Geralt fell ten feet and landed face first in a patch of wet grass and mud.

"I hate portals." The Witcher muttered as he got back to his feet, prepared to continue exploring the elven ruin he'd been contracted to clear of Nekkers. Just another day on the job. Something to stay in shape.

The portal had taken him outside, in what looked like an old-growth forest. Geralt glanced at his surroundings, taking note of the large oak trees all around him, and the abundance of mosses and fungi. And the wildly varying smells from all around. He slowly licked his lips. "Tastes metallic."

"Portal must have degraded. Sent me somewhere else. I can't be Dol Blathanna anymore, though." Geralt said as he ran a gloved hand across the bark of one of the oak trees. "Oaks like these don't grow in Dol Blathanna, not after Kaedwen burned the forests." He picked at a patch of moss and sniffed it. "Moss doesn't fit either. This type should only grow north of the Pontar, not this far south. Invasive species wouldn't thrive in lands under elven care. Not this spread out."

Geralt noticed a small ladybug crawling near his hand and snatched it up, examining it closely. It wasn't healthy and looked deformed. "Hmmm. Ladybug has extra legs. Growth looks almost tumorous." He popped it in his mouth and chewed on it, then spat it out. "No alchemical mutations. Could be magical, but my amulet didn't vibrate."

Geralt's eyes scanned the horizon, looking for the closest way out of the forest, but did not see any sign of habitation. He raised his head to look up, looking for any smoke that might indicate a nearby settlement. Geralt didn't notice anything, so he merely chose a direction and headed towards it. When it got dark, he would be able to navigate by the stars. Geralt reached for the potions on the bandolier around his chest, feeling their reassuring presence. He had enough potions with him to feel confident about his chances wherever he was, as well as a small collection of reagents to brew more. If he had to.

As he moved through the forest, Geralt's serpentine eyes caught what had to be dozens of species of plant and fungi that he didn't recognize, and among them, he spotted slight mutations and other variations that implied the ecosystem had been contaminated by mutagenic properties. Just slight enough only a skilled herbalist would be able to notice.

"Should return after I'm done. Might be able to brew some powerful potions from these." Geralt began taking careful samples of the plants that surrounded him, gently taking flower buds, seeds, and the other reproductive parts of the plants he passed.

Geralt caught a faint scream in the distance, and he immediately unsheathed both his swords, senses honing in on the source of the distress. There was a second scream, and Geralt found the direction it had come from. He burst into a sprint, moving through the forest with the grace of a Leshen. Geralt's footwork was impeccable, stepping from rocky outcroppings to roots that were free of slippery moss, to clear patches of dirt he could safely traverse without getting his boots stuck. He came across a crevice and noted a tree branch he could use to swing across. Not pausing for but a moment, Geralt leaped forward over the crack and swung across it using the branch.

The cries were starting to die down, replaced by the familiar sound of plate mail being struck with heavy blunt objects, beastly roars, curses, and the screams of the dying. There were loud cracks that Geralt could not discern the nature of. They sounded like bombs but almost muffled. He could smell it though, the distinct fragrance of Zerrikanian powder. However, the smell was overpowering, much more than the kinds of powder Geralt was used to. Whoever was using bombs, must have had powder of a potency that Geralt had never seen before. He had to be incredibly far from home. Could he be in Zerrikania itself? He didn't know for sure, but he guessed that the distant land might have forests.

The Witcher came upon an ill-maintained road. The cobblestone had gone green with overgrowth and moss, roots were pushing up the stones, and trees were starting to encroach upon the trail. The path must have not been used for decades, or just been shoddily maintained.

Geralt heard a twig breaking, the smelled blood, and wet fur. Human blood without a shadow of a doubt. With a practiced pirouette, Geralt cut at and bisected the attacker at the waist in a single smooth stroke. What looked like an overgrown Sylvan with thick fur stood before him, eyes going wild as its torso slid off its legs. Geralt got a good look at its filthy hide. The creature was caked from head to toe with blood and dirt. The smell was horrendous and almost enough to overwhelm the Witcher. The curse of a Witcher's senses. There were prominent purple tattoos across the creature's hide that hurt Geralt's eyes to look at them. He averted his gaze and crossed his arms in the sign of Heliotrope to protect him from magical effects.

Can't be a Sylvan. Too big. And the genitals are wrong. Geralt thought as he examined the creature. The Magical markings indicate a guiding intelligence, perhaps a sorcerer summoned it. The markings are too complex for a dumb beast to adorn himself with. Maybe a mutant or just a species I have not met yet. Possibly related to Sylvans. I should prepare my blade with Relict oil if there's a relation."

Geralt got to his knees and reached for the vial of relict oil on his belt pouches. He removed the cork stopper and carefully took it out, using the brush on the other side to cover his blade in a thin layer of Relict oil.

Hanged Man might not hurt either. Geralt thought, and he repeated the process with the oil, being careful to not get any on his fingers. This was the only oil in his possession that could hurt him as well.

