What no good sailor will ever tell the wandering souls foolish enough to step on putrid decks and creaky floors is that the longer you spend on the sea, the more peaceful the land of lurking monsters seems. Monsters lurk anywhere in the God forsaken world, for anything godly has long forgotten about their flawed creation there, but it is the land which paints the difference between having a chance to live or living on the waves of certain doom.

Sincerely, its the cowards the sea cannot accept, those who hide behind words, or lack of them, and pretend to conceal their fears. Where there is no running, there is no hiding; those who cannot swim, simply drown.

A suffocating sickness was what was drowning Azaras barely two days into the unpleasantly long trip they have commenced. The harbors of Novigrad were no longer even spikes upon the horizon they left behind. Everywhere were waves and onto them the ship rocked the people it allowed to travel not into sleep, but rather into mixing the empty stomachs to saturation, under the pale blue sky, cloudless stillness of few warmth.

No one seemed to be experiencing the faintness of knees quite as much as Azaras, born and raised for generations into heights of mountains, not lows of the beaches and hallowed waters. She did look around, at every member of the crew, but each time she thought she had counted them all, more winded up on deck and the number changed. So far, apart from her, Geralt, Jaskier and Yennefer, she had took into consideration fourteen more sailors and, of course, the imaginary image of the captain, who Yennefer said was there, but he'd rarely leave his chambers while they are awake.

Nineteen people were rocked by this ship and Azaras felt the weight of it all, already leaning against the railing, beneath which the gunports flaps were shut closed and bracing through the rather gentle waves. She had considered fresh air to be the cure to the unwell essence tempering her spirits, but apart from a clearer mind, Azaras gained no reprieve by moving her standing on the deck, rather than the hull.

"Who would have thought...?" She started mumbling, as soon as the steps trailed by her side were recognized by her sensitive senses as known. Her head turned so, to the side, not lifting it higher than just fixing her chin upon her arms, rested still on the margins, just to smile towards Yennefer. "Seasickness."

Unlike the Witcher, the witch was holding herself together well, looking as pristine as the morning they left the harbor. Her purple eyes were finding a home in the mirroring of the infinite sea, weavers of unbowing strength. A certain mystery lingered around Yennefer, while she too felt the warmth of a pleasant tingle finally emanating off of Azaras, unlike the last time they met.

"You certainly wouldn't have known, were you to have remained on land all your life," Yennefer passed a small bottle to Azaras. "That will give you a bit of a breather, to be able to walk the deck, not just grasp the edges."

In the fraction of hesitation that existed in Azaras' mind before taking the witch's gift came only the memory of last night's worries, shared by Geralt about the whole ordeal. Azaras never truly cared what his and Yennefer's past meant, nor did she get wounded by the reasonable thoughts that he had passed many loves in his longer life, as long as she was going to be the last, but the amount of stress Geralt was pressing upon the implications of the mage in this journey was concerning to say at least.

Either way, she took the bottle, opened it and drank. Immediately, her face scrunched in a pinching sensation down her throat and generous laugh helped her straighten up, "Your solution is alcohol?"

"It really works," Yennefer took the bottle back and siped just enough to wet her tongue's tip, tingle the roof of her mouth or just tease the meat under her teeth. After that, she too glanced at the sea, with a thoughtful sigh.

"You...," Azaras paused to cough out the burn she hadn't felt in a while. Yennefer was right about the usage of alcohol in fighting off the nauseous effects of the seas, so now, she stood normally next to the witch. Were their lives to have been different, one would stare at the two and find the splitting image of a painting, plastered on the valuable walls of great castle, a painting representing the highest bar of beauty in royal veins, that of friends as close as sisters. Violet and gold clashed beautifully.

"You must be here for a reason," Azaras continued at last.

"We are all players in destiny's game."

"Not everyone likes destiny."

Yennefer smiled to that reply. She turned her gaze towards Azaras, "Why do you think Geralt is scared of it? Surely, you can tell, Witchers are hard to frighten by now, since you became one of them, but you saw it... he loathes the idea of fate because he's terrified of it."

The recklessness, the break of a pattern... Azaras recognized the fear for a while, but did not think of pointing it out. They both knew the reason behind too, apparently, so it was no need to voice the obvious: having become a Witcher not by his choice, living with the thought of never having a choice ever in his life again was painfully unfair.

"Well, he's wrong," Yennefer nodded. "There is always choices at play and destinies can change. Believe me, because I am most knowledgeable person you can meet when it comes to reading into pasts, presents and futures."

"Are you, really?"

She nodded along, quite proud, "You, for example, had quite a few choices made which altered out the shape of a rather boring destiny, into a surprising upturn. In another future, you would have married Navees."

