The Witcher: Wolf School's Hunting Notes

"Skree~"

The two Witchers had barely taken a few steps when the large griffin crouched low, letting out a wary, low cry.

Allen exchanged a glance with Vesemir, a suspicion forming in his mind.

"Should we keep going?" Vesemir asked, scratching his head as he eyed the griffin's unfriendly posture.

"Yes."

Allen transmitted calming emotions through their mental link and took the lead, walking into the depths of the cavern where sunlight couldn't reach.

Vesemir glanced back as he followed.

The griffin scraped its claws against the ground, its wings flapping uneasily, though it didn't dare make a sound.

When the Witcher Master locked eyes with the creature, it bared its beak, spread its wings wide in a silent but intimidating display.

"Good girl! Vesemir is a friend; no need for that!"

Allen's voice came from beside him.

The griffin immediately whimpered and folded its wings.

"Well, I'll be damned..." Vesemir clicked his tongue in amazement.

Seeing such a ferocious apex predator behaving like a tamed pet was a staggering experience for a seasoned Witcher like him.

It was like imagining an unreachable, aloof, and regal duchess widow who inherited a vast fortune. To everyone else, she was cold and indifferent, but for the poor neighbor's kid, she was head over heels, willing to give him her all.

"What kind of metaphor is that..." Vesemir shook his head with a self-deprecating chuckle.

"Vesemir?"

"Coming."

Shaking off the strange imagery in his mind, Vesemir caught up in just a few steps.

The "duchess widow" was left behind, anxiously flapping her wings and scratching at the ground.

"Clack-clack-clack~"

The two Witchers soon reached the deepest part of the cave, the very spot where the griffin had been sleeping earlier.

There, nestled in a pile of bones forming a small hill, were eight enormous eggs, each half the height of a man, their shells a rich brownish hue blending seamlessly with the surroundings.

"As expected!"

What could make a female griffin change its nesting habits?

It wasn't hard to guess.

Still, seeing the eggs in person made Allen's heart race with excitement.

"This is a huge surprise!" he exclaimed.

Eight griffin eggs might mean eight griffin riders—or rather, griffin Witchers...

In his mind's eye, he could already see himself leading eight Witchers armed with lances, soaring through the skies and tearing through enemy lines in an exhilarating charge.

"This truly is a big surprise," Vesemir agreed with a hearty laugh. He could tell from Allen's joyful expression what he was imagining.

Not because Vesemir could read minds, but because he was having the same fantasy.

Who wouldn't want to ride a griffin, soaring freely across the skies?

"But this won't be easy," Vesemir added, his gaze fixed on the massive eggs.

"In the past, there have been daring fools who've stolen griffin eggs—or eggs of other monsters—but to this day, no one has successfully tamed a griffin. Uh, well... except for you. You're the only one."

"True, it might be tough," Allen nodded in agreement. "But I have their mother to help me, don't I?"

"That's a good point." Vesemir glanced back at the griffin, which was nervously scraping its claws and twitching its wings. "Who knows? Maybe I'll actually see a group of Witchers flying on griffins at Kaer Morhen someday."

"You'll definitely be one of them!" Allen promised earnestly, "Hopefully, the very first."

"That spot's mine, no question!" Vesemir laughed heartily, not one to refuse such an offer.

"Skree~"

The griffin's tense cry echoed from a distance.

"Where to next?" Vesemir asked, his gaze lingering on the eggs one last time.

Allen squinted as he looked out of the cave. Judging by the bright sunlight outside, it was probably around two or three in the afternoon.

"Back to the inn to grab our things, then we'll head to Ellander. With any luck, we might reach the Temple of Melitele before sunset..."

Vesemir nodded. He hesitated briefly as he glanced at the griffin before asking,

"Do I get to ride that back too?"

"Of course!" Allen replied with a hearty laugh, walking toward the griffin.

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

Vengerberg

Bang!

A pair of fists, encased in expensive leather gloves, slammed onto a table, spilling crimson wine from a tin-and-silver goblet.

"Hiding, hiding, hiding!" roared the gloves' owner. "The ruler of Aedirn, forced to scurry around his own house like a rat because of a damn flying feathered beast!"

"Am I to believe that in this vast kingdom of mine, not a single brave soul can rid me of this monster? Not one, after all those worthless traitorous dogs of sorcery are gone?!"

"ARGH!" The gloved man bellowed, his rage shaking the room so much that a portrait of a crowned figure gripping a sword tipped askew, looking ludicrously out of place in the stately chamber.

