Southern Promises (A Cerce Stormbringer story)

"First trip to the saunas Madame Stormbringer?"

Cerce cringed in disgust, her hand fishing on her belt for her coin purse. 

"Ugh, Gods. Please, just Cerce, and yes. Always wanted to," she said, her halberd standing on the floor and resting in the crook of her elbow. The massive bladed head almost touched the low wooden ceiling, and the slim doorways made Cerce duck on reflex. 

"Well, we're marvelously happy to have you here, Miss," the perky attendant continued. She was a foot shorter than Cerce, with deep olive skin. Her clothing was immaculate, but the perpetual humidity that gave the bathhouse their dreamy state left the girl's hair a frizzy mess. 

"Would you like one of our private rooms, or will you be enjoying the communal booths?" 

"Private, please, that would be lovely," Cerce nodded. 

The girl turned around a small stone tablet bearing chiseled markings, and Cerce squinted at it.

"Are those prices or temperatures?" she asked in shock. The girl nodded warmly and gestured to the entrance behind her. 

"The private rooms are complete with massage and oil treatments, applied by our finest specialists, of a gender of your choice!"

Cerce flicked the coins in her purse around, seeing if any of them might spontaneously duplicate.

"You know what, I'm not much for the hands on treatment, show me to the public rooms."

"Of course!" 

The tiny hallways were a mix of marble and dark wood, low and without windows in any direction, which Cerce found simultaneously both warmly inviting and disconcertingly claustrophobic. The air began to thicken with moisture, Cerce's flesh already warming to the touch of sweat, and by the time they came to the women's dressing room, it was a toasty temperature that was almost soporific. 

"Nothing is to be taken in with you, so I am obligated to remind you. Please no clothing, personal items or..." the girl eyed Cerce's belt and signature halberd warily, "...bladed objects in the rooms."

Cerce smirked and nodded. 

"I wasn't planning on shaving in there." With a twist of her wrist, Cerce spun the shaft of her halberd, the huge head swinging a perfect rotation before snapping still in Cerce's grip. The girl gave a nervous laugh and backed away. 

"Well we're very pleased to have you Madame... Miss." She gave a low bow and was gone through the mist. 

Cerce exhaled slowly. Relearning the shallow breathing necessary not to cough and splutter in the humidity. The heat was a warm comfort, but her clothes were already getting uncomfortably present, and she unstrapped and slipped out of her boots and shirt quickly. 

Placing her things in one of the room's many little wooden cabinets, she glanced around for somewhere to put her halberd. Finding none, she eventually slid it upright behind the corner cabinets, the glinting blade mostly obscured by polished wood. She nodded proudly at her clever concealment of a major magical artifact in a public bath house, and slipped out of her remaining clothes and undergarments. The towels were reassuringly warm, but their petite design didn't have women of Cerce's build in mind. She wrapped it around her chest to find it hanging barely to her navel. She decided instead to simply hold it. 

Cerce's feet were silent on the stone floors as she trod lightly to the sauna rooms, at the corner she briefly stopped and shook out her hands, wringing the sudden anxiety of public nudity out of her fingertips. 

"You always wanted to do this. All the beautiful people do this. It's good for the muscles," Cerce whispered to herself, the same mantra that had got her the whole walk there in the first place. 

Cerce stepped into the labyrinthine saunas, and smiled.

It was a beautiful interior, elegant stonework decorating the floors and ceilings, fabulous filigree in every corner. Cerce strode down the centre aisle, passing doorways on both sides.

Wide baths stood in the center of each room, steam billowing from them as women of all shapes, colours and races lounged in them like forest nymphs. 

There were wider rooms with smoothly carved wooden benches to sit or lie on, rows of hot coals in the center on metal trays with coiling legs. The air was so thick with steam in these rooms that the occupants were almost hidden from view. Women were chatting, laughing, some even snoozing. The atmosphere was dreamlike, verging on surreal. 

Cerce momentarily stood before a lean Dusk Elf with a shaven head, emerging from within one of the rooms, who unashamedly gazed at Cerce's figure from ankles to eyeballs, and then liberally in between. She had the most sultry eyes Cerce had ever seen, and Cerce moved on, blushing red with surprise and flattery. 

