Author's Note: The Witcher universe does not belong to me. The Witcher is a fantasy novel series written by the Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski. The publishing rights to the books belong mostly to Sapkowski himself, while CD Projekt Red owns the rights to the games.
If you plan to read the books, let me warn you in advance: there is a lot of explicit +18 sexual content, and the books contain LGBT themes as well. I picked up the books a long time ago—I remember skipping over those parts when I read them. It simply wasn't something I personally enjoyed. I love the games, but I always skipped those scenes.
For this reason, I want to clearly emphasize something:there will be no LGBT content in my story, and no explicit +18 sexual content either.So if a Witcher character had such experiences in the original canon, in my fanfic it either won't exist or it simply won't be mentioned.
Also, I don't remember the books very well anymore—my memory is mostly based on the games. But honestly, it doesn't matter that much, because my story takes place in Arda.
So yes, in case any Witcher fans are reading this: I DID research the lore heavily. I studied the characters, I looked through a lot of communities, learned a ton of things—so yes, I'm familiar with the Witcher universe.But I will be portraying things in my own way.
If someone doesn't like it, they can always write their own fanfic—that's exactly what I did.
Anyway, I wanted to clarify these points.
My main interest in Witchers is their monster-hunter role—I love that aspect. And I do love Geralt as a character… with some exceptions. What I need is Witchers, not lustful scenes.
Alright, I talked too long. Hope you enjoy reading.
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—The Witcher World—
—Third-Person POV—
Zoltan Chivay had the typical appearance of a dwarf, yet he was anything but ordinary. Standing at roughly one and a half meters tall, he possessed broad shoulders and short, powerful legs. His muscular frame bore the marks of years of battle; his hands were covered in calluses, and iron dust or traces of oil always lingered around his fingernails.
His face carried the lines of his age—wrinkles framed the edges of his eyes, and a perpetually furrowed expression sat upon his brow. Yet this did not make him look frightening; instead, it gave him a weary but reliable aura.
His beard was his pride: thick, well-kept, and often intricately braided. Its color shifted between brown and reddish hues, sometimes gleaming crimson under the light. His hair usually fell to shoulder length, unkempt and slightly greasy, though he couldn't care less. His clothing was always practical and durable—usually a leather jacket, a belt with a metal buckle, and an old but sturdy piece of armor worn during battles. His boots were heavy, reaching up to his knees, almost always caked in mud.
Zoltan's gaze was sharp, yet warm. He studied people carefully; he could size up anyone in an instant, though he wasn't quick to judge. His voice was deep and slightly rough, often turning into a booming laugh. That laugh was hearty and genuine—but loud enough to annoy anyone nearby. After a few drinks, his voice rose even more, and he would start singing—though he rarely hit the right notes.
Zoltan was both a warrior and a craftsman at heart. He knew how to wield a sword as well as a hammer. He had fought in the army once, seen too many deaths, and it had made him somewhat cynical toward the world.
Yet despite everything, he remained loyal, honorable, and brutally honest. He despised injustice—especially when it targeted the weak—and would never stand by in silence. This trait often put him side by side with Geralt; sometimes they fought together, sometimes they argued, but their friendship always won out in the end.
He was straightforward to a fault. He said whatever came to mind, sometimes crude, sometimes vulgar, but never out of malice. When someone was wronged, Zoltan was the first to stand beside them.
He cared nothing for money, fame, or status—what mattered to him were friendship, loyalty, and a good mug of dwarven ale.
He enjoyed gambling, though losing irritated him greatly. He was fond of drinking—especially in the quiet after a battle, when he would sit alone and drown his thoughts. Sometimes he struggled to make peace with his past; remembering what he had lost would steal his voice. Yet the gloom never lasted long—a joke, a curse, or a new fight was enough to lift his spirits again.
But today, he walked down the road more thoughtful than ever before. He was heading toward the last known place of his best friend, Geralt. A few days earlier, he'd been drinking and having fun as usual. That night, leaning against a tree and staring at the sky, he had once again fallen into a painful memory.