"Answer me, Hand of the King!"

The elderly man with white hair sighed but remained silent.

"Minister of War!"

The balding middle-aged man also stayed mute.

"Your Majesty!"

At that moment, a knight entered the council chamber, sparing them from further wrath.

"Speak!" King Demavend II of Aedirn, his face contorted with fury, waved a hand.

The knight knelt nervously on one knee and reported,

"There have been no citizens taken today, and the provisions for the front lines are intact..."

"Ahhh."

The gathered ministers and courtiers, even the guards and maids, collectively sighed in relief.

"But..."

"But what?!" Demavend's booming voice cut the knight off before he could even hesitate.

Frightened, the knight hurriedly continued,

"But the Vivaldi Bank in the Upper District was destroyed by the griffin, and the dwarves are now at the palace gates demanding an explanation..."

"Demanding an explanation!" Demavend leaped to his feet, slamming his fist onto the table again, cutting the knight off mid-sentence.

The silver goblet tipped over, spilling the red wine onto his luxurious black velvet jacket, further fueling his rage.

Stomp-stomp-stomp!

Demavend stormed down from his ornate high-backed chair and marched to the knight, pointing a gloved finger at his nose as he roared,

"Those damned dwarves dare demand an explanation from me—the King of this land?! Hah! An explanation for what? Tell me!"

The knight instinctively leaned back, swallowing hard.

"They... they're asking for compensation..."

Demavend said nothing, his menacing glare fixed on the knight, as though staring through him to the bankers outside the palace gates.

"And if I don't compensate them?" His voice was unexpectedly calm, yet it terrified the knight even more.

The knight stammered, his voice trembling,

"If... if Your Majesty doesn't compensate them, they... they've threatened to withdraw the Vivaldi Bank from Aedirn."

Before the knight could finish speaking, the balding Minister of War slammed his hand on the table and shouted, "Let them try!"

"Of course, they dare," Demavend said coldly, his earlier fury replaced by an eerie calm.

The Vivaldi Bank was not just an ordinary bank.

It served as the liaison between the northern countries and Mahakam, which, in other words, meant it was the connection to the largest arms dealer in the Northern Continent.

Kings deposited funds and transferred them through this bank, which assessed the strength of nations and provided guarantees for placing orders with Mahakam.

Demavend II was well aware that Kaedwen's strength was not to be underestimated. No—one could even say it was formidable. If not for the sudden and suspicious death of "The Big Eater," Aedirn would have continued silently building its strength.

This meant the war would become a protracted one, with every factor holding significant importance, especially the critical matter of weaponry and equipment.

The most crucial batch of weapons for the war had not yet arrived. A significant stockpile of swords, spears, shields, crossbows, and arrows was still being forged.

"Tell those vampires," Demavend II took a deep breath, suppressing his anger, "that even if my palace is completely destroyed by those damned flying beasts, I will find a way to rebuild their damned, blood-of-Aedirn-sucking, ornate coffins first..."

"Should we really say that to the dwarves?" A knight froze for a moment. "Vampires and coffi—"

"Of course not!" The elderly man, referred to as the King's Hand, interjected before the king, in his fury, could hurt himself by punching an armored knight.

"Just tell them that His Majesty and the Royal Council will find a way to repair the Vivaldi Bank as soon as possible."

"Yes!" The knight, realizing his earlier misstep, bowed to the king and the other ministers in the council chamber and hurried out.

"Don't get upset, Your Majesty." The King's Hand, seeing Demavend II's face turn purple with anger, quickly tried to calm him. "Most of the experienced knights like Terek and his veterans have gone to the battlefield. It's inevitable that the rookies don't know proper protocol."

"Yes, yes," other ministers chimed in support.

"Your health is of utmost importance, Majesty. You are the one who will lead us to victory against those hypocritical, cruel, despicable Kaedweni nobles and their mages."

Demavend II took a deep breath, waved his hand, and sat back in his high-backed chair.

A servant quickly wiped the damp table clean and poured him another glass of wine.

"Glug~"

He roughly downed the fine wine in one gulp and turned his gaze toward an unremarkable-looking middle-aged man at the table:

"Have you figured out what caused the northern anomaly last night?"

"It still requires some time," the middle-aged man shook his head.

Demavend II did not press further. Placing the mages under lock and key meant some delays in intelligence gathering. Still, compared to the risk of having his intelligence leaked, this was a minor issue.

