The massive gates of Vizima yawned open just as the morning mist was burning off, revealing a city of imposing stone fortifications, spired rooftops, and bustling marketplaces. Seven riders on fine mounts, led by a silver-dappled mare, passed through under the watchful eyes of royal guards. Their destination: the Golden Griffin Inn, nestled in the merchant quarter near the city's heart. The inn's sign—an ornately carved griffin in mid-flight—swung gently above the door, promising warmth, food, and discretion.
Inside, they secured an entire wing: several adjoining rooms and a ground-floor courtyard for potion brewing and gear maintenance. The innkeeper, a stout man named Harwin, greeted them with professional courtesy. "Your horses are impressive," he remarked, gesturing to the courtyard. "And I understand you prefer privacy. Consider these rooms yours for as long as you need them."
Visenna set to work immediately in the courtyard, mixing crushed lupin petals, purified spring water, and alchemical reagents to brew Swallow potions for rapid healing. Nearby, Jacob and Eskel cleaned and oiled weapons while Dick and Vicky arranged components for Cat and Thunderbolt.
Meanwhile, Geralt slipped into Vizima's streets to survey the political landscape. The harvest festival filled the city with color: banners of gold and crimson fluttered above stalls overflowing with grain, fruit, and spiced meats. Minstrels played lutes, dancers whirled in vibrant garb, and children chased each other .
That evening, the company ventured back into the festival—ostensibly to resupply and celebrate their successful arrival. They moved as observers, sampling roasted venison skewers and mulled wine, while their mounts rested in the courtyard under Harwin's care.
At a stall draped with merchant guild colors, Visenna bartered for rare fungus known to enhance potion potency.
Dick, ever the diplomat, gleaned further lore at a smithy. "Bandits have begun targeting festival crowds for pickpocketing," he reported. "Foltest's militia patrols are thin—he's sending men to the border, leaving the city vulnerable."
Jacob discovered a map of the northern roads on sale at a cartographer's stand, annotated with warnings: "Avoid the Pontar Crossing—bandit stronghold." A quick glance at his deepening dossier confirmed their choice to head toward Mahakam.
On the fourth morning, as the festival waned and relief washes replaced revelry, Geralt spotted a fresh poster on the inn's board. Sealed with the twin axes of the dwarven clans, it read:
"MAHAKAM MONSTER HUNT
The mountain dwarves petition all capable monster slayers to investigate repeated attacks on caravans and outlying settlements in the Mahakam Highlands. Creatures presumed relict; non-standard tactics likely required. Bounty: 500 crowns upon confirmation of threat eliminated. Inquire at Mahakam Gate."
Vesemir examined the notice gravely. "Mahakam is famed for its iron and precious minerals. Monsters there will be tough—used to darkness and stone. But dwarves pay well and treat hunters honorably."
Geralt added, "And Mahakam is politically neutral.
Their decision made, they spent the afternoon purchasing supplies for a mountain trek: climbing ropes, pitons, lantern oil, and portable forges—tools to repair armor in situ. They also secured caravansmith services—dwarven wagons engineered to bear heavy loads across rough terrain, complete with reinforced axles and stealth damping for silent approaches.
That night, the courtyard of the Golden Griffin Inn became an alchemist's workshop. Under Visenna's guidance:
Swallow: Accelerated healing; swallow a vial before or during combat to regenerate health rapidly.
Cat: Eyes glinting in darkness; brew this potion to grant low-light vision, crucial for caverns.
Thunderbolt: Pulled from the essence of exotic roots; boosts strength and reflexes for limited time.
Specter Dust Bolts: Specialized crossbow bolts tipped with mushroom spores to disrupt relict creatures.
They also prepared enhanced Cendûr hubs (small explosive charges) and devised a rudimentary siege plan for underground strongholds—common in dwarf lands—and monster lairs alike.
After their preparations, Geralt retired early. Laying upon the narrow bed, he summoned his enigmatic status interface—a ghostly projection only visible to his mind:
Name: Geralt
Age: 15
Height: 1.80 m
Strength: 150
MP: 3000
DP: 870
He'd accumulated 500 DP from recent successful contracts: bandit hunting along the Pontar crossing (4,000 crowns in bounties), fiend hunts near Ivalo (800 crowns and monster materials), and escort missions for Vizima merchants.