She noticed a few girls whispering, one even pointing, as she strode through the steam. She stood taller than most of the women within the saunas, her green skin stood out, but it was hardly surprising, Nadyr were a rare sight anywhere in this part of the country. A lot of the women here tended to the litheness of the rich youth or the pillowy curves of older women, but Cerce didn't see any others with her build. 

Not many warriors hereabouts, needless to say. Perhaps she should try the men's saunas instead.

Settling on a room near the back of the hallway, where the air was its thickest and the rooms less populated, Cerce stretched her towel onto a low bench and slithered down upon it. The heat was luxurious, so completely enveloping and tangible that it was practically womb-like. 

Letting her gaze run down over her body, Cerce smirked inwardly to herself. This was a new experience for her. Her father had been very clear since she was a little girl that there's only two times a women needs to be naked. One is when she's bathing. The other she'd apparently never need to think about and that was the end of that. If he'd known she swam nude in the lake outside town he'd have given her the hiding of a lifetime. 

Cerce found herself sliding down in the seat, her long legs stretched out before her, her arms lying palms up on the wood beside her. She'd got the familiar hang of the shallow breathing, and was sleepily closing her eyes. She let the warmth of the room hold her, felt it soak into her pores, her hard muscles.

Maybe they were right, she could do with relaxing more often.

She wasn't sure how long she was there in that realm between waking and dreaming. For a moment she felt like she must have been asleep, and just for a second she thought she was back in the heady atmosphere of her fathers forge. It was a heartwarming thought.

Cerce roused somewhat at the movement of a woman nearby. She cracked an eyelid to observe her dark skin, like a shadow in the steam, as the woman added more water to the coals.

"Oh, your skin is just beautiful..." the woman murmured as she sat back down a few feet away. Cerce smiled and whispered a thanks. Cerce's pale green skin always got a mixed bag of reactions, and this was a pleasant one.

When next she spoke, the woman's voice had changed direction.

"And your hair, oh I feel so plain between you. Such a vibrant colour...oh and it's natural! How lovely," the woman cooed.

The voice that came back from the depths of the steam had an accent Cerce couldn't place.

"My father...named me after a pretty flower. Said my hair was just the same colour..."

Cerce felt an awful chill deep in her gut at that, and she cracked an eyelid to look across the room.

The steam obscured the other woman at first, but as Cerce's eyes adjusted fraction by fraction, she began to see the slim figure sat across the room. Long legs, pale as a corpse, bony hips, a skinny waist taut with muscle. The aforementioned hair was a shock of bright purple, collar and cuffs.

Cerce's blood ran cold as she looked into the yellow eyes that mirrored her shock and recognition.

Protiya.

Cerce started at the sight of the assassin, jerking up in surprise, and inadvertently took in a huge breath of hot air that gave her a coughing fit. The girl sitting across the way jerked her bony shoulders forward, bared her teeth and hissed. The girl's arms straightened, planting her palms flat on the seat, and with a serpentine roll, Protiya lifted her behind, her knees kicking up and extending her legs, launching her feet with her entire weight behind them into the metal coal tray in the center of the room.

With a spray of blazing red that lit the room, searing coals showered the seat, scorching Cerce's skin and sending the other woman present scampering for the safety of the hallway.

Cerce brushed the coals from her flesh and rushed forward like a bull, smashing the small assassin up against the wall and bringing her fist back with a snap to strike at the girl's face.

Protiya wriggled out of Cerce's weight, her head slipping below Cerce's incoming strike, her clenched fist hitting the wall and smashing a chunk from the woodwork behind.

Protiya shoved out with her shoulder into Cerce's gut and pushed her back, Cerce dancing backwards, attempting to avoid the steaming chunks of coal that littered the floor.

Cerce looked at the floor a glance too long, and the assassin came forward, jabbing her sharp little fists into Cerce's gut, crashing up under her ribcage. The girl was small, and light, but hit fast and accurately, and Cerce roared as she swung her fist backhanded at the girl's head. Protiya ducked back and weaved just out of the Stormbringer's reach, her purple hair bobbing.