The servant refilled his wine glass. Just as he raised it for another sip, something crossed his mind. He set the glass down and asked:

"What about Houghton Qui-Gon… Any findings from Vergen?"

The middle-aged man's expression changed slightly, though only for a brief moment. It did not escape Demavend II's sharp eyes.

"What's the matter?" he asked, frowning.

The middle-aged man hesitated for a while before finally sighing under the king's increasingly piercing gaze: "There was news a few days ago. Lord Houghton intercepted the guards inspecting mages and prevented them from using detection tools before allowing a caravan into the city..."

Demavend II raised his eyebrows. "And then?"

"Our men followed and counted heads, only to find that nine people were missing." The middle-aged man reported truthfully.

Then, as if worried the king might misinterpret the situation, he paused and added a defense for Houghton Qui-Gon: "Although Lord Houghton has consistently denied it, as someone Your Majesty trusts, loyal to the kingdom, there is no way he would collaborate with the mages. Those individuals are most likely Witchers from the School of the Wolf."

"But… nine people is quite a lot," the King's Hand interjected. "I am not questioning Lord Houghton's loyalty—there is no doubt about that—but Witchers from the School of the Wolf usually operate alone or in pairs, with one being a traveling mentor and the other an apprentice…"

Demavend II remained silent, seemingly deep in thought.

The middle-aged man waited for the King's Hand to finish before speaking respectfully: "Lord Mars' reasoning is sound. However, in our subsequent investigations, we discovered that on the night before Lord Houghton intercepted the guards, there had been an alarm at his residence. The patrolling guards were dismissed by Lord Houghton himself…"

"The lock on the second floor of his residence was damaged, and the marks resembled those left by Aard, a sign used by Witchers from the School of the Wolf."

"Moreover, while the nine individuals did not carry the signature dual swords of Witchers, they looked like mercenaries. Among them, eight were particularly young, no older than fifteen…"

The King's Hand fell silent, as the conclusion was becoming evident.

After a moment of hesitation, the King's Hand said: "Lord Houghton might have acted this way because our commission was rejected by the Witchers. His resistance to the guards' inspection may stem from that. After all, Your Majesty knows he is a staunch and pure-hearted dwarf."

"A pure-hearted dwarf…" Demavend II drummed his fingers on the armrest and muttered bitterly, "Haven't I treated him well enough?"

"Of course, that's not—" The King's Hand's attempt to defend the dwarf was cut short by a raised hand from the king.

Demavend II turned to the middle-aged man. "And then? Those nine people simply vanished into thin air in my kingdom? During wartime security measures!"

"Our men have tracked them," the middle-aged man quickly explained. "The nine individuals appear to be near Vengerberg, though we have yet to confirm their exact location. That's why we didn't report earlier—"

"How many days?" Demavend II interrupted.

"Two days! No more than two days!" the middle-aged man swore. "If I fail to bring them here within two days, I will personally request to be sent to the frontlines to fight alongside the prisoners of war for the kingdom!"

Demavend II slammed the table decisively. "Fine, I'll give you two days. But no violence. Treat them with respect and invite them over. If Duke of Ellander can offer the School of the Wolf certain benefits, we can double—no, triple that!"

"Mahakam is already crowded with the Melitele temple, Ellander Castle, and the dwarven settlements. Too cramped!"

"Let them come to Aedirn. The eastern outskirts of Vengerberg, anywhere around the Adrel Mountains—they can choose any site they like. I'll cover all the costs for building their fortress!"

Demavend II's words were bold and generous. The ministers and guards flattered him in unison, though the King's Hand, with his graying hair, remained deeply worried.

When the council chamber finally quieted down, the King's Hand hesitated for two seconds before speaking:

"Your Majesty, the School of the Wolf… adheres strictly to neutrality. Perhaps… perhaps we should consider negotiating peace with Kaedwen…"

"Woo—"

Before the King's Hand could finish, just as Demavend II's brows furrowed in preparation to scold him, an alarm horn suddenly echoed from outside the palace.

"What's happening?" Demavend II roared.

"Clang! Clang! Clang!"

The knight who had just left to deliver the message to the dwarves stumbled back into the chamber, shouting:

"Your… Your Majesty, monsters… monsters are here again!!!"

"What!"

The king and the ministers in the council chamber simultaneously leaped up in alarm.

"Boom!"

A skewed portrait of Demavend II, depicting him crowned and holding a sword, fell to the ground with a crash.

.....

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