Azaras laughed, taking it for a joke, however, Yennefer was a stoic presence just then, narrowing her gaze in certainty of continuation, "Some choice you made once took that future from you, much like you avoided an early death by charity, then by pride and finally... by luck. So frankly, destiny is what we allow it to be, nothing is unchanging." To the last nuances of her words dripped the tones of faint regret, mixed with a newly found hope.

"For someone who has only met me twice, you surely know a great deal about my destiny." Alas, only a fee minutes have swayed an uncertain feeling into Azaras' very heart. She admired mages for the talent she will never hold, but their knowledge was sometimes terrifying, while Yennefer's just seemed dubious just then.

"If you had knowledge of the wars happening on the continent as we speak, then you too would do anything in your power to have a better grasp on the pieces with high stakes to this tale," her tone saddened, thoughtfulness taking her stare back to the waves dancing with their veiled ship.

Witches do speak in riddles, Azaras admitted silently, knowing all too well there were many things to be understood and assumed from Yennefer's speech, though she would not take the responsibility to point them out clearly. "Wars don't concern Witchers."

"Is that what you think or what others tell you to think?"

Azaras frowned immediately, "No one tells me what to think. It's more of a question of allegiance."

"To the School of the Wolf?" Yennefer laughed, something melodious turning irritating in the clash of mentalities. "Please, we both know there's more to us, women, than those limitations."

Truth was, the weight of that medallion did mean more to Azaras than anything she owed or held in her past. Therefore, Yennefer's words presented barely any value just then, when the wind howled to carry them, all the way back even to Geralt's faint steps carrying him closer.

"If you know so much," he assertively drew the attention of conversation to himself, as always, pacing his talk slow, "how come you are looking for the Oracle too? I thought you considered Witchers those not bright enough, in need of guidance"

Yennefer turned around, holding the rail as a leaning point of her back. "Geralt," she sighed, "how charming to see you still valiantly meddling with what does not concern you."

"Why are you looking for the Oracle though?" Azaras repeated his question, much less demanding, but far more curious than she was, two days ago, when she had convinced Geralt herself to stop with the suspicions of the witch.

Yennefer trapped a smile between the two Witcher when her escape arrived in the shape of a crew member, stumbking over his own feet while he ran on tilted decks. "My lady," he nodded towards Yennefer, polite and with a diction suitable for one of the beginning of his sailor life, "the captain is ready for you."

The only person on the sailship to know the captain by face was Yennefer and that boy, by the name of Carivan. The Night Sea, that was the ship's inscription and tale call, seemed to be most secretive, to everyone's demise.

"A captain who does not show their face," Geralt started counting, once Yennefer left them and he could approach Azaras, "yet somehow knows the way to the Oracle. A crew who does not speak of it either..."

"If you want me to admit that I may have been hasty on this decision, then there you go," Azaras sighed, "you can have it. I admit it does not smell good."

"It's the ocean and the unwashed men," Geralt dared joke. A strangled laugh passed between them, easing away the tension of doubt.

Pressed about the same thing and prone to tingle the release of laughter, Azarad turned around towards the man whom, as she did know better, looked displeased with the sways of the sea as well. "At least we are both finally equals."

"Hm?" Curious, if not daring too, Geralt, followed how Azaras's right hand curled its fingers under the lining of his shirt, trapped between two done buttons.

"We are at sea now, where we both know just as little about customs, threats..." Expectations, she thought. Considering just how morally underwhelming everyone on The Night Sea seemed to be already, carrying their scent for miles across salt and seaweeds plunder, their indiscretions could be just a bit more public, a tone more unhinged beneath light they did not consider.

"Speak for yourself," Geralt felt the thrill when Azaras pulled just once and his shirt undid two buttons for her obediently. Then, his hand clasped hers, stopping it on the touch of his chest, where she wanted to be anyhow. "I know what dangers lay at sea. Sirens, krakens, serpents."

"Legends," Azaras corrected him.

"To strangers, every truth seems legend. That's why the Nilfgaardian Empire laughs of North's monster problems."

"You're wrong," she shrugged, taking her hand away from feeling that comforting beat of his heart, as slow as the pace of his speaking. "They consider monsters fabrications because men have always, since the dawn of time, covered their own sins and perils with myths. So, even if monsters are real and we fight them every day, I can almost bet the majority of ships don't sink because of krakens, but because of other men's greed. Pirates."

Greed was a strong feeling that had made Azaras' eyes look just once again behind, but not towards that faint line of blue skies meeting marine darkness, but instead, just towards the heights. "You're looking for the raven."

It's been a long time since Lambert must have arrived in Arcapan and to her distress, knowing he'd be hard to kill meant only that he found nothing she should know of.

"As I said, monsters don't frighten me anymore. Humans do." She gulped dryly. It was fair to think such, when this new Order raised from nothingness and rallied those without thoughts or masters. The second monster could be controlled by the likes of Yulis, the board changed around, such that, on the continent they left behind, war was burning much higher than anyone had guessed. Aretuza sent several of its alumni earlier into completion of their trainings, because the demand for mages was unlike other. Hengfors League wasted no coin in building an army that would otherwise make Nilfgaard tremble.

