Geralt tied off his horse and headed towards the gates of the garrison. He was stopped by two guards.

"Military camp," one said. "No locals allowed without the express consent of the garrison commander."

Geralt just looked at him. "I look like a local to you?"

"You look like trouble," the other said.

"Dead wrong. I make trouble go away. I'm a Witcher."

The guards suddenly changed their tune with Geralt. "A Witcher..." The guards looked at each other. "Captain Peter Saar Gwynleve is in the tower. Turn right, past the gate."

"Huh, you Black Ones aren't so scary after all," Geralt's sarcasm got the better of him. "Can even be nice if you want to."

"Don't get accustomed, Nordling." He pushed to gate open and let Geralt pass.

He headed to the tower, ignoring the stares. He went into the tower to find the commander speaking to a local farmer.

"How much grain will your village give?" he asked.

"Whatever you say, Your Excellency."

Peter stood and held his hands out. "Look at my hands. Look! See the calluses?"

The farmer nodded.

"These are not the hands of an 'Excellency', but of a farmer."

Geralt leaned against the wall to wait them out.

"So we speak peasant to peasant. How much can you give?"

"Forty bushels. There'd be more, sir, but our lads, the Temarians that is, took from us earlier and..."

Peter held his hand up. "You will give thirty and that will do. Let us settle on it. And I wish to see the transport soon."

"Thank you, sir! Thank you kindly!" The farmer left and Peter turned his attention to Geralt.

"I summoned only the ealdorman and the smith, Willis, but it is said he's a dwarf. You are too tall to be him."

"Very perceptive of you."

Peter didn't respond.

"Geralt of Rivia. Witcher."

"A vatt'ghern. That explains why I did not hear your footsteps. What do you seek here?"

"Yennefer of Vengerberg. Where was she headed?"

"That is a military secret."

Geralt could tell he was struggling with the Common Tongue. "Haven't thrown me out. Haven't called the guards. So go ahead. What's your price?"

"There is a griffin in the area. Slay it, and then I will see what I can do."

"It's a deal. Some questions before I start. Know where the griffin has its lair?"

Peter motioned to the map on his desk. "It kept to the Vulpine Woods at first. I sent a patrol there, five young men. A hunter found them two days on. I only recognized them because they wore our plate. Since then, the griffin has grown bold. Attacks on villagers, fields, the main road."

"Meaning it's abandoned its lair. Gonna have to set a trap."

"I judge from your tone this will not be easy. What do you require?"

"Need more information on this griffin. Its sex, why it abandoned its lair."

"Shall I bring you witnesses?"

"They won't say anything I don't already know. I need to go where your men died, look around. What's the name of the hunter who found them?"

"Mislav. He has a hut south of the village, very near the wood. Helpful fellow. A little strange though."

"I'll also need bait, a specific herb. Buckthorn. Scent should lure the griffin from ten miles off."

"Buck... buckthorn?" Peter said the word as if it was a new one he'd never heard. "I do not know this. But I am not yet fluent in the Common Tongue."

"Probably mastered the basics, though." He then mimicked the Nilfgaardian accent. "'Hands up', 'kill them'..."

"No, first came idioms. 'Don't play with fire.' For example. Go to Tomira, an herbalist. She lives near the crossroads. She will aid you."

"Tomira. Mislav. Thanks."

Peter said something in his native tongue. Geralt knew enough Nilfgaardian to know he'd wished him luck.

Geralt decided to speak to Mislav first and headed to his hut. Upon arriving, Geralt saw the hunter wasn't home. Using his Witcher Senses, Geralt tracked him through the forest behind his home. Mislav was crouched, studying some tracks.

"You Mislav?" the Witcher asked.

Mislav held his hand up. "Shh. Hear that?" he asked as howls sounded.

"Wolves," Geralt said after a moment. "No, wild dogs."

Mislav stood. "Yes, more dangerous than wolves."