Cerce had pictured fighting naked a lot. There was something otherwordly and glamorous about the naked woman warriors of legend. Cerce had envisioned spinning and striking smoothly and fiercely, free of restriction.

Turns out, it wasn't anything like she'd pictured. She felt far more aware of her nudity than she had imagined, was significantly less graceful than even if she had half her gear on, and without being held in an appropriate garment, Cerce's tits seemed like they were good for nothing but getting her killed.

Protiya didn't have any of the awkwardness about her that Cerce felt. The girl held herself in a tight combat pose, her cold eyes alert and weighing Cerce up for weakness. Cerce had never seen the assassin robed in anything less than her full armour, her body covered in claws and blades. To get in close with Protiya was a death sentence, the girl was practically made of knives. In Cerce's experience, combat with Protiya was a perpetual game of keep away to stay from brutal blades. Naked, it was another story. 

The assassin was a slight girl, younger than Cerce, and lighter by no insignificant amount. The girl had rakish limbs, long and deft, and a body made of hard angles. Her hipbones were jutting edges angled around a flat stomach. The girl had scars, much like Cerce did. No real winners like Cerce's neck though; Protiya was instead covered in innumerable little cuts and marks on her deathly pale skin. The lack of serious scars gave the strong impression that no one had ever stuck the girl worse than the most glancing of blows.

Protiya spun, her whole body twisting, kicking up at head height with ease, and Cerce fell backwards across the seat as she bent to avoid the flying heel. Cerce gave a screech and twisted frantically as her behind came into contact with the spilled coals. Her knees came down hard on the marble ground as she lurched away from the searing rocks, and she looked up in time to see Protiya disappear at speed down the hall.

Cerce roared and gained her footing, rubbing her burned arse with the heel of her hand. Her blood was pumping, throbbing in her ears, and the dreamlike qualities of the sauna had turned her battle energy into an almost drunken rage. She knew the assassin was no match for her without her numerous blades, and women screamed and darted out of the way, clutching towels or hands about their bodies, as Cerce thundered into the hallway and sprinted after the assassin with long loping steps.

The girl was fast, and a damn sight more nimble than Cerce was. Coming to the changing rooms, Protiya made a neat and clean leap over the low chairs one by one and twisted to her side as she ran to slip through the thin doorway leading towards the lobby without the slightest hesitation. When Cerce came to the same room, she vaulted the first bench and overshot the second by a foot, stumbling and smashing her shoulder against the wall with a thud that shook the room. Cerce's eyes darted around the room for her equipment, but the drunken feeling refused to leave her head. She rubbed her eyes. There was a shriek from the entrance hall; Cerce knew she had seconds to catch up or lose the assassin, never getting another chance to catch Protiya unarmed. Cerce took a deep breath and made the questionable decision to follow with what she had on.

The girl who had greeted Cerce was cowering in the corner of the entrance lobby as Cerce thundered by and leapt out the front entrance of the saunas into the glaring light of day. The sun pierced her eyes like fire, and Cerce found herself momentarily blinded, but soon got her bearings when the noise of voices raised in alarm reached her ears. Cerce spun and darted in the direction of the commotion, her bare feet warm on the cobbled stone streets of The Foul Mouth's market district.

The market was filled with people, and the gap left in the crowds by the fleeing assassin was clear as day. Faces were turning in confusion, and excited or fearful conversation turned to shock as the naked Nadyr sprinted by, arms pumping, green skin bright in the sun. Faces flew by, jaws hanging open in surprise or open mouthed appreciation.

Cerce saw the assassin up ahead, her pale flesh catching the sun. Protiya chanced a look back over her shoulder, and her face hardened when she saw the pursuit. With a leap, Protiya vaulted onto the side of a small market stall, bounced up above to the low overhang, and began hopping from the wooden constructions with light, quick skips. A portly proprietor stepped out into the center of the street to yell after the girl, and Cerce collided into him so forcefully that he and the pot he carried was sent flying to the ground feet away. Cerce dodged the shattered shards of the pot and continued on, trying not to lose her momentum. She vaulted a low cart of dried meats without looking and crashed through three Orc women in elegant robes, sending them flying.

