Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

1272, Crow's Perch – A Fortress of Despair

The wooden gates of Crow's Perch, scarred with axe marks and bound with rusty hinges, groaned open like a dying beast. This wasn't some imposing castle of stone and steel. It was a ramshackle collection of buildings. A fortress built from desperation and scavenged materials.

The keep itself was a dilapidated structure. Rotting timber and patched roofs clung precariously to a hill of mud and refuse. Makeshift palisades, roughly hewn logs bound together with rope and wire, looked more like kindling than a serious defense.

The air hung thick with the stench of smoke, cheap ale, unwashed bodies, and the metallic tang of blood. Geralt rode Roach slowly into the courtyard, his golden eyes scanning the scene.

Gaunt peasants, their faces etched with hardship and fear, scurried about their tasks. They tended scrawny livestock or attempted to repair their dilapidated homes.

Strenger's men, a motley crew of hardened deserters and mercenaries, lounged near the entrance. Their eyes followed Geralt with suspicion and thinly veiled hostility. One, a hulking brute with a scar across his cheek, spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the already filthy ground.

"Another one looking for work," he muttered to his companion, a wiry man with a missing tooth. "Probably heard about the Baron's 'generosity'."

1272, Crow's Perch – The Baron's Hall

The Baron's hall was dimly lit. A few flickering torches cast dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls. The air was thick with the cloying aroma of stale ale, sweat, and something faintly acrid that Geralt couldn't quite place.

The wooden beams overhead creaked ominously. The sounds of drunken revelry echoed from the far side of the chamber. A group of Strenger's men were engaged in a boisterous game of dice.

A mangy dog gnawed on a bone beneath one of the tables. Its growls punctuated the shouts and curses of the gamblers.

Phillip Strenger, the Bloody Baron, sat sprawled in a massive, ornately carved chair. It looked incongruous in the rough setting. A half-empty goblet, its contents sloshing precariously, was clutched in his thick, calloused hand.

He was a mountain of a man. His once-muscular frame softened by years of indulgence. His face, broad and coarse, was flushed and crisscrossed with broken veins.

His clothes, though of slightly finer material than those of his men, were rumpled and stained. They bore the unmistakable marks of countless spilled drinks and forgotten meals. A heavy gold chain hung around his neck. A symbol of his self-proclaimed lordship.

As Geralt approached, the Baron's bloodshot eyes flicked upwards. A flicker of amusement crossed his features. "A Witcher," he drawled, a smirk twisting his lips.

"Can't say I expected to see one of your kind gracing my… humble… abode today. Come to collect a bounty, have you? Or perhaps you've heard rumors of the… hospitality… I extend to visitors?"

Geralt stopped a few paces away, his arms crossed, his expression neutral. "You're Phillip Strenger."

The Baron chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. It seemed to emanate from deep within his chest. "That I am. And you're the famous Geralt of Rivia, eh? Slayer of monsters, butcher of kings."

He took a long swig from his goblet. The ale sloshed dangerously close to the rim. Then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of foam across his already dirty skin.

"So, what brings you to my… delightful… establishment? Lost your way? Or perhaps you've come to admire my… exquisite… collection of fine art?" He gestured vaguely around the hall. The irony dripped from his voice.

"I'm looking for a girl," Geralt said, his voice even and controlled. "Young. Ashen hair. A distinctive scar on her cheek. She came through here not long ago."

The Baron's smirk faltered slightly. He studied Geralt for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. Then let out a slow, deliberate exhale. "Aye. I know who you mean."

Geralt's gaze sharpened. "Where is she?"

The Baron leaned back in his chair, swirling the remaining ale in his goblet. His eyes never leaving Geralt's. "You know," he mused, a hint of calculation in his voice. "I've got problems of my own. Problems a Witcher might be… uniquely qualified… to handle. Things that go bump in the night, you might say. Things that… disturb… my peace."

Geralt's expression remained unchanged. "Get to the point."

"My wife and daughter," the Baron said. His voice dropping slightly. The jovial tone replaced by something harder, colder. "They're missing."

Geralt waited, saying nothing.

"I need you to find them," the Baron continued. His gaze locking with Geralt's. "Do that, and I'll tell you everything I know about your girl."

Geralt exhaled slowly through his nose. He had dealt with enough warlords and nobles to recognize a game. But if Ciri had been here, if this man knew something… "Fine," he said, finally. "Tell me everything you know about their disappearance."

The Baron's smirk returned. It was laced with something else now. Something darker, more predatory. "Aye," he said, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "But be warned, Witcher. This story… it doesn't have a happy ending."

1272, Velen – A Trail of Broken Lives

Tracking down the Baron's family led Geralt through the ravaged heart of Velen. He visited ruined villages. Their inhabitants either dead or fled. He braved monster-infested swamps. The air hung heavy with the stench of decay.

He pieced the story together in fragments. He spoke to frightened villagers. They whispered their tales in hushed tones. He bribed reluctant informants. They feared the Baron's wrath. He uncovered secrets the Baron would have preferred to keep buried.

His wife, Anna, had fled with their daughter, Tamara. It was after years of the Baron's cruelty. Geralt found signs of a violent struggle at Crow's Perch. Bloodstains had been poorly cleaned. They hinted at a desperate escape.

The story the villagers told was one of drunken rages, beatings, and a woman driven to her breaking point.

Tamara had fled to Oxenfurt. She sought protection among the Witch Hunters. They were a religious order known for their persecution of mages and other "deviants." She wanted nothing to do with her father. She made it clear she would never return to him. She'd even joined their ranks.

Anna's trail, however, was different. It led Geralt to something older, something darker, something far more sinister.

1272, Crookback Bog – The Crones' Domain

Geralt's investigation led him deep into the fetid swamps of Velen. It was a place where the trees seemed to writhe in agony. The air was thick with the buzzing of insects and the stench of rot. He discovered a horrifying truth: Anna had been taken by the Crones.

The whispers of these ancient beings reached Geralt even before he set foot on their cursed land. They were twisted, powerful creatures. They lurked in the depths of Crookback Bog. The villagers spoke of them in hushed voices. Their faces were pale with fear. They feared their terrible wrath. They were beings of immense power. Steeped in dark magic. Their influence permeated the swamp like a poison.

And when Geralt finally found Anna, she was marked. A twisted sigil, a brand of servitude, had been burned into her flesh. It bound her to the Crones. She was no longer the woman she had been. Her mind was fractured. Her will no longer her own. The vibrant spark that had once been Anna was extinguished. It was replaced by a vacant emptiness.

The Crones had claimed her. And they would not let her go easily.

Geralt was forced to make a terrible choice. Save Anna? Risk the Crones' wrath? Potentially unleash something even more terrible upon the world? Or leave her to her fate? Spare her further suffering? Condemn her to an eternity of servitude under the ancient horrors of the bog?