He let out a deep sigh. He thought about this world—about the injustices done to him, to his kin, about the dangers lurking everywhere, about how humans treated him and all dwarves, about the Scoia'tael, about everything. A bitter smirk crossed his lips. Though he often smiled at others, pain still rested deep inside his heart.
Then, suddenly, a floating panel appeared before him.
[Good day, Master Dwarf. We would like to offer you an opportunity. In your world, you have been ostracized, looked down upon, and subjected to severe racism, suffering painful experiences. We want to propose sending you to a world that may be better for dwarves—a world where dwarves are respected, strong, and not easily oppressed. A world where races generally respect one another. What do you think of our offer?]
Zoltan froze, staring blankly at the panel. He muttered to himself:
"Must've drunk too much… I'm starting to hallucinate."
He rubbed his eyes and looked again—the panel was still there. He reached out to touch it, but his hand passed straight through. He pulled back, then reached out again, only to experience the same thing. New text appeared on the panel.
[You are not hallucinating, Master Dwarf.]
Zoltan slapped himself to make sure he was sober. He straightened up quickly and glared at the panel, then cautiously glanced around.
"A mage playing tricks on me, is it?"
The text changed again.
[Please don't confuse me with the useless fools in your world.]
The words were polite, yet blatantly condescending. Zoltan scowled.
"What do you want from me?"
[As I said, I'm offering you the chance to go to another world—one where dwarves are not belittled, where they still have kings, where other races respect dwarves and one another.]
Zoltan was momentarily taken aback, but quickly narrowed his eyes with scorn.
"You won't fool me with that."
[I'm not trying to fool you. I'm telling the truth. You are one of forty-five dwarves chosen from this world.]
Zoltan's brows furrowed. Unease crept into him. He immediately thought of his kin—were they in danger? He spoke with anger:
"What do you want from them!?"
[I offer them the same opportunity. A chance to escape their miserable lives.]
Zoltan snorted.
"Nothing comes for free. What do you want in return? Their souls? Their freedom?"
[Correct. In your world, nothing is free. Yes, I asked something from them: help a man build a kingdom. In return, those you wish to see again—those you miss, those you consider family—we will summon them to the new world. Dead or alive—it does not matter.]
Zoltan's breath caught.
"Summon the dead? What do you mean?"
[As I said, we can bring the dead into that world—alive, breathing, whole. Will you accept the offer?]
Zoltan fell into deep contemplation. He knew exactly what an offer like this meant for the dwarves of this world. He knew many dwarves who would leap at this chance without a second thought—dwarves who had lost their families, dwarves who despised this world, dwarves who hated humans to their very marrow. This magical screen had said it would take forty-five dwarves from his world. Zoltan spoke in a low, heavy voice:
"Why do you need us? Why help a man? Why me?"
He fired the questions rapidly. He was no fool—he wasn't planning on accepting this offer. He wouldn't trust some magical thing he had never seen or heard of. The text changed again.
[We don't particularly need you. The individual who wishes to build a kingdom—named Igris—has a talent that works entirely at random. You were contacted by chance. If you refuse, we will contact another dwarf. Secondly, Igris is not a human. He is a Dunedain, a hybrid possessing the blood of another being, and his sense of justice is very different. He looks down on no living creature unless they are evil, and he gets along extremely well with dwarves. Igris wishes to introduce you to the current dwarf king. If you wish to live among dwarves, he will respect that; if not, you may join the kingdom he intends to build.]
Zoltan's brows tightened. The words were elegant and simple, but he would not believe them without proof. Still, he knew many dwarves would seize this chance. What worried him—what truly frightened him—was the thought that this might be some kind of abduction, some kind of dark magic.
"You bastards think you can trick me? A dwarf king? A hybrid king? Respect? Lies, all lies! You won't fool me with fairytales!"
[We have no reason to deceive you. There are many individuals more useful than you. As I said, this is random. But your suspicion is understandable—a sudden offer like this would raise doubts. That is why we will give you time to think. It is extremely rare for Igris to summon dwarves. You may not receive another offer. After all, there are billions of dwarves across countless worlds waiting. We will await your decision.]