Cerce gave a yell, both out of anger and warning to anyone else who felt like standing in the middle of the causeway this morning. The crowd split, and over the flat ground ahead, Cerce's long legs gained ground.

A long market stall with hanging furs displayed from wooden posts lay at the corner of the marketplace, and Protiya leaped to it, readying herself for a running jump onto the high walls of the closest stone construction. Cerce saw the girl brace to jump, and threw herself full force into the support beam of the fur stall. The temporary construction crumpled immediately, furs falling, and the assassin tumbling with it.

Cerce came at the assassin as Protiya fought to extricate herself from the ruin of the stall, and the Nadyr timed it well. She stretched back with one arm, and brought it forward right as she came within arm's reach with the purple haired girl.

Her fist took Protiya in the ribs like a sledgehammer, and the girl was taken fully off her feet to land on her bare arse in the center of the causeway, winded and clutching at her gut. Cerce launched a kick at the girl's head, but Protiya flipped herself to her front and then to her feet in a swift sweep of her legs.

They faced each other for a moment then, Protiya in a low crouch, her arms spread wide, Cerce standing straight and tall, fists balled at her sides.

There was silence in the crowd, people staring in eager anticipation. Cerce's fingers hurt, her cheeks hot with anger.

"You killed my friend," Cerce said. It didn't come out as an accusation. It came out as a sad statement, the emotion bubbling up behind it threatening to spill out of Cerce's eyes.

Protiya shrugged, a darkly unconcerned smile on her face. Her yellow eyes were darting around, from Cerce's gaze to the area immediately around, seeking assistance, something to use. When her eyes met Cerce's they lingered there for a while, and the women stared at each other. The assassin slowly spread her arms, her palms spread as if in supplication, she bowed forward ever so slightly, and with a swift jerk of her hips, fell forward onto her knees, grabbing up a splintered piece of timber and swinging it around at Cerce's head.

Cerce was ready for her; she raised her left arm, and the wood cracked painfully across her forearm, splintering into pieces as it connected. Cerce's right arm came forward, and the girl tried to lean back, but Cerce's reach was too great. Protiya squawked as she found herself gripped by the throat and lifted from her feet.

The muscles in Cerce's shoulder were tight with strain as she lifted the girl higher, raising her kicking feet further from the ground. Protiya's arms lashed out, but her nails came a few inches too short to reach Cerce's eyes. Her skinny legs kicked out, striking ineffectively at the green thighs and hips that stood sentinel in the ruins of the marketplace.

"Without your knives, you're just a little girl," Cerce whispered. She pulled back her fist once more, and watched as Protiya's eyes stared back at her. Suddenly the yellow orbs darted across Cerce's shoulder.

Cerce turned in time to see the three guardsmen rushing at her. She went to yell at them, and felt her whole weight shift. Protiya flipped her legs up Cerce's arm, her thighs locking around Cerce's neck, and sending both of them crashing to the ground.

The guards were yelling for the women to cease the commotion, and clamored over with their shields up and hands on the hilts of their swords. Protiya brought her elbow down hard on Cerce's shoulder, eliciting a yell of pain, and extracted herself from the Nadyr's grip.

In a blink the assassin was up and to her feet, her knuckles cracked across the face of the nearest guard, sending him to the ground clutching his bleeding nose.

Cerce fought to her knees, and found herself forced back down under the weight of the two guards that piled down onto her. The chill of polished steel crushed the air from her lungs, and the guard that shoved himself into her face was yelling at her not to struggle.

"DON'T LET HER GET..." Cerce snarled, before an armoured knee found her gut and winded her. Her face was shoved into the ground under the hard metal elbow of a guard, and she glimpsed Protiya darting away, a ghostly naked form disappearing into the alleys.

Cerce cursed silently to herself, and suddenly felt the energy fall from her limbs. The bloodlust dropped, and all at once her entire body ached. 

-

They'd held her there on the ground for some time, the guardsmen. Cerce had tried to raise her voice to ask questions more than once, but had given up when she'd been shouted at to keep quiet. It was a while longer before there was a sharp exchange of words between the guards, and they straightened up to attention. 

