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TWL Chapter 483: Of Witchcraft and Warpaths
🕑 Added 2025-07-10 04:35:35 +0000 UTCWeavess, the youngest of the three sisters, stood at the edge of the cauldron, her eyes fixed hungrily on the boiling meat, swallowing hard.
Among them, she was the one who looked most human. Her frame resembled that of a frail, elderly woman—at least at a glance.
—That is, if one could ignore the swarm of flies constantly buzzing out of her hive-like eye sockets.
“The little ones flying out of your face seem to love the scent of this broth,” Brewess chuckled heartily, glancing toward Weavess. “This is going to be a good pot of soup!”
Whispess licked the blood from her fingers and nodded enthusiastically.
“A lord of Velen… Baron’s blood. A stew made from such meat will help us better commune with the forest and the earth. Especially against the Elder Blood.”
“I raised him so carefully for all these years. Was hoping to save him for the next Witches’ Sabbath, share him with Imlerith,” Weavess snarled. “And now we’ve eaten him early… what a waste.”
Brewess shrugged, unbothered. “Won’t be long before we get something better… Elder Blood! Hah!”
Her words made Whispess, who had been brooding, nod eagerly again. She stared into the bubbling cauldron, murmuring to herself, “We can’t let Imlerith and the Wild Hunt share in the Elder Blood… It’s far too delicious…”
While her sisters were already daydreaming, drooling with anticipation, Weavess finally tore her gaze away from the stew.
“But even with a pot full of Little Baron’s broth… Elder Blood won’t be so easy to deal with, will it?”
Whispess tilted her head, thoughtful. “...That’s true.”
Brewess’s face twisted in irritation at her sisters’ doubts about her cooking. But after grumbling for a while, she finally conceded with a sigh.
She raised one of her oversized hands—each one ending in only three thick fingers—and pointed at Whispess. “From what you’ve heard, sister, this Elder Blood is stronger than expected. One ‘Little Baron stew’ isn’t going to cut it.”
Weavess scratched the buzzing hive on her face and declared firmly, “Then let’s brew a few more pots. Round up all the little ones in Velen! This is Elder Blood we’re talking about! People out there say he got strong enough in just a few years to wipe out an entire army on his own!”
“If we let him keep growing, who knows how powerful he’ll become?” Weavess patted her belly. “We’ve nurtured Velen long enough. Now it’s time to harvest.”
Though Weavess was the youngest of the three, both Brewess and Whispess respected her wisdom.
“The Elder Blood coming here alone—what an opportunity!”
“Hahaha—only what ends up in our bellies truly belongs to us!”
The three sisters cackled in the cavern, stewing their grotesque feast while fantasizing about even more delicious dishes. Their laughter echoed—eerie, gleeful, and full of menace.
But just as they reveled in their triumph, a small shadow darted through the darkness, sprinting toward the depths of the cave.
“Something’s wrong!” Just before the figure vanished entirely, Whispess, ever keen of sense, sensed the anomaly.
She jabbed a finger toward the back of the cavern and shrieked furiously, “That little runt is here to make trouble again!”
“How did he even find this place?!”
The fleeing shadow froze for a split second. Its careful, stealthy movement shifted in an instant—no longer hiding, now fleeing at full speed.
Weavess reacted immediately. With a sweep of her arm, she unraveled into a swirl of darkness on the spot. Countless crows erupted from the cavern’s depths, their frenzied screeches stirring up a shadowy wind that tore through the underground lair.
“Johnny—this time, we won’t let you run your mouth!”
...
“Duke Lannister, if I may be so bold…” The steward wrung his hands nervously. “Have you seen our baron, my lord?”
Before Lann could answer, Keira cut in with a cold sneer. “Shouldn’t we be asking you that?”
The steward fell instantly silent, his face flushed red. He glanced between the sorceress and the man beside her—who hadn’t once spared him so much as a glance—and quietly slunk away.
And Lann?
Lann was observing the soldiers assembled before him.
On the open ground outside the Crow’s Perch, the local Velen guards had finally gathered under the baron’s orders.
Naturally, they couldn’t compare in discipline or strength to the Blue Stripes stationed behind Lann. But as locals, they held a different kind of value—one that outsiders couldn’t replicate. They knew the forests. They knew the swamps.
And that was exactly the kind of advantage Lann needed.
That said, even with lowered expectations, the assembled force looked painfully uneven.
Lann’s brows furrowed as he studied the group—until suddenly, his eyes lit up.
“You—yes, you. Soldier, step forward!”
A bearded man stiffened, then straightened his back and marched out with pride.
“Phillip Strenger, lieutenant of the Velen Guard, reporting to Duke Lannister!”
His voice rang loud and clear—full of strength and spirit.
…
Lann studied the man before him for a moment. The more he looked, the more familiar he seemed—and then he was certain: he’d found the right one.
In the original timeline, after Nilfgaard’s invasion, Baron Vserad had fled in disgrace. Velen, left without a ruler, fell into new hands—those of the man standing before him: Phillip Strenger.