The DP system functioned as a mystical currency, earned by completing quests with zero client complaints. It allowed purchasing rare scrolls, blueprints, and magical contracts.
Geralt accessed the DP store. The options:
Master–Servant Contract Circle (Supreme Level, 200 DP):
Purpose: Bind mounts or monsters into loyal service.
Components: A drawing base of powerful monster's skin (fiend or griffin recommended), runes for master and servant spaces, and blood of the contracting parties.
Effects: Stable, voluntary bond—shared senses (rider can sense mount's vantage, monster's senses enhanced by master's magic), telepathic commands within 100 meters, and resistance to betrayal.
Unbreakable-Pact Contract Circle (Highest Level, 200 DP):
Purpose: Forge permanent magical pacts between sentient beings (monster allies, hired spectral guardians, or intelligent mounts) that cannot be annulled without mutual consent.
Components: Special parchment made from legendary monster hide (wyvern, chimera, or higher), runes signifying mutual release clauses, and blood seals.
Effects: Bonded parties share a mana pool (merge 20% of Master MP and Servant MP), share damage 1:1, and gain mutual buffs (Mount: +20% stamina; Master: +15% damage resistance).
Space Bag Blueprint (5 m³ Capacity):
Purpose: Dimensional storage for supplies, alchemical reagents, and loot.
Components: Enchanted leather, dimeritium thread, and a shard of stalagmite crystal.
Effects: Mini pocket dimension—no weight beyond wearer's (horses unaffected), retains environmental conditions (dry but breathable), and accessible via spoken command word.
Geralt purchased both circles (400 DP) and the space bag blueprint (100 DP). His DP reduced: 870 – 400 (contracts) – 100 (blueprint) = 370 DP remaining.
The purchase imbued him with the contract scrolls—ancient parchment rolled and sealed with arcane ink—and glowing runic templates only he could read.
The blueprint for the space bag, with its promise of vast storage without burden, offered a potential solution to one of their constant constraints. But theory was not enough; action was needed.
The following morning, sunlight filtered gently through the mist clinging to Vizima's rooftops as Geralt made his way purposefully through the maze of merchant streets toward the master craftsman's shop. The narrow lane was alive with the morning bustle—cart wheels clattering over stone, merchants haggling over exotic goods, and artisans already busy with their wares. At the end of the lane, in a modest workshop with windows streaked by years of smoke and dust, a burly man with soot-lined hands greeted Geralt's measured knock.
"Master Gunther," Geralt began, producing a small stack of preserved fiend skins from his satchel, "I require ten pouches, crafted from these—fiend monster skin, for durability and resistance. Precision work, please."
Gunther's grizzled face lit with a wry smile. "Fiend skin? A rare and difficult material. Light as leather yet tougher than tempered steel. You've come to the right place, young master."
They agreed upon a price: 100 crowns for the ten pouches, a hefty sum but one befitting the quality and rarity of the materials. Geralt left the workshop heavier in purse but satisfied, knowing the importance of sturdy storage for their alchemical supplies and artifacts.
The next day, Geralt returned. The handcrafted pouches were superb—fine stitching, reinforced seams, and enchanted subtlety woven by Gunther's rare talent, designed to muffle sound and resist elemental wear. Each pouch was perfectly sized for potion vials, herbs, or other delicate items.
At the inn courtyard, Geralt carefully etched runes of preservation and stealth onto each pouch. These bespoke inscriptions would enhance their protective capabilities, guard their contents from magic detection, and reduce decay.
Distributing the pouches among his comrades, he smiled and deflected their curiosity. "Found the blueprint by chance at a Vizima market. The rest was a bit of craftsmanship and blood magic." The smile rarely reached his eyes—a reminder of the delicate balance between fortune and fate on their path.
Beyond storage, Geralt was mindful of their protection. He presented each member of the company with a finely wrought ring—an enchanted charm forged by a legendary jeweler from Kovir. The rings were marvels of alchemical and magical synergy. Each could absorb the force of ten powerful dragon-scale attacks, charging when unused, ready to activate at the precise moment of danger. The wearer need only channel mana to reactivate the ring during battle.
"These charms will serve as your guardians when the edge of a blade or fatal spell is near," Geralt said solemnly. "They activate automatically when threatened but can be recharged with your own mana pool. Use them wisely—they may mean the difference between living and death."