Shambling to a seated position, Cerce watched a very worn but very well polished pair of boots step into place before her. The toe on the left gave a few slow taps. 

"Cerce," came the voice of the boot's owner. 

Cerce cursed, it had to have been him. Who else? 

"Hello Wib," Cerce said, and looked up into the face of the captain of the guard.

He stood before her, tall and straight. One arm was at his side, while the other cradled his rolled green captain's cape. With two fingers, he made a little motion for her to stand. Cerce slowly rose, her arms awkwardly crossed to conceal her body.

"You smashed three stores in the market," Wib said. Much like the rest of him, Wib Revan's voice was not unpleasant in any way, but for some reason nothing about it put Cerce at ease.

"Yes," she nodded, her eyes on the floor. Her bare feet were covered in dust. 

"You, and I say this literally, ran over an Orc diplomat and her entourage, on their peace tour from Redroov Mountain." 

Cerce's mouth stretched wide into an apologetic cringe. 

"...yes...?" 

"You are completely naked in the center of my town."  

"Look, Wib, I..." Cerce began, exasperated. Wib stamped his boot so hard and so fast it made her flinch. 

"You will address me as Captain Revan, Cerce. You are hereby under arrest for noise disturbance, assault, damage to merchandise, destruction of private property, destruction of city property, and public indecency. Put your hands on your head."

Cerce gave him a withering stare. 

"You heard," Wib said. Cerce exhaled noisily through her nose as she removed her hands from her front to place them atop her head.There was a multitude of remarks from the gathered onlookers, about equally disparaging and exalting in flavor. Cerce looked for it, but not even the ghost of a smile touched the Captain's face. 

One of the guardsmen at Cerce's back gave an appreciative whistle, but the look that Revan shot the man was positively chilling. 

Wib stepped forward and wrapped Cerce from collarbone to thigh in his captain's cape, its gleaming emerald shone. 

"Thanks," Cerce muttered.

Wib gripped her arms and pulled them down tightly behind her. He gestured down the street ahead of them.

"Don't thank me, Cerce, I'm taking you to prison." 

-

Six hours later, as Cerce sat in her cell watching the moon rise through the barred window, she heard familiar boots coming down the hall. 

Wib strode up to the bars of the holding cell, and stood looking at Cerce in silence for a moment.

"The...other woman involved in the incident this afternoon. You called her Protiya?"

Cerce nodded slowly. "She's the assassin that killed the Marquis in Zenance last year, and the Duke's daughter in Truronia, the one with the jewels? And...Alton Hart."

"Who?"

Cerce sighed. "No-one. He was no-one."

Wib didn't nod, just made a brief incline of his brow to show he'd heard.

"If that's true, it's a shame she escaped. But she's not an inconspicuous individual, the guardsmen shall be looking for her from now on."

"Good luck with that," Cerce snorted. "So what's going to happen to me, Wib?"

The captain of the guard motioned for the gate to be opened. 

Wib met Cerce with a steely gaze as she stood to meet him. In his arms were a pile of black, purple, and blue that made up Cerce's boots, skirt, shirt, and all assorted accoutrements.

"I myself, don't understand it," Wib began. His handsome face looked Cerce over, and he seemed to be truly considering his words. "You are a foreigner, a troublemaker, a rare species many find frightening. You carry around the very weapon that we were told stories about to scare us as children."

He offered her the pile of clothes, Cerce took them and held them to her chest. She made no move to don them yet. 

"Yet the people of the Foul Mouth love you, Cerce Stormbringer. Every one of the store owners I spoke to denied you had any fault in the escapades today. One insisted you were doing your duty protecting them." 

Cerce shrugged, genuinely stunned.

"I offered the Orc emissary to have her clothing replaced at our cost, but instead I found a woman quite thrilled that she'd seen you in action. It appears your story has traveled."

Cerce hadn't even traveled half the distance north to the craggy peaks of Redroov Mountain. 

"You come with a legend, Cerce. It's not just the halberd, it's you." Wib sighed. He turned, and with a gesture sent his men off down the hall. 

