Visiem, kuri bija līdzās.
This is a non-commercial fanfic based on the universes of The Witcher and Disco Elysium. All rights to the original works, characters, names, and elements of their respective worlds belong to their respective copyright holders. The author of this fanfic does not claim ownership of any of them. Age rating: rated R (18+). The text contains profanity, alcohol, fictional drugs, violence, and other themes intended for an adult audience.
This was before Adam’s time,
In heaven lived not God, but Brahma,
And he turned a blind eye to everything.
— Nikolai Gumilev, “The Tale”
We are unknown to ourselves, we knowers: and with good reason…
— Friedrich Nietzsche, “On the Genealogy of Morality”
NARRATOR – …An infinite amount of time passes… At last, consciousness returns. You’re lying on the floor in a bone-crushingly unnatural position. It’s a miracle you haven’t broken your neck in at least two places. The whole body is twisted as if someone tried to stuff it into a chest of drawers, but then gave up halfway through.
This book is also available in Russian.
YOU – Where am I?
UMBRA [Impossible: Failure] – Unknown. There is, however, an even more pressing question: “Who are you?”
YOU – I…?
NARRATOR – There is nothing inside. Nothing in the mind, nothing in the soul. Not darkness, not fog — emptiness. No name. No face. Not a single memory to hold on to.
YOU – I… I don’t know… Shit, what’s happening?!
NARRATOR – With enormous effort, you raise your throbbing head. Every movement sends a rusty creak through somewhere deep inside the skull. Before you lies a proper battlefield: a blown-out window, broken chairs, shards of multicolored bottles, and a smashed lute with its strings ripped out.
BRAWN [Trivial: Success] – Not bad.
KEEN EYE [Challenging: Failure] – The amount of damage is almost impressive. Maybe there was a full-blown brawl here? Or someone attacked you?
NARRATOR – You have absolutely no idea what happened in this room. Whatever it was… you were clearly right in the middle of it. And judging by the look of things, you didn’t come out on top.
FORTITUDE [Medium: Failure] – Your head feels like a wyvern’s nest on fire. Damn, it hurts like hell… Seems you had too much Swallow yesterday. Or was it White Gull?
STEADINESS [Medium: Success] – …Or both. Yeah, that’s probably it. You drank anything your shaking little hands could reach: potions, alcohol, maybe even lamp oil if it smelled decent enough.
DEFTNESS [Challenging: Success] – By some miracle, you manage to pull on the trousers lying nearby — clearly not at their freshest. Figuring out which leg goes where takes heroic effort and several desperate attempts. Eventually, both feet find the right trouser legs. A tiny victory, but a victory nonetheless. Then you move on to the boots.
WHISPER [Trivial: Success] – More precisely, a “boot.” Just one. Its brother has vanished somewhere: drunk away, stolen, burned… or perhaps it simply left you behind and went off in search of a better life.
NARRATOR – Exhausted by all this righteous labor, you sit down on the bed and sink into thought. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crows. A woman beneath the window is scolding her son for some misdeed. He bawls loudly.
CODEX [Medium: Failure] – Wait… Why do such strange names keep popping into your head? What the hell is White Gull?.. It seems you were supposed to… kill someone? Or save someone? Maybe a princess? …No. It’s all lost in a sticky fog.
NARRATOR – You make a titanic mental effort; your eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. The very act of thinking is physically exhausting: like dragging a dead ox up a hill.
DIALECTIC [Medium: Failure] – Swallow. White Gull. They sound like names of powerful potions. Therefore, you might be an alchemist.
BRAWN [Challenging: Failure] – If you had to kill someone… maybe you’re a mercenary. Or an assassin.
MASQUE [Impossible: Failure] – Consider this, illustrious master! What if you’re an actor? Premier tragique, the leading tragedian of the grand stage, playing the part of a mysterious chevalier! That would explain the strange words and all this inner torment.
WHISPER [Easy: Success] – If this is a play, then the stage director hates you personally.
DIALECTIC [Challenging: Success] – No, that’s not it… But the pieces are slowly falling into place. You hunt… creatures. Very nasty, disgusting creatures… Monsters, to be precise. And you use potions to do it. Therefore, you’re a witcher. And if that’s true, you should have a sword.
BOND OF STEEL [Trivial: Success] – Two swords. Any witcher worth his salt carries two swords. One for men… the other…
NARRATOR – Suddenly, the medallion you slipped around your neck a minute ago without thinking begins to vibrate. Barely noticeable at first… then stronger and stronger, like an insect waking from sleep and stretching its tiny legs. You lower an uneasy gaze to your chest. It’s a battered metal medallion shaped like a wolf’s head, its jaws bared. And then, to your utter amazement, a voice comes from its mouth.
HORRIFIC MEDALLION – OH, FORGET IT, kumpel! No need to overload those half-baked brains of yours.
YOU – Are you… talking to me right now?
HORRIFIC MEDALLION – Are YOU talking TO ME, kumpel?! Kurwa, we could’ve pawned those swords for booze! One hell of a night, one hell of a haul, one hell of a party! Ever think of that, huh?
YOU – N-no…
HORRIFIC MEDALLION – Listen, we probably stumbled into a tavern, slammed the swords down on the counter and said: “Booze. All of it.” And then? O-o-oh… Then we partied so fucking hard the world ended, I’m telling you!
UMBRA [Challenging: Failure] – The end of the world? Wait, no… no… Now you can feel it clearly. An icy wave of dread creeps down your spine, like some vile clawed hand. Something is wrong. Very wrong.