Only it wasn't exactly Nilfgaard which they were fighting against.

Roars of beasts, batting of wings through hurricanes, slashes of claws already drenched in blood and flesh, were sounds otherworldly that made the single remaining hand of a young mage girl write down a message, conjure a messager.

We were told we are under siege.

Another soldier fell in pieces besides her, only for the second in that hell of red and black in which she could stare into his empty eyes, before he was dragged away to be eaten. She too had lost one hand already, holding it under her flattened stomach, keeping it under her weight to hopefully cease the bleeding.

Hengfors League rallied thousands of men, dozens of mages. But it will never be enough. Not against this threat. Tens of monster killed are replaced by a thousand more in seconds.
Where are the Witchers?

"Face it, my Lord," a day later, from the hands of the dead, that piece of paper did not reach Aretuza, but instead, the table of Aslan, the one who moved forward with the war. Since he declared it, he's been getting fainter, older, not by the year, as one should, yet by the hour. "We shouldn't have sent Vesemir away. We may be winning fights, but we are losing men, while the enemy is losing animals. Send word to Kaer Morhen again, my Lord. Demand the aid of all the Witchers."

"Haven't you heard?" Another one of the heads present in the tent from where the entire upfront of the North was held against the mountains dawning darkness, spoke up. "A village just a two-day's ride away from Kaer Morhen was decimated by monsters. What I think we should do is consider coming to terms for a dignified surrender."

"Surrender?" Aslan's cough turned him to bend over his knees violently.

"I wouldn't advise that either," a figure stood in the entrance of their tent, blocking the light. "And not just because North raised no man or women to become an adult without pride."

"Who are you?" Aslan demanded, too tired to think of voices, discern them in any way.

"I suppose you would be paying a fortune if anyone came with more efficient ways of ridding you of monsters. Am I assuming correctly?" Eskel had left the halls of the fortress as soon as he received word from Lambert, confirmation that everything which they heard rumors of happening, was indeed a reality they needed to face. Of course, he regretted the decision of sending Geralt and Azaras' away during a war Witchers ought to fight, but there was no undoing the past. He just hoped the raven would find them and return them right before there would be a desperate need.

A reward proved itself worthy of Azaras and Geralt even at sea too, because no sooner had Jaskier truly recovered from his immediate need of sleep, he instigated a game of cards. Many wins and few losses, accompanied by the strings of his lute, brought the whole crew under the deck, playing, waging and laughing away. Even the setting vanished from the uneasy waves and creaks, back into the comfortable might one would spend under the flickering candles, not on the sea, but rather inside those warm taverns. The winter may have no cast snow or ice so far off shore, but it surely brought in a cold which this night was taking away.

Azaras demand change the value they bet on as soon as she got tired of counting coins. Jaskier had just starting singing again Rock of Toina's Helm, which not only pleased the crowd, but it also gave her ideas on how to find out more of what they needed.

Though the crew greeted the idea of a female Witcher far better than anyone she met on the continent, they laughed at her words of enough coins. "What Witcher who respects themselves doesn't take every chance to earn their pain's weight in gold?"

"I'm drunk enough to wish for secrets and you should all count yourselves lucky, unless you are far less scared of earning nothing from this trip than sharing publicly how very small each of you are." Azaras was a woman of many words when in the right company and after meeting the nature of the crew, she adapted far better than Geralt to the ambiance, the laughter and the unparalleled shameless state.

He was just a watcher who had tapped out of the bets three rounds ago. Draping an arm around Azaras' waist, he happily leant against the pillar behind him, where the lamp swung overhead in a cage of metal. When she rejoiced in wins, much like then, he was the one subjected with the nudge of her happiness, compelled to smile.

There was also a sort of jealousy he smelled, even with his senses number from the pints of alcohol he dawned like water. He liked being envied for once, instead of seen with just pity and despise.

Azaras was just about ready to spit out her demand for a secret in a form of a question when instead of her voice being heard, Yennefer's sounded much louder over the hall below the deck. "Are you all deaf? A storm is coming!"

Though she had been tormented by it since she stepped foot on that creaking, moving home, this time, Azaras had not been aware for a while of just how much Rhe Night Sea swung from side to side, deeply dipping into the waves, which roared ten times louder now that their laughs died.

Only it wasn't just a roar, for it wasn't just a storm. Azaras and Geralt had to listen just to a sample of barely a second to look at each other in despair and remembering of the village they left behind destroyed. Jaskier lowered his lute to safety and got up, to stand closer to his Witchers too, because he recognized the spells in the air.

"Last time I heard that...," he admitted.

During his gulp, Azaras continued, "It didn't turn out well."

author's note:   :') now would be a good time to get some feedback on this.. i swear