"My decision is already made. I don't get fooled that easily!"
Zoltan stood up abruptly and stormed off. He cursed nonstop as he walked, thoroughly irritated. While making his way through the streets of Novigrad, he ignored the familiar condescending and mocking stares from humans. He pushed open the door of the old tavern—the Chameleon—situated between the two buildings he and Dandelion operated. The door slammed loudly behind him.
Inside the wooden, worn tavern, dwarves, humans, and elves sat in groups, chatting. Some gambled, some laughed, some discussed business, others debated some serious matter. Dandelion—Jaskier—was singing. Zoltan's angry entrance made him pause briefly, but he quickly continued.
Zoltan walked behind the bar, grabbed a strong ale, opened it, poured it into a mug, and downed it in a single gulp. Dandelion finished his song and was about to begin a new one when he noticed his friend's state. With his usual playful, teasing tone, he spoke.
"Dear friends, ladies, gentlemen, dwarves, elves and humans alike! It is I, your beloved musician, Jaskier! After a short break to wet my throat, I shall continue my performance! Please, keep waiting eagerly!"
The tavern erupted with applause, whistles, and even a few playful boos. Dandelion simply smiled, soaking in the chaotic affection of the crowd. Then his eyes slid toward Zoltan, who was drinking heavily behind the bar. He spoke with a concerned tone.
"What's wrong, Zoltan? Who pissed you off?"
Zoltan downed another cup before muttering:
"Some mage tried to fool me, but he failed. What pissed me off was how he insulted me—like I'm some idiot who'd fall for his tricks. Don't worry, I'll be fine by morning."
Seeing that Zoltan didn't want to talk further, Dandelion nodded and headed toward the center of the crowded tavern to resume singing. As he walked, he giggled.
"I'm curious which idiot mage tried to trick Zoltan Chivay. You'll tell me later."
Zoltan waved him off dismissively and cracked open another bottle, continuing to drink…
Three days later, Zoltan was humming a tune at his bar, wiping a cup with a cloth and pointedly ignoring the floating panel only he could see beside his head. At that moment, the wooden door creaked loudly as an old dwarf stepped inside.
The dwarf was aged; his black hair and thick braided beard were dusted with white. His eyes were tired, carrying the look of someone who had long since given up on this world. He limped heavily due to his injured leg. Zoltan turned his head lazily at first—then jolted in surprise, breaking into a wide, warm grin as he welcomed the dwarf.
"KARGAN! HAHAHAHA! YOU BASTARD! IT'S BEEN AGES!"
The dwarf who had entered was named Kargan. His friendship with Zoltan went back ages. They had fought in countless battles together, survived hardships, and shared many adventures. To Zoltan, Kargan was like an older brother. Kargan had saved Zoltan's life three times and kept him out of trouble more times than he could count. He had taught Zoltan many things that would help him throughout his entire life. The injury Kargan carried came from the last time he saved Zoltan's life.
Zoltan had never been able to repay that debt. Whenever they met, Zoltan insisted on paying for the food and drink. He always felt guilty—because after Kargan injured his leg, his adventuring days were over. He had moved far away and opened a small forge. The last time they spoke, Zoltan learned Kargan had married, and he was incredibly happy for him.
Kargan nodded and pulled Zoltan into a hug. After seven long years, the two old friends were reunited. Kargan managed a strained grin.
"It's been a long time, Zoltan."
"HAHAHAHAHA! IT'S DAMN GOOD TO SEE YOU, OLD MAN! COME, LET ME TREAT YOU TO SOME REAL DRINK!"
Then Zoltan turned and shouted:
"DRINKS FOR EVERYONE! ON ME! TO HONOR MY OLD FRIEND!"
"CHEERS!" × 24
Kargan chuckled and followed Zoltan. As they passed behind the bar, Zoltan called out to Dandelion:
"DANDELION! AN OLD FRIEND IS HERE! I'M LEAVING THE WORK TO YOU!"