"Dress, and be out of here. The weapon is where you left it. One of my men tried to lift it out of the corner and it fell on him. He was trapped under it for fifteen minutes."

Wib stared into space for a moment, then strode off, leaving Cerce alone.

She donned her clothing quickly, slipping on her boots and belting her skirt on. By the time Cerce strode down the halls and into the front office of the city guard, Cerce stood straighter, taller, and was quite ready to forget the events of the afternoon.

Wib Revan was seated at a low desk in the entrance room, a wooden cup of milk on his desk before him, and an open ledger in his hands.

"Sixteen men arrested at the docks over counterfeit coins, three men and an Orc in custody over on Cowie street regarding illegal scrumpy brewing, and the Stormbringer with her undercoat out in the middle of the market district." Wib looked up at Cerce with a raised eyebrow. "Not awful for a summer day in the Foul Mouth really."

A guardsman popped his head through the door and called to the captain.

"Your wife is here sir, shall I?"

Wib waved him in without looking up.

"Yes, yes, let her in." Wib placed down the ledger and looked up at Cerce as a willowy form in a flowing floor length red dress filed in.

Cerce's eyes widened a little, as the woman strode over to Wib and without comment, began massaging his shoulders.

"Glad you're okay, sweetheart," Wib said to the woman, reaching up to his shoulder to touch her black skinned hand. Wib gestured at Cerce with a casual flick of his hand.

"You're off the hook for now, Stormbringer. But stay out of the market district for at least a week. You want to chase assassins, you call the city guard. Is that clear?"

Cerce nodded slowly, trying to avoid the gaze of the familiar Dusk Elf with the shaven head and sultry eyes that stood over her husband, her pleasant smile shining across the room at Cerce.

-

Two helmeted guards parted to let Cerce leave, watching as she stepped out of the guard office and into the afternoon light of the Foul Mouth. They waited till she was out of earshot.

"I thought she'd have a tail."

"I was just about to say that."

"You see the fur on her? Like one of them long haired cats!"

"Like silk. Wouldn't mind giving that a pet."

"Not half."

They watched the passers by in the street for a moment, sweating in their armour.

"I don't think we're gonna have another day like that for quite some time."

The other guard nodded sadly, and they watched the tall white haired head of the Stormbringer disappear into the afternoon.

Review: The Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt

I have spent so much time so deep in a gritty fantasy world these last few weeks that I never knew if I’d find my way out again. The world of The Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt is so huge, and so complex, that it’s almost daunting at first. There’s so much to explore and such a huge world to get lost in you don’t know where to start. You just have to ride off on your trusty horse, Roach, and immerse yourself.

I spent more time in this world than I have in a game for a long time, a truly scary amount of time in fact, but now that it’s over, and the Wild Hunt has been defeated, I find myself thinking I wish it hadn’t ended already.

The more you play The Wild Hunt, the more exciting it becomes. The story starts with our hero Geralt of Rivia tracking his lost love Yennefer of Vengerburg across a broken no man’s land between two clashing empires. You ride through green plains, chasing giant soaring Griffins and hunting down bandits, and get to know the plight of the common man on the street whose life is shattered by the war, in ways both simple and huge. From mothers weeping over sons lost in the endless battles just over the horizon, to merchants getting rich from selling the belongings of the dead, everyone has an agenda here. It’ll be hard to go back to playing other RPGs after this, when the simplest quest has so much thought behind it. A quick example from the games very start: a Dwarven blacksmith in a rural hamlet has been forced to make weapons for the enemy Nilfgaardian invaders camped nearby. He had no choice in the matter, but one of the local human population used it as an excuse to commit a race hate act against the Dwarf, and burn his smithy down for being a traitor to his country. You find the arsonist, he’s just a hateful drunk who lost his family in the war. Does he deserve to hang for the crime if you turn him in? Will he commit more acts of aggression against undeserving people if you let him go? Regardless, if the Dwarf is assisted by Nilfgaard in repairing the damage done, the locals will hate him anyway. 

The sort of depth found in this little side quest is all through the game, with complex stories and lives touched upon in every little facet. Those who’re familiar with the previous Witcher games know to expect to confront issues with your own choices, issues like war, politics, sex and racism alongside the expected quota of slavering monsters to dispatch with your swords.