Among the local soldiers of Velen, Phillip held considerable influence. He seized the moment, took control of the Crow’s Perch, and soon crowned himself the de facto ruler of the entire region.
Because of his violent temperament and brutal ways, Phillip would later be known as the Bloody Baron.
But the man behind that wild title had true ability. Once he took control of Velen, he quickly assumed responsibility for the region. After a few probing clashes with Nilfgaard, he initiated talks and negotiated a ceasefire—bringing an end to the chaos that threatened the lives of the common folk.
When a fragile peace returned, the terrified townsfolk soon realized something astonishing: despite the ravages of war, life under Phillip was better than it had ever been under Baron Vserad.
They discovered that while the Bloody Baron certainly enjoyed the luxuries of his position, he had one essential trait—he didn’t meddle unnecessarily.
He lived well, but left others alone—and that alone set him far above 99% of the nobles on the Continent.
Of course, the officer standing here now was noticeably younger than the Bloody Baron from Lann’s memory. At the very least, his beard hadn’t turned white yet.
And even if something had happened to Baron Vserad, there was no way the current Velen—still under Temerian control—would let a lowborn officer like this rise to power.
This Phillip wouldn’t become the Bloody Baron. At most, he’d be the Bloody Lieutenant.
Unless fate handed him a different path—like the one opening before him now.
…
After calling out Phillip, Lann swept his gaze once more over the rest of the Crow’s Perch soldiers, brow furrowed.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a single other man in the bunch who looked remotely presentable.
“Well then, Lieutenant Phillip,” Lann said, “looks like you’re the only one I can trust with this.”
Phillip’s chest swelled with pride at those words.
As a Temerian stationed closest to Cintra, he’d heard plenty of tales about the Lion of the North. And he’d long envied the famed collectible Gwent card said to be in Baron Vserad’s possession.
“Give me your orders, Duke Lannister!”
Lann nodded. “You should already know why Commander Roche is here—to wipe out the creature lurking in Velen’s depths, the one masquerading as a forest god.”
“I had planned to assign your men to gather intel on the monster… but that won’t be necessary anymore.”
“Soon, we’ll be waging war against them. Your task is to evacuate the nearby residents—get everyone away from the swamps and forests. Keep the civilians out of harm’s way.”
Phillip froze at the words, a troubled look spreading across his face.
“But Duke Lannister… Velen is nothing but swamps and forests.”
“That’s precisely why I need you to figure it out.”
Lann gestured toward the Blue Stripes behind him, the implication clear: under normal circumstances, he’d never rely on this scrappy band of local misfits.
“You—no, you alone. Can you carry out this order, Lieutenant Phillip?”
Phillip drew a deep breath. “I can, Duke Lannister!”
But after a short pause, he hesitated again and cautiously asked: “Duke Lannister, may I ask… roughly how many troops are you planning to deploy against the—uh, Ladies of the Wood?”
“The issue isn’t our numbers,” Lann replied with a shake of the head. “It’s theirs.”
“You’re from Velen. Don’t tell me you don’t know the Ladies draw their strength from the forests and swamps themselves.”
Phillip flushed. “I never paid much attention to all that mystical mumbo jumbo… and even when I heard it, I never thought it was real.”
“Well, now you’ve got a chance to see for yourself,” Lann said, shaking his head again. “As for our forces, I’ll just say this—”
He pointed to the sky. “She is one of our allies.”
Phillip looked up, confused.
From high above, a massive flying fortress broke through the clouds—falling toward them like a meteor.
“SKRAAAA—ROAR!”
Clearly used to lording over the skies of Mahakam, Keltullis was deeply attached to her own sense of majesty. Every time she made an appearance, she insisted on announcing herself with a thunderous roar, refusing to land until she saw the terrified faces of the tiny mortals below.
Saskia had once tried to talk her out of it, but the red dragon had only responded with a solemn lecture: “Humans fear dragons. If they didn’t, there’d be far more dragon slayers.”
The local Velen guard scattered in all directions, scrambling for cover.
Only Phillip, though shaking from head to toe, remained at Lann’s side.
The Blue Stripes, to their credit, lived up to their elite reputation. Though tense and with hands on their weapons, they held formation.
[WHOOOSH—]
A powerful gust swept across the ground as massive wings stirred up wind and loose stone.
“Keltullis,” Lann called out, “did you find anything?”
The dragon didn’t hide her irritation at being used as an aerial scout—but still, she obediently flung something small from her claws.
“I didn’t find your three witches… but I did find him.”
The little shadow hit the ground and tumbled, coming to a stop in a mess of dust and dirt.
He stood up groaning, teeth clenched in pain, hopping from foot to foot—but he didn’t utter a word.
“A child?” Roche asked, baffled, stepping forward behind Lann. “Duke Lannister… your dragon brought back a kid? A mute kid?”
His voice trailed off as he stared at the boy. Something about the child’s appearance was… off.
Keira let out a soft laugh, mocking the commander’s narrow understanding.
“Oh, this isn’t a child, Commander Roche.”
“He might be older than your grandfather.”
“This is a little godling.”