Dandelion made an okay sign with his hand and resumed flirting with the woman beside him. The two dwarves entered the private room behind the bar. Zoltan quickly grabbed his best bottle and excitedly sat down. Kargan took the seat across from him. As Zoltan poured the drinks, he laughed.
"HAHAHA! It's truly great to see you again, old friend. How've you been?"
Kargan let out a tired chuckle, his voice heavy and dark.
"Like shit."
Zoltan froze for a moment. Kargan's voice was unusually grim. Frowning, he poured both cups—one for himself and one for Kargan. But the joy was gone; he could feel something was terribly wrong. Softly, he asked:
"How are your wife and daughter?"
Kargan reached for his drink, hesitated for a heartbeat, then downed it in a single gulp. He handed the cup back to Zoltan. Zoltan silently refilled it. Kargan drank it again in one go and returned the cup. Zoltan refilled it once more, uneasy but quiet. Again Kargan emptied it instantly.
Zoltan's brows furrowed. Without a word, he opened a new bottle and simply handed it to Kargan. Kargan grabbed it and began drinking without pause. And in that moment, Zoltan understood—Kargan was on the verge of breaking.
When Kargan finished the bottle, he set it down and wiped his mouth. Zoltan immediately opened another one and handed it over. Kargan accepted silently and took a small sip. He stared at the table for a long moment. Zoltan knew better than to interrupt; Kargan would speak only when he was ready.
At last, with a calm, rough, weighted voice, Kargan spoke.
"Zoltan… Do you think this world is fair to us?"
Zoltan answered without hesitation.
"No."
Kargan let out a bitter laugh.
"So you think like I do. We were once an honorable people—we lived in our mountains… carved stone, shaped metal, created works of art. We had good relations with the elves, traded peacefully, lived in harmony… Until…"
Kargan slammed his fist on the table. Empty cups and bottles jumped and toppled over. Rage twisted his face into something almost feral.
"UNTIL THOSE DAMN DEMON-HUMANS CAME TO OUR LANDS, SEIZED THEM, AND BEGAN TO BLEED US DRY!"
Zoltan listened quietly, but worry burned in his eyes. His deep voice was steady.
"What happened, Kargan? What did they do to you?"
Kargan took long, heavy breaths. He held his head in both hands, trying to calm himself, and Zoltan's concern grew—he had never seen his old friend like this. After a moment, Kargan inhaled deeply and began his story.
"When my adventuring days ended, I settled in a village. Remote, forgotten—a place where outcasts like us gathered. At first everything was fine. I opened a forge there, lived by trading with passing caravans… Until the day I met a woman."
Kargan smiled sadly. Zoltan remained silent, listening. Kargan lightly shook the bottle in his hands, staring at the ripples as memories surfaced.
"Falka… the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. The moment I first saw her, I was smitten. Every time she appeared, my heart would pound like a war drum, my tongue would tie itself in knots, my throat would dry, I'd sweat like crazy… At first, speaking to her was nearly impossible for me."
Kargan chuckled.
"I kept finding excuses to talk to her. I helped with repairs, took care of her animals, accompanied her when she went gathering herbs to keep her safe. In the winter we'd play in the snow—throwing snowballs, building snow statues. After two years, we decided to marry. I crafted her a ring—a masterpiece to me—white diamond set in white gold. I had never poured so much care into crafting anything in my life."
Kargan paused and took another sip. Zoltan listened, feeling more and more uneasy; he could already sense where this story was heading. He prayed silently:
'Please… don't let it be as bad as I think.'
"Falka and I married. The wedding was small, just a modest celebration, but to me it felt like a sun had risen over my whole world. My heart was warm like a forge. The following year, our daughter was born—my little princess, Ilyana, my tiny sun. We were a happy little family… Until that day…"
Kargan's hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening with the tension.
"Witch hunters and the king's soldiers saw Falka gathering herbs in the forest. They claimed she was a witch because the plants she collected were medicinal. Falka denied it, but the witch hunters began to pressure her. When I heard the fight, I grabbed my axe and rushed there. Ilyana was with Falka. When the hunters attacked her, Falka fought back and used her power."