"I'm hunting bigger game. The Nilfgaardians the griffin killed, where'd you find them?"

"Ah, I see. You a Witcher? The monster slayer they's talking about in the village?"

"Mhm."

"I'll show you, sure. But I gotta kill those mutts 'fore they hurt someone. Will you help? That is, if you don't mind bluntin' your silver sword on 'em."

"Sure. Griffin's not going anywhere."

"No, dogs might though. So step careful now." He turned away from Geralt. "Come on."

Together the two tracked the dogs.

"These dogs been a problem for a while now?"

"Since the war started. Soldier on the march, he'll stop to rape a woman, strangle 'er, kill her man for a chuckle, even butcher a cow. But a dog? A kick in passin', no more. So these stray mutts form packs. They're gaunt, guts stuck to their spines, covered in scabies, but they just won't die. Cause they're clever. More so than foxes. And they hate men something fierce."

They heard a man's scream and Geralt drew his steel sword. The two men ran toward the scream and found the pack.

"Too late. Attacked another one."

The two quickly killed the dogs and Mislav knelt next to the body. The man was torn to shreds and Geralt guessed he'd bled out before they'd reached him.

"Dieter," Mislav said, sadly.

"You know him?"

Mislav stood. "We served at the lord's manor together, where the black army's encamped now. He was a stable hand. I was the lord's hunter. But that was before... well, a long time ago."

"Before what?"

"Before they drove me from the village."

"What'd you do?"

"Nothin'. I'm a freak."

Geralt only raised a brow.

"Sorry, I'd rather not talk about it."

Geralt valued privacy as much as the next man and knew this was a story the hunter would rather keep to himself. "You don't have to, then."

Mislav gave him a grateful look.

"Can you show me where you found the Nilfgaardians?"

"Yeah, follow me." Mislav led the way with Geralt following.

"Griffin. Know anything about it?"

"No, not much. Not my kind of game."

"You're his kind, though. Survival instinct alone oughta make you care."

"I walk silent through the wood. No griffin can hear or spy me."

It didn't take long for Mislav to guide Geralt to the scene, the strong scent of blood reaching the Witcher's nose before their arrival.

"'Twas here." Mislav motioned around them. "One lay there, by that stump, headless. The other hung from a branch, guts splayed, stretching down to..." Mislav cut off and turned back to Geralt. "Watch out for yourself, now."

"I'll be fine. Not the first griffin I've dealt with. Not likely to be my last, either."

"Hope you're right. Good huntin', now."

Geralt nodded and Mislav left to let him work.

Geralt used his Witcher Senses to look around, kneeling next to a large black area with the strong scent of blood. "Ground's saturated," he said, thinking out loud. Nearby lay several bottles. "Nilfgaardians were celebrating. Griffin crashed the party." He looked around, trying to determine what they were celebrating until he came across heavy boot prints. "These prints are older. Deeper. Heavily armored. Nilfgaardian, no doubt." Geralt followed the tracks deeper into the forest until he found a destroyed griffin nest, along with a dead one. He knelt next to the griffin and examined it. "Female. Larvae in her wounds have already hatched. Been dead at least a week. Other griffin must be male." He examined the wounds. "Deep cuts over the body, but not a drop of blood on the beak or claws. Didn't defend herself. They must have attacked while she was sleeping." He turned his attention back to the griffin as a whole. "Beak tips worn, grey hairs in the fur. Ten, twelve years old. Griffins pair off for life when young. The male must be the same age." He plucked a feather from the wing. "Thick shaft, dense barbs. Of course, it had to be a royal griffin." He stood. "Explains why the male was so aggressive. Hunted the Nilfgaardians first, then started prowling the area. Innkeeper said Juray was long gone by this time. Doubt she would have left an aggressive royal griffin to ravage the area." He shook his head. "The Nilfgaardians probably thought they were being clever by killing a sleeping griffin. Naturally, they didn't think about pissing off her mate." He sighed, giving a grunt as he stood. "Amateur mistake that got them killed." He turned away. "Gotta go find Tomira and talk to her about the buckthorn."