STEADINESS [Medium: Failure] – Oh no…
RESOLVE [Challenging: Success] – Oh yes.
MASQUE [Impossible: Failure] – Maestro, it is perfectly obvious that the swords were taken from you in an unequal battle. Surely you fought an entire horde of enemies and suffered a crushing yet honorable defeat! Minstrels will sing of this battle! It shall live on through the ages!
RESOLVE – Nonsense. You lost them. Both swords. One forged from the finest meteorite iron; the other silvered by the goddess of fate herself. Gone without a trace.
FOREBODING [Medium: Success] – A cold, gusty wind howls through the filthy streets of Vizima. It slips through cracks in the ancient stone walls, through broken windows… carrying a faint, unsettling scent. The city is trying to warn you about something.
VICE [Trivial: Success] – Cheer up, witcher. You can fight monsters with your bare hands… As long as you’re drunk enough.
NARRATOR – Your gaze wanders around the room until it catches on an old, stained mirror hanging on the wall. The edges of the frame are broken, and a web of deep cracks spreads across the glass. It’s hard to see why no one has thrown this wreck away yet.
ARTISTRY [Easy: Success] – It reminds me of someone…
NARRATOR – With some effort, you get to your feet, bend almost double, and shuffle toward the mirror. The extent of the damage must be assessed as soon as possible.
UMBRA [Impossible: Failure] – But who do you expect to see? What face will stare back at you? Who is he, this stranger in the mirror? That remains unknown. Noli nomen peregrini quaerere, quia nomen eius mysterium est.
YOU – What?..
UMBRA – Never mind.
NARRATOR – You reach out a hand.
FOREBODING [Challenging: Success] – Wait. Something feels very wrong. You probably shouldn’t do it. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.
NARRATOR – Your hand freezes for a moment. After a brief hesitation, you wipe the mirror clean anyway and cautiously peer into it…
HORRIFIC MEDALLION – Kumpel, that was an EXTREMELY ILL-ADVISED move! You’re never going to unsee that.
NARRATOR – A grim, gaunt man of indeterminate age stares back at you. His face is marked by a terrible scar and a strange, unnatural half-smile frozen in place. White hair hangs in dirty strands. Yellow, catlike eyes look predatory and yet endlessly tired. To complete the sorry picture, his skin is deathly pale and dry, covered in what look like pockmarks.
YOU – Gods, who the hell is that?!
ARTISTRY [Medium: Failure] – A corpse. Obviously. Rigor mortis is plain to see. You’re dead, my friend. Maybe have been for years.
WHISPER [Easy: Success] – You were warned, by the way. Though nobody expected this. What happened to your eyes? And what’s with that convulsive grimace you’re making without even realizing it?
YOU – No idea… I suppose it means something?
BRAWN [Challenging: Failure] – Absolutely. That grin tells everyone you’re at the very top of the food chain. Everyone else is either prey or a witness to your greatness.
VICE [Medium: Success] – Or maybe it’s for the ladies. That’s how you lure romantic souls into your trap — women dreaming of a dependable man who’s got everything well in hand.
WHISPER [Trivial: Success] – You have everything in hand? You’ve lost your swords, your boot, your memory, and gods know what else. Don’t fool yourself. The only thing you’ve got in hand is a bottle of booze. And even that bottle is purely figurative for now, existing only in your fevered imagination, since there doesn’t appear to be any alcohol in the room either.
CODEX [Challenging: Success] – Nothing to worry about. If you really are a witcher, this is more or less how you’re supposed to look. People won’t be too surprised by your face, though it must be said, it’s a pretty lousy one.
YOU – They won’t? Why not?
CODEX – Because witchers, my little drinking enthusiast, usually undergo severe mutations. The Trial of the Grasses… Children of about fourteen are put through it. The few who survive that hell gain inhuman reflexes, heightened senses, and catlike vision. The rest gain nothing but an unmarked grave in the nearest cemetery.
NARRATOR – You slowly step away from the mirror, having had more than enough of the sight. It seems you and your reflection are equally unhappy with the introduction.
CODEX – …These days, however, there is almost no one left who can perform the Trial properly. New witchers are hardly made anymore. Either way, you owe your white hair and yellow eyes to some unknown sadist who spent a long time poisoning you with elixirs and mutagens.
YOU – I wonder why he needed to do that.
WHISPER [Easy: Success] – Obviously, to create another monster-killing machine. To keep the line going. To make sure the witcher clan doesn’t die out. This isn’t inherited, and even if it were, witchers are sterile. New ones have to be made… by hand.
CODEX – As for that creepy grin of yours… Many years ago — around the time the current king’s father first planted his royal ass on the throne, I think — the songs of a certain wandering goliard were all the rage. His name has long since faded from folk memory. He roamed the country, strummed his lute, and bellowed all kinds of nonsense about love, wine, and dancing. Those merry, drunken, peaceful years of Temeria… Sadly, they passed far too quickly, leaving behind nothing but fond memories.
VICE [Trivial: Success] – Oh yes! Wine flowed like a river back then!
CODEX – It did. Until blood began to flow instead… That goliard wore the same sort of expression, as if nothing in the world could touch him. Though once he was thrown into gaol for vagrancy and some trumped-up insult to His Majesty, he probably stopped making faces soon enough. No one knows what became of him after that. The age of endless wars began, and there were far more pressing problems to worry about.
NARRATOR – You shake your head, give your reflection one last look, then sigh and head for the door.