Zoltan's eyes widened in shock.
"Your wife was a mage!?"
Kargan shook his head slowly.
"She was a Druid. When the soldiers realized that, they called for reinforcements. I couldn't stop them—they were far too many. Falka was captured… and Ilyana and I were taken prisoner as well. We were dragged to a nearby city, and as a warning to everyone, they built a massive pyre in the square and raised a pole in the center…"
Zoltan's fists trembled; his nails dug into his palms so hard that blood began to drip. He already knew where this story was going.
"Those bastard priests performed some ridiculous ritual to 'cleanse Falka of her sins' and declared they would purify her spirit with fire. I begged them to stop; Ilyana was beside me, crying and calling for her mother. The priests looked at us with disdain. The people mocked us. My own kind turned their faces away… They tied Falka to the pole and burned her alive. I watched her burn, screaming, right before my eyes. I couldn't move—the soldiers held me down. And the crowd… The crowd cheered with joy and cursed her…"
Kargan let out a bitter, broken grin. To him, humans were no different from demons—no, worse. Monsters were at least honest about what they were. Zoltan's brow furrowed; veins bulged along his temples as rage surged through him. His eyes shimmered with both fury and grief.
Kargan continued.
"One of those bastard priests looked at my five-year-old Ilyana."
Zoltan's eyes shrank in dread. His voice shook.
"What happened?"
Kargan's voice grew darker.
"The priest said: 'The girl carries a witch's blood. She may become a demon someday. Purify her as well.' He looked at me mockingly while he said it. The other priests giggled—those disgusting sounds still echo in my head."
The bottle in Kargan's hand began to creak as fine cracks spidered across its surface. Zoltan remained silent, but a violent storm had already formed inside him.
Kargan's voice exploded.
"They set their hounds on my five-year-old daughter and ripped her apart ALIVE!"
The bottle shattered in his grip. Zoltan squeezed his eyes shut; tears had already fallen. The man before him wasn't just an old friend—he was one of the few people Zoltan could truly call a brother. He had seen horrors before, but hearing this happening to Kargan's family tore him apart.
Kargan pressed on, boiling with rage.
"Those human demons ENJOYED watching it! Some even joked! 'Shame, she died too fast!' — 'I wanted to see the dogs play longer!' — 'I wish I could've heard that demon spawn scream a little more!'"
Zoltan slammed his fist into the table, shattering it into pieces. What Kargan had endured was something no husband or father should ever face.
Kargan continued.
"The priests smiled at me like the filth they were and said, 'Be grateful, dwarf. We freed you from the witch's corruption and her spawn. Go live in peace.' The crowd laughed at me after that."
Zoltan's eyes turned cold and murderous.
"Is that why you're here? To ask for help? Wait a moment—I'll get prepared. I'll help you take your revenge."
He stood to gather his gear, but Kargan spoke.
"No need. I already took my revenge."
Zoltan froze and turned toward him.
"How?"
Kargan flashed a chilling smile. He rose from his chair, grabbed a new bottle without caring about the glass shards in his hand, opened it with his teeth, spat the cap onto the floor, and gulped deeply. Halfway through the bottle, he stopped and locked eyes with Zoltan.
"I summoned an Elemental Lord."
Zoltan's eyes widened. He had heard about Elemental Lords from Geralt—about the havoc a Djinn, the lord of air, could unleash. Such rituals were nearly impossible to perform. His voice shook.
"Kargan… What did you do?"
Kargan took a sip, sat down, and rubbed his injured leg before speaking.
"What any husband and father would do. I took my revenge. I hunted farmers, merchants, travelers outside the city—dwarf, elf, human, it didn't matter. No one helped us that day. They all just watched. So I hired bandits and began gathering sacrifices. When I was done, I slipped a sleeping potion into their drinks. In only two months, I collected 120 sacrifices. Falka's ancient scrolls contained a summoning ritual. In a hidden grove near the city, I sacrificed them all. At first, I thought a Golem would come—after all, we dwarves are closer to the earth—but the fire of vengeance inside me called another lord… an Ifrit."