Tomira's hut was situated not far from a crossroads and wasn't hard to find, as it had several gardens around it full of herbs used in alchemy. Geralt opened the door to find a woman with wavy black hair and form-fitting dark red pants with her back to the door, working on something.

"Bad time?" he asked.

"Not at all," she said. She pointed to her right. "Hand me the beggertick."

Geralt moved over to her herbs and picked up the plant she wanted.

"It's the..." He handed it to her and her voice turned surprised as she finished her sentence. "Red bloom. Well, well. Someone versed in herbs." Tomira looked up at Geralt, not even reacting to the fact that he was a Witcher like most people did.

"Probably saying too much... but I know a bit. For instance, that beggertick's poisonous."

"In large doses. Small doses soothe pain and bring forth pleasant dreams. Which is all I can do for her." Tomira motioned to a woman lying on the cot nearby. She had bandages around her torso and looked like she'd been on the losing end of a fight.

"Griffin do that to her?"

"To Lena? Yes. Attacked her at night. She was walking in the woods."

"At night... through the woods? In wartime?"

"Meeting a boy. The young, you know... do foolish things for love." Tomira sounded like she related to her own statement. Geralt nodded, also relating to it. "Wounds are healing, but she'll die. Blood's pooling in her skull. Nothing my brews can do to help."

Geralt looked over at Lena. She had to be no more than 20. If that. He looked back at Tomira. "I could try to help her with one of my potions. Swallow can heal internal hemorrhages..."

"But?"

"Witchers' potions aren't for humans."

"She'll die as it is."

"Yes, a peaceful death, soothed by your concoctions. If I give her Swallow and something goes wrong, the whole village will hear her screams."

"I understand. Do as you will."

"I'm looking for buckthorn. Know if it grows anywhere around here?"

"Bottom of the river, where the channels the widest. But you do know once out of the water..."

"It'll stink worse than a week-old carcass? Counting on it. I'm hunting the griffin. Need the buckthorn for bait."

"I was thinking...  A few years ago, we had trouble, drowners under the bridge. Whole village had to pitch in for a Witcher. Who now can afford the bounty on a griffin's head?"

"Captain Peter Saar...," Geralt paused, trying to remember the man's last name. "Something something."

"Ah. Good to know the Black Ones are looking out for our welfare." Geralt could hear the sarcasm dripping off her tongue.

"Doubt Emperor Emhyr cares about you, but this captain just might. Seems like a decent man."

"There are no decent men in the army. There's only orders."

"Not from here, are you?" Tomira just looked at him. "Lot of bitterness in you. Too much for someone who's spent her life in a hut in the middle of nowhere."

"True," Tomira admitted. "And you're in a hurry. Elsewise, you'd not use bait, just wait for the griffin to attack again."

"Believe we could have an interesting conversation."

"Maybe next time."

Geralt turned to leave, then stopped, looking over at Lena. Most of the other Witchers would have just left Lena to her fate, but Geralt couldn't. He reached into the pack he kept his potions in and pulled out a small bottle of a red liquid and turned back to Tomira. "Here. Give Swallow to Lena."

"First sign of spring, symbol of rebirth... Fitting as names go."

"We'll see. Like I said, could harm her. Deeply. Works on me immediately, but I have a faster metabolism. Effects won't appear in her case for a few days."

Lena took the bottle from Geralt, before looking back up at him. "Why'd you chose this in the end?"

"Decided it was better than doing nothing."

"I like you, Witcher. Here," she turned and picked up a couple of small bags and Geralt heard the jingle of a few coins and could smell a mixture of various herbs in them. "A small gift. For giving a damn."

Geralt nodded. "I'll try to check in on her before I leave if I can. Farewell."