The ring's weight was negligible, but its promise was immense—freedom to engage without dread, a final line of defense should fate spin cruelly.
At dawn in the inn's courtyard, Geralt laid out the supple skin of a slain chort—chosen for its resilience—as the base "parchment." He arranged oil lamps to cast steady light over the circular area he'd cleared of debris. With a bone stylus dipped in his own blood, he traced the Supreme Master–Servant runes: the central "Master" sigil surrounded by seven concentric servant rings. As he completed the final rune, Geralt uttered the activation phrase in Elder Speech. The circle glowed faint azure.
He led Shadowdancer into the circle, stroking her neck. Kneeling, he placed a drop of his blood atop the central rune, the glow intensifying. As the mare's hoof touched each servant ring, she shuddered—then bowed her head, eyes reflecting calm loyalty. Geralt rose, feeling a gentle tug in his mind as the bond sealed. He tested a simple telepathic command: "Stand ready." Shadowdancer's ears pricked, and she backed away from the circle, poised and alert.
He repeated the process for each mount—Morningstar, Ironheart, Thornwind, Swiftarrow, Goldmane, and Nightwhisper—each entering the circle in turn, each emerging with heightened awareness and a subtle mental link to Eskel ,Vicky , Jacob , Dick , Visenna and Vesemier. Theye sensed their heartbeats, the sway of their breathing, and even the slightest muscle tension. These bonds would allow instantaneous commands in battle.
Geralt watched as Vesemir prepared to leave for Kaer Morhen earlier. The next dawn would find the Romeld Company smaller for the journey but richer for the ties they forged—all beginnings of a tale that would ripple far beyond Vizima's walls into the annals of witcher legend.
Leaving Vizima behind, the company rode southwest toward Mahakam Gate—a fortified dwarven tunnel carved through a mountain spur. The road passed through pine forests and across braided streams, growing steeper as they neared the dwarven strongholds. They halted at a dwarven watchpost where Clan Hammerfall's banner—a stylized ram's horn—flew over stout stone walls.
Inside, they met the clan's quarrymaster, Durgan Ironbraid, a stocky dwarf with braided beard rings and a scar across his left cheek. Over mugs of spiced ale in the granite-walled hall, Ironbraid detailed the monster problem. "Aye, listen well, ye daft bastard. Caravans been crushed flat as ale-soaked bread, and me mining lads have gone missing—last seen sniffin' around them cursed Lower Forgehall Ruins. Could be fiends, could be chorts, could be yer bloody mother for all we know! But whatever these devil-spawn are, they come howling at dusk like banshees and vanish quicker than coin from a drunkard's purse come dawn. Now, are ye gonna stand there gawking like a halfwit, or are ye gonna earn yer crown and do something about it, witcher?"
From the shadows, a monstrous roar echoed. Two chimera-like beasts—each with three heads (a goat, a lion, and a serpent)—emerged, their horns scraping the stone walls, eyes glowing with intelligence. These were chimeras far larger than any monster encountered before, clearly drawn by dwarven magics infused in ancient ore.
Geralt hurled a Thunderbolt potion then charged the nearest chimera. His silver sword rapped off serpent scales, but then Aard blasted its goat head into a ruined anvil, stunning it.
Eskel's massive cleaver met the lion head in a thunderous clash; Jacob's mines (small alchemical charges) detonated beneath the chimera's hind legs, toppling it and exposing a joint in the serpent's armor.Vicky's inscribed Yrden traps in the forge floor, confining the second chimera's movement and nullifying its ambush tactics.Geralt focused on the serpent head's throbbing third eye—its source of minor hypnotic power. A precise thrust severed the eye's optic nerve, blinding the serpent head. While the chimera recoiled, Eskel delivered the killing blow to its lion neck, and Jacob pinned the goat head to the forge wall with a silver bolt.The creatures collapsed, their roars dying in a tangle of fur and blood. The golden crowns of the dwarven forge reflected in their pooled blood.
The company harvested the chimera hides—unbroken, their scales and manes intact—and extracted the venom glands, third eyes, and claws, each item worth a king's ransom to alchemists, craftsmen, and mages. The hides would yield enough for both Master–Servant circle parchments and unbreakable-pact scrolls, plus luxury clothing for wealthy patrons.Durgan Ironbraid, rewarded them with 100 crowns per chimera.