This is the final story in the world of the Witcher, and it has a lot to live up to. Seven books and three award winning games worth of characters and storylines have come to a head here, with a lot to do, and no time is wasted. From adventuring among the hills of Kaer Morhen with Vesemir and the other Witchers of the School of the Wolf, political intrigue with old enemy Sigismund Dijkstra, and guerrilla warfare alongside Vernon Roche, you’ll meet almost every character you remember, or forgot entirely, from previous incarnations of the source material. This can, of course, be overwhelming for some gamers, with a bit of a cutthroat attitude to lore present, and not much explanation given to times when the audience, especially English speakers who still haven’t had three of the books in the series translated yet, may have no idea who some of these characters are. This is noticeably present with the game's dominant story thread, the pursuit of Geralt’s ward Ciri. The complex relationship between Geralt and Ciri, and indeed Ciri and the majority of characters in the game, can be difficult to follow for those no well versed in the source material.

Not that the story is difficult to enjoy without this knowledge, of course. When characters are greeted as old friends or hated enemies by Geralt, it’s easy to take in stride and go along with it, as the subtext of dialogue is sharp and well written, without the need for distracting exposition or details. Indeed, it’s probably a lot better to simply wonder what a characters past might be than have a novels worth of prior plot-line shoved at you in awkward expositional dialogue. 

All the favorite characters have returned, with Geralt himself remaining exactly as Dandelion continues to describe him: Gruff, violent, yet possessed of a heart and humor like none other. Favorites proudly return, like the king of take-no-shit Dwarven one liners, Zoltan Chivay, and the endlessly patriotic Vernon Roche. Another enjoyable facet is that even amongst all the returning characters we know and love, the minor new characters are standout too. Like the inexplicably likable Nilfgaardian General Morvran Voorhis who’s just friendly as hell in a story that seems to be going on without him.  

The character I felt that, regardless of prior knowledge, we all needed to know more about, and indeed, should have seen more of in the game, was the emperor of Nilfgaard himself. To give him his full title, Emhyr var Emreis, the White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Enemies, is the enigmatic despot behind the events of the second game. Where the average fantasy story would cast Emhyr as the clear villain, Geralt’s complex history with Emhyr places him in a unique position within the grey area of morality.

Masterfully voiced by Charles Dance, Emhyr is a brilliant character, equally supremely confidant and tortured, demanding of subservience yet righteously just. Each time Geralt met with Emhyr at his grand palace (after being washed and shaven and taught to bow properly in His Eminence’s presence), I enjoyed the scene, and wanted to see more of him and Geralt’s interesting interactions.

The same attention to character really can’t be said for the stories main antagonists however. The titular Wild Hunt, a foreboding army of semi-mythical Elven warriors, aren’t present enough to really seem significant. A huge part of the games run time is lived in fear of them, either running from them, chasing them, or searching high and low for information about them, but when we actually get to meet them, they aren’t all that impressive. There are some moments, like seeing what a Wild Hunt General does when he has a lot of drinks and an entourage of eager Succubi, but the majority of the Hunt, indeed even the arch villain Eredin himself, are absent in screen time as well as real personality.

The standout villains of the piece are without a doubt the secondary ones, the trio of sisters known as the Ladies. Three brilliantly creepy figures straight out of an old European fairytail. Either stunning naked young women one moment, or shockingly disgusting malformed crones the next, these three are by far the game’s most striking and memorable antagonists. They are introduced in an incredibly eerie scene talking to Geralt through a sinister weaving depicting their playful fairer selves, and yet the voices do not match the lovely faces we’re seeing by any stretch of the imagination. Each one has such brilliant, grotesque personality, I would have been happy to see the crones as the dominant villains all their own. 