The sounds of fighting continued. Geralt would have to be quick if he were to intervene. Should use a reliable potion mixture. Petri's Philter so I can use Igni to light their mangy hides ablaze, and Aard to keep them at bay, Thunderbolt to help me parry their blows, and Tawny Owl to let me keep fighting. I don't know how long this will take."

"Might as well prepare some White Raffard." Geralt decided, putting the two longer vials in the bandolier he wore across his chest. He then went for the bomb pouch on his right hip, taking out a Northern Wind to freeze any large groups of opponents, a Grapeshot bomb to shatter them, and a Dancing Star to burn anything big and armored he might come across.

Finally, Geralt loaded an explosive bolt into his crossbow to finish his loadout for the fight ahead.

The Witcher took the three potions he'd decided to use and gulped them down one by one, gritting his teeth as their poisonous properties clashed with the mutagenic properties of his own body, and for a brief moment, feeling like his veins were on fire. The fire passed, and Geralt put the empty vials into his pouches. Best not to waste suitable jars. It was a pain to buy small ink pots and clean them out properly for storing potions. The world slowed down for Geralt as he achieved peak control over his body, it was like the world opened up to him like never before. He could hear every scream, metallic impact, cracking bone, and beastly scream in perfect detail, allowing him to make a mental map of just what he was facing. He got to his feet and charged, heading towards the sounds of combat.

He crested the top of a small hill and looked down, that he was approaching what looked like the edge of the forest. There were two wagons in the middle of a road, surrounded by vast fields of farmland. The wagons were surrounded by barricades and were defended by armored soldiers with plate chest pieces and helmets, but red pants and shirts that appeared through the armor. The soldiers held firm but were slowly losing cohesion in the face of their attackers. In the distance, Geralt saw more carts moving away, like the ones that had stayed.

A holding action. Geralt decided grimly. The soldiers had stayed behind to cover the retreat.

There had to be four dozen soldiers behind the wagon, surrounded by many more attackers that were trying to get at them. More of the man-beasts made up of a great many different phenotypes. Goats, bulls, horses, birds, some with horns and others without. All of them angry and baying for blood. Their weapons were either rusty pieces of metal, massive chunks of wood fashioned into clubs with heads as big as a man's chest, or a combination of both.

Deciding the only way to figure out where he was, would be to get in contact with the local humans, Geralt chose to intervene in the fight. He wouldn't stand aside as humans were killed by monsters. And perhaps he could earn a reward for it too.

Geralt charged down the hill, taking the Northern Wind bomb and throwing it into a mass of man-beasts. He pulled back his left hand as the bomb landed, reaching for the Grapeshot and throwing it more slowly so it would detonate after the Northern wind had run its course.

The bomb detonated in a blast of icy cold energy that traveled across the man-beasts, turning their flesh to ice in an instant. Then, moments later, the Grapeshot detonated in their mids, blasting the ice sculpture apart in a massive bloody explosion, intermingled with shards of ice.

Geralt made the sign of Aard, then slammed fist into the ground, sending out a shockwave all around him at the disoriented monsters. They were too heavy to be thrown off their feet, but they were still blasted backward, stumbling as the Witcher entered into close combat.

Geralt lashed out with his silver blade, beheading the first man-beast with a precise cut, then reversing the strike to go through the eye socket of a smaller beast. Geralt twisted the blade and ripped it free in a shower of blood.

Geralt quickly made the sign of Igni, sending out a blast of fire the made a trio of the creatures back off, their hide catching alight.

What looked like a Fiend on two legs charged the Witcher, wielding a massive wooden club above its head and bringing it down towards him. Not skipping a beat, Geralt drew the sign of Quen in the air as a precaution, then sidestepped the oncoming attack with the grace of an elven wardancer. He thrust the tip of his sword into the throat of the man-beast, twisted the blade, then ripped it free in an explosion of dark arterial blood.

He heard a twig crack behind him, and he whirled around, making the Aard sign with his hands and blasting the next attacker back with an explosion of arcane force. The charge of the man-beast was halted as it nearly fell over backward, only stopping the fall by using the long haft of its spear. Geralt flowed forward, then with a single clean stroke cut the right leg off the creature with a spray of blood. The beast roared in pain, before Geralt aimed a cut at the side of its cheek, then cut its head in half with a single good stroke. To his dismay, Geralt did not see any chemical reactions on his blade. The Relict and Hanged Man oil weren't doing anything. He would use Beast Oil next time.

"You're all ugly bastards." Geralt stated as one of the smaller creatures charged him, only for Geralt to parry the creature's clumsy strike, twist his blade to force the attacker to let go of his mace, followed up by a quick two-handed attack to bisect it.

Geralt heard cracks in the distance, noting they sounded somewhat like fireworks. One of the creatures he was facing keeled over, a bloody hole in its head. There were more cracks, and more of the monsters dropped.

Geralt caught a glimpse of several soldiers with large metal pipes standing on the carts, firing at the enemies around Geralt. The soldiers behind their barricades surged forward, moving as a wall and driving the enemy before them with spears that thrust deeply into unarmored flesh, were pulled free, and struck again and again.

