation started. Pruflas having spent the rest of the day honing magia into his head and out through the ears in healing waves. It hurt like fuck but hearing was restored.       Erland cleared his throat as he tended a campfire. "A surprising uptick there. You learn fast. More pointedly, you adapt what you're taught." With a side-eye and smirk he followed up, not having bothered to dry his neck from the blood. "Perhaps a little too quick . . . "       Pruflas groaned, speaking through his palms. "Fuck. The principles were sound. I can't believe I failed to account for the higher level of magia when working through the mental projections. I fought like I was still - "       "In Terra?"       Pruflas didn't say the quiet part out loud. Why he lost his mind in the fight, why he fought in a way he never did when sparring. Why his eyes frosted over when the subject of Terra ever came up. He didn't need to. Not much escaped the peering eyes of a veteran Witcher, especially under extended observation.       The witcher opted to tend the fire without comment. ~9 June 999~ ~Great Kestrel foothills and headwaters of River Braa~ ~Northern Caingorn~ ~Pruflas, unerring~ It took another 4 day's travel to reach the town-stop of Barefield. Erland traded and bartered the cuttings of monsters the pair had slaughtered on the way. Another cat nap on wood and straw before heading off to the foothills of the Kestrel fathers. The Great Kestrel wasn't particularly grand, but it did firmly rise to the point it was snowed year round.       The duke asked about that as they ventured into alpine foothills in ascent upward -- following the river Braa as far as feasible. "What would that be, a day or two just in climbing?"       The witcher was beginning to use 3-point ascent as the slope turned from gravel to granite. "Might be more, might be less. Depends on avians and trolls."       Pruflas could keep pace in moments like this, endurance bolstered by magia density. "Avians?"       "Best case scenario: harpies. Worst case are wyrmlings, griffons, or cockatrii. Winged beasts love aviaries like this." Erland looked up, contemplating the stone outcroppings snaking the sides of the Kestrels. He looked down to see progress. Already a good 2 leagues. He nodded as he continued climbing.       Winds from the north batten in the northern Kestrels year round. The pair began to feel this as they reached a third of the way up the mountain face, where plants thinned to just shrubs, a tuft of grass here or there, and pygmy pines jutting from angles. Grunts of effort began to be muted against the whistling crags.       They had been hiking along a granite escarpment when the witcher suddenly drew silver. Pruflas stiffened before he heard it: the distal cries of harpies. Erland coated his blade in hybrid oil, kneeling under granite face as he rubbed the edges. "A couple dozen harpies. Should be easy enough for you, considering. You probably rank among the most prestigious of mages."       The duke peered over the windblown stone upward, eyeing the small figures as they soar around. "Say when."       Erland surveyed a moment, eyeing potential choke points, preferred fighting zones, crannies for ambush, before standing. "The best spot is likely the nest itself. See the goat path? We charge. Go!"       The witcher leapt over the stone leading, Pruflas dashing behind -- gathering granite pebbles along the way. Harpy song turned to pitched screeching as they saw the motions, swooping to defend their nest. Pebble shots peppered the front avians, bodies shuddering as rivulets of blood spurt out after the falling corpses.       Erland jumped to cleave wings from harpies as they bore talons down. Any not initially struck were hit with Aard or Igni to bring them to earth. He didn't stop to kill the disoriented ones, charging to the nest. Pruflas fired more thorough gouts of hellfire on harpies grounded, making them roll about in wails as they broiled to death. The harmonic screeching of harpies drew dozens more from caves and underside hangs out. A veritable swarm matched the pair in defense.       Erland stood in the middle of the nest -- situated in a bowl jut escarpment high on the goat path -- nests encircled all around with egg and hatchling. The witcher whirled as harpies descended on him in flurried packs. Gashes and blood sprayed with dancing silver as harpies here and there spiraled with death throes, landing in twitching croaks. In between harries, bombs of Dancing Star flew out and caught nests alight. Chicks squealed as they fizzled, eggs popping.       Fuck. The duke was saddened, but he yet participated as he fired branch-arrow and stone bullet at harpies. Ones that swooped to him were caught with hellfire counter, tending to crash and broil around. The flames and burning young frenzied the harpies, making them swarm tight around the pair. Pruflas had to channel great heat in his aether-miasma to batten them back -- Erland having to swirl and roll more often than not.       The fight went on for at least an hour before the only sounds left were the wails of perdition, scant harpy burning alive while the rest baked into ash.       The witcher needed only a handful of minutes in meditation to regather his stamina, Pruflas doing the same. With a steady breath, breaking repose, Erland stood. "Come. We have yet a ways."       Pruflas meditated just a moment more, before snapping his mental aether and standing.       Erland looked ahead as they continued up. The granite here suffocated plants, only ones left being cold climate bush and altitude pine. Ice and snow peppered in the shades of pebbles and rocks. Winds grew bitter and harsher.       "How well do you tolerate cold, Terran?"       Pruflas grunted as he clambered up a particularly rough section of wall-ledge. "I've been in far worse, Erland. Cold so bitter a naked man would be dead in minutes."       A handhold broke free under Erland's grip. It echoed as it fell down. "Sounds like home."       "Home?"       "Larvik. A town in Hindarsfjall, in the Skellige islands far west of here. Months. Bitter cold in winter, and a Skellige summer is a winter in most of the rest of the Realms." He stopped to plan the next climb. Impassable save to climb sheer cliff. He took a breath as he leapt up the face, straining as he defied gravity.       Pruflas exhaled before following. No more time for talk. Once Erland made it far enough for him, he leapt to follow. He used magia to suffuse his muscles, any that ached with exertion. He grunted a laugh thinking about rope-vine and Dis. It was always damned easier to descend than ascend.       Once they cleared the next section, they were in full snow. Boots tramped as they continued on a valley between crests. Pruflas spoke: "You know what's funny? I can use a spell to summon rope. I think it would brittle out in this cold." He had to speak from the gut to overpower the winds.       "What? Magic has downsides?"       "Hah! Hard to cast when three of your limbs are rooted to prevent falling to death. It requires planning, easier to do when looking down than up."       Even Erland shielded his cat's eyes. "We''ll camp in the next promising cave. We don't want to fight in the dark for this one, nor with any exhaustion."       They opted for a nook in a thin overhang between a small jut and the main Kestrel mountain. Days this far north were long, and the sun was still above horizon as they set camp. Once again, Pruflas' expertise here made it near trivial. A small fire was flickered in the protection of stones in moments.       Pruflas had no real need to warm up, wrapped firmly in aether. And the witcher was highly resistant to cold anyway, so a small fire was all needed for alchemical needs and cooking. Erland was roasting harpy wing when the duke spoke up -- reposed in the back of the nook.       "What is the contract on, Erland? Isn't preparation 80% of a witcher's battle?"       The witcher tended the flame before answering. "Frost dragon. An unusual one to break from the Dragon Mountains. It has been a terror to all the kingdoms around north Kestrels. Kaedwen -- Queen Hevelete -- put out the contract."       Pruflas mulled a moment. "And how does a frost dragon compare to a Fiend?"       "They wouldn't match in nature. But, a frost dragon would be like a hawk if a Fiend was a roadrunner. Entirely different ecological levels."       "I think I'm starting to see the real reason you wanted me to join you . . . "       The witcher chuckled as he unfurled his own cover. "I suggest you sleep well."