The more I played the Witcher 3, the more I wanted to. It gets bigger as you go, with the world expanding from one rural hamlet to moving freely between an open countryside, with villages, cities, and swamplands to explore on foot or horseback, to mountainous Nordic islands that you can transverse by sailboat. As you explore in your search for Ciri, you’ll find yourself picking up Witcher contracts along the way, hunting down monsters for pay. Be it following the steps that led to a gruesome murder of a young woman, and summoning her angry spirit to lay her to rest, or following the bloody remains of a ruined miners camp to a Troll’s cookpot, many of these contracts are wildly different in style and scope. Some have great red herring twists, and some can be solved by simple dialogue alone (or by careful application of a bit of coin here and there).

There’s a string of new mini games to test yourself at, like fist-fighting or horse-racing, and an extensive card game, along with a seriously infectious card collecting aspect to it that swiftly becomes a serious habit. I can’t tell you how many times I ran into a new character, be told they were a powerful druid or a storied warrior, and immediately asked myself ‘But will they play gwent with me?!’

The whole game style has evolved significantly on from the Witcher 2, to be a little more RPG than action, almost a blending of the styles of the first and second games. Character development is more in depth, with many paths to take along the way, and far too many to reach out into in a single run. By the time you reach the endgame, you’ll only have enough attribute points to explore one of the five possible branches, and probably only half of it at most, so your Geralt may be wildly different from your friends. Geralt’s signs have been retooled significantly, making each one of major use in their own way, and some so good that an entire character can be built around use of one sign and its various abilities. Each sign now has multiple uses and upgrades to branch into, leading for a bit more variety in your spell-casting than in previous games.

Combat itself is also a whole new beat from the last game, with AI being a bit sharper, and a lot less vulnerable to hacking and slashing like a madman. Enemies dodge and weave, and counterattack, and you’ve got to be quick on your feet to dodge swipes and claws from monsters, and similarly quick to block and parry melee attacks from human opponents. The game is merciless on the harder difficulty settings, and it’s good to see a lot of rewarding ways to explore approaching combat than just pounding ability points into sword mastery.

Throughout your journey to find Ciri, you also get the chance to live through fragments of her own adventure trough her eyes, letting you play as Ciri in these scenes. These are a fantastic change from the gameplay as Geralt, as each character plays quite differently. Geralt is strong, efficient and methodical, whereas Ciri is impulsive wild, and incredibly powerful, and the game-play works as such, with Ciri moving at great speeds, teleporting around the battlefield in flashes of green light. It takes a moment getting used to at first, but soon you’ll love the chances you get to play as Ciri. CDProjekt Red have promised a wide assortment of downloadable support to the Witcher, and any such content featuring more time to play as Ciri would be incredibly welcome.

Any game this huge is not without its flaws, and the Witchers are all fairly merciful in the long run. I’d have loved more interaction with Eredin. For the final villain of a story this huge, he just wasn’t complex, and curiously enough, in a series that prides itself so much on breaking fantasy clichés, Eredin was very much the stock ‘dark lord’ archetype and not much more. 
Some curious issues seem to pop up in what I can only assume comes from the censorship of the game for the North American market. It doesn’t change the game at all, but certainly impacts scenes in an awkward way. Don’t have a character be told to strip naked, comment on the act of stripping naked, and then act as if they’re naked in the scene, when they are actually wearing underwear through the whole scene. It’s just weird, and makes you feel as if you’re playing an edited version.  

Some graphical bugs seem present too, but these end up simply being hilarious more than anything else. Occasionally the AI will bug out during a cut scene, and a character or object will turn up where it clearly isn't supposed to. In one choice example I encountered, during a heartfelt exchange between Geralt and Ciri, Morvran Voorhis wandered into the background where he stood there photobombing the drama for a while, before wandering off again to god knows where. It was great, but nevertheless ruined the moment somewhat. 

Upon finishing the Witcher 3, I realized I'd spent a long time lost in that world. I'd hunted down dozens of monsters, helped Elves and Dwarves and Halflings and a man named Dudu, I'd foiled political plots and battled dimension traveling Elves on a frozen pirate ship, and slept with as many sorceresses as I could. I would have tried to sleep with Dandelion too if they'd let me. I've played all three games, two of them several times over, I have lovingly read Sapkowski's original novels, and I even met a very beloved friend on the Witcher forum years ago. After I'd done all that, I still want more, and that's the best thing I can say about the world of the Witcher. I just don't want it to be over already.