He paused to drink again. Zoltan stared at him, stunned. Never—not in a thousand years—would he have imagined Kargan doing something like this.
Kargan's smile was cold and twisted, and Zoltan felt his skin crawl.
"I asked him for only one thing: burn the entire city and everyone in it. I offered my life as payment, but the Ifrit refused—he was satisfied with the sacrifices, and I had already given him a whole city to destroy. Ah… The screams, the begging that rose from that city that night… They were the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard. They still echo in my ears…"
He took another deep swig. Zoltan finally recovered from his shock. His heart ached for his friend. He could never condone such a massacre… but this was Kargan. And Kargan's story had torn him apart inside.
He sighed deeply.
"When did this happen?"
"Six months ago. But you won't have heard about it—everything living in that region burned. All you might've heard is that there was a 'great fire.' Nothing more."
Zoltan rubbed his eyes with one hand, the taste of bitterness heavy on his tongue.
"Why are you here, Kargan? Looking for someone to drink with? Someone to talk to? If so, I'll spend the whole week with you—or stay until you fully recover. I owe you that much."
Kargan smiled—for the first time.
"You've always been like a little brother to me, Zoltan. But I came here to say goodbye."
Zoltan's eyes widened in panic.
"You intend to kill yourself?"
Kargan snorted.
"If I wanted to kill myself, do you think I'd come to you? But it wasn't far from my mind. After I took my revenge, I wandered for a long time like an empty shell… But the voices of my wife and precious daughter never left my mind. Every night, I relived what happened to them… A few days ago, I finally decided to end it…"
Zoltan stared, speechless and helpless, his mouth open but no sound escaping.
Kargan went on.
"After a long time, I returned home. I tied a rope to the ceiling beam… stood on a chair… slipped it around my neck… and prepared to push the chair away…"
He paused to drink, speaking of suicide as if it were an ordinary event. Then he continued.
"Just as I was about to kick the stool away and put an end to my life, a line of text appeared before my eyes. "Do you want to see your wife and daughter again?" it said. I was stunned. At first, I thought it was a hallucination, but I talked to it for a while—after all, I was about to die, so what did it matter? It told me it was calling me to another world, a world where dwarves were respected—stronger and far more valued than in this one! It sounded like a fairy tale. A place where dwarves had their own kingdoms, disciplined armies, and earned genuine respect… I couldn't even imagine such a thing. And then it said it could summon my wife and daughter into that world as well. All I had to do was help some guy named Igris."
Zoltan was dumbstruck.
"So it came to you too?"
Kargan looked at Zoltan with surprise.
"They sent you an invitation as well, Zoltan?"
Zoltan nodded.
"Yes… But I don't think its intentions are good. I don't trust the wizard who sent that message."
Kargan chuckled softly.
"It's good that you're still cautious."
Zoltan frowned.
"Are you actually thinking of accepting it?"
Kargan nodded in affirmation, then drank to finish what remained in his bottle. Zoltan spoke again.
"This isn't a good idea, Kargan! We don't know what we're dealing with! You can't blindly accept something like this!"
Kargan looked straight into Zoltan's eyes.
"My life is already hell, Zoltan… Even if I accept, what more can I possibly lose? How much more can my heart burn than it already has?"
Zoltan opened his mouth but no words came out. Kargan slowly got to his feet. Stepping forward, he stopped right in front of Zoltan and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"I wish you could come with me… The idea of venturing into unknown adventures has always thrilled you, but this time you can't. And even if you could, you have a life here—you've built something. So… farewell, Zoltan. This is our last meeting."
Kargan pulled Zoltan into a tight embrace, tears quietly streaming down his weathered cheeks. For a moment, Zoltan stayed motionless, stunned—but then he, too, wrapped his arms Kargan. Whether this truly was their last meeting… he did not know.
Author's Note: What do you think Igris would do if he saw what happened to Kargan? And what would you do?