Seeing the fighting was nearing its end, Geralt drew his Steel Sword as well, moving through the running enemies, striking with quick, forceful thrusts at the man-beasts as they tried to run. Geralt noted that the only way to put them down quickly was a swift beheading, and he was more than happy to oblige. As the last creature fell, Geralt took a deep breath, cleaned his blades with a cloth, then put them back in their sheaths.

"I thank you, stranger. You saved us. I thought we were doomed after we stayed behind to cover the Sisters of Shallya's wagons." A voice from behind him said. Geralt turned around to look at a young man with brown eyes and the beginning of a beard. He couldn't be more than two decades old. He was holding a bloody spear in his hands. "Are you a Witch Hunter? I've never seen someone use bombs like those?"

Geralt saw the soldiers eyeing him carefully. There were only nine soldiers left. Three of them with the large metal pipes. They were busy pouring a powder down the barrel of their weapons, before pulling out a long metal rod, and pushing a metal ball inside, which intrigued the Witcher.

"Killing monsters is what I was made for. But I haven't seen creatures like these before." Geralt said.

"You've never seen Beastmen before. Where the hell did you come from? Araby or something?" The man sounded stern but also shaky. Like that of a man with a facade of toughness. Geralt had met many soldiers like that over the years, and this soldier sounded no different. The soldier approached to offer Geralt his hand when his eyes went wide, pulling his hand back in terror.

"Your eyes. You're a..." The man mumbled, backing off and reaching for a symbol around his neck. "Oh, Sigmar, preserve me."

Geralt groaned inwardly. Even in a land far away, humans were still paranoid about mutants.

"Vampire!?" The man asked and held up his spear, quickly followed by his men. The ones with the metal pipes took aim at Geralt, the metal bits they had been using to ram balls down the barrel still inside.

"Fuck." Geralt groaned, all too used to this particular song and dance. "I'm not a Vampire. Am I on fire now? My skin is exposed" Geralt knew not every vampire was affected by the sun, but it was worth a shot to try and calm the frightened soldiers down.

"No. But humans don't have serpent eyes and black veins." The man said. "If you're not a vampire. Then what in the name of Sigmar are you?"

Geralt cursed his decision to take multiple potions before combat. It had made his mutations stand out more than before, his veins black, and eyes glowing with power. Now he had to deal with a frightened young man.

"I'm a Witch-" Geralt said, only to be cut off abruptly.

"Witchcraft, Sigmar, preserve us! It's a demon in the skin of a man!" The man yelled, thrusting his spear forward, Geralt dodging it and quickly cutting the spear in half on reflex. His men echoed their cheer, and they moved towards Geralt, their gratefulness forgotten, and murder now firmly in their gaze.

Geralt heard a loud crack and felt something hitting him in the side. Something had embedded itself and had done a lot of damage on the way in. It felt worse than any arrow wound the Witcher had ever received. Geralt could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Geralt's head snapped towards the source of the noise and glared daggers at a young man holding one of the metallic weapons. He had the same look as the young farmer that had stabbed Geralt with a pitchfork in Rivia during the Pogrom. That same look of fear and horror.

Geralt pulled out his crossbow and shot the man in his right eye with an incendiary bolt, blowing his head apart in a fiery explosion. He remembered Rivia too well to give mercy amid a battle like this one. Then he lashed out with his steel sword and beheaded the leader of the men with a single bloody stroke, dropping the crossbow and throwing his incendiary bomb towards the soldiers. The bomb detonated, coating the soldiers in liquid fire. Their screams were horrific, but the Witcher decided that the men had made their choice. They had attacked him, and he wouldn't hold back.

Without a moment's hesitation, Geralt made the sign of Aard, blasting the soldier at the center of their formation back against the wagon with a sickening crack. He whirled around, striking with both his blades so fast that the enemy hadn't even reacted to being covered in flames before Geralt's runic blades cut through armored chests, slit throats, or removed sword hands. The wound in Geralt's side ached, and he needed to end the fight quickly. He pushed himself further, moving without a hint of mercy, killing burning soldiers with quick decisive thrusts, a single stroke for each man.

When the last of the soldiers hit the ground, Geralt looked around him at the devastation he'd left. He had killed monsters to save humans, then killed humans because they thought him a monster. He reached for the White Raffard's Decoction vials on his bandolier and downed them both. His veins started to scream as the toxicity in his blood reached its limit. His flesh began to mend, regrowing and reknitting the hole through his side. The pain was almost unbearable. He looked over the bodies of the men, taking their coin purses and what looked like their rations. He then legged it back towards the forest so he could make a plan about what to do.

It was starting to get dark. The Witcher had to get shelter soon. He resolved to look for a cave. But as he moved, Geralt saw something to his right, and noticed a giant green orb in the sky, slowly fading into view as the sun began to set. It was a moon made of solid green. One that hurt his eyes to look at, and whose very presence made Geralt feel ill at ease. He wasn't on the Continent anymore. His medallion began to shake.

"Shit."