The day was growing warmer, and Nira began to perspire into the fur against his skin. There was no shade on the road, the landscape he had traveled through for a number of hours into the early moments of the sun's downward path had been a fair bit of steppe. It was now in the process of giving way to a more rocky vista. The boulders lining the road and the slowly rising cliffs from which they had become detached were emanating the heat they had gathered throughout the day. It felt little like the early fall that the calendar claimed. The witcher released the reigns, and the horse continued to walk along the gravel path. He worked himself out of his coat, needed earlier in the morning but, white as it was, doing him no benefit now. Leaning back, he unfastened a saddle bag, and stuffed the cloak therein. His arms, now exposed to the clear sun, lifted the metallic weight of his sword belt from where it was balanced on the rump of the animal. Strapping it around his chest, he ensured the blades were in reach, and loose within their sheaths. Both silver and steel.

Vergen was near. The hills rose quicker, and the horse began to breath heavier. The beast had not the privilege afforded to the man straddling him of removing his fur in the heat. Nira released the reigns once more and tousled the animal's silky mane. The long hairs ran over the webbings of his fingers, before his nails raked across the dry skin of the animal's neck. The witcher leaned so far forward that his medallion rested against the brown haired neck before him. Glinting in the bright sun, it jangled against the thin chain that held it, of its own volition and without prompting by Nira's movements. The witcher sat up in the saddle. Magic had come to use nearby.

His blonde head on a swivel, Nira searched for the originator of the magical blast. There was more foliage surrounding the road, but no thickets that could be hidden within. Not that, of course, any one but a Scoia'tael could conceal themselves within a forest from a witcher's discerning glare. The hills, however, were rising into cliffs and the like ever more. The medallion lay still, the inanimate gaze of the roaring bear it depicted following his own. Coming around between two hills, Nira found himself surrounded by the remnants of a village, the inhabitants of which had been chased out by flame. The bear head vibrated almost imperceptibly against his sternum, reacting to the minute trace of magic still lingering in the air. Clopping rose from beneath him as the horse's shoes impacted a solid stone path rising from the crushed gravel that had lead him here from the banks of the Dyfne. After surveying the scorched remains, Nira lifted his piercing blue eyes ahead of him, as they could now make out the high wall surrounding the Dwarven city.

"Hael, vatt'ghern!" He was accosted by a lyrical voice attempting to sound stern.

"Hael, seidhe!" He replied, bringing his gaze down to the path before him. From the direction of the gate approached a small number of young seeming elves. Two dwarfs, dressed up in similar fashions as their obvious comrades leaned on their axes at the rear. Nira spurred the reluctant horse on towards the sharp eared figures. The lead elf, a tall, wiry specimen with hair of a color that would put Nilfgaardian banners to shame walked defiantly up to the witcher as the rest of his companions surrounded. A squirrel's tail dangled at the back of his hat as he turned his well sculpted face up towards Nira. They held eachother at eye length for a moment, before the Scoia'tael extended a gloved hand. Nira had to lean far down to reach the elven hand from atop his gargantuan mount, but they grasped eachother half way up the other's forearm with respect. A smile cracked the edges of the lower non-human's thin lips. Nira felt the grasp on his arm tighten hard, and he himself wrapped his free hand in the reigns just as the elf ripped downwards.

The witcher flexed every muscle in his body, and hooked his left foot into the underside of the leather saddle. He jerked the reigns in his effort to catch his fall. The horse's head was jerked hard, and it stumbled to the side, knocking the elf from his well planted balance. With the grasp on his arm weakened in surprise, Nira lurched away. As he regained the saddle, his right foot lashed out and caught the elf in the chest. Freed of hand, he tore the top sword from its scabbard and held it high above his head. The lustrous metal flashed in the afternoon sun, casting light over the faces of the elder soldiers around him. Beneath him, the horse tossed and turned, snorting and snarling with surprise. Nira shot a glance at the dwarves further up the path. They held their axes in their short arms across their chests. Confusion marred their bearded faces. Confused, that is, by why their taller comrades were laughing so heartily.

"Hael, Nira." The dark haired elf shouted, between his own laughter, from the ground.

"Hael, Brende." The sword wielding witcher responded.

"Why, vatt'ghern, did you draw your silver?" The elf didn't even try to rise, he was content to rest on the grass.

"Monsters," Nira's seldom used voice came again, "I'm surrounded by them." The rebuttal was met with more elven laughter, their canine-less mouths thrown open carelessly with grins. He threw the weapon down, point first. It slid easily into the moist dirt by Brende's head. The witcher threw his leg over the horse, and leaped down from the saddle onto the stone path. Brende reached out again, and Nira clasped his hand. This time the witcher pulled the elf, and they now both stood on their feet, shaking hands.

"I can recognize that golden mop from miles. It's good to finally see you in the sunlight."

"And without the stench of leaves composting all around."

"Ah, but that is the aroma of the forest. I could spend my life with that sweet odor filling my home."

"You will have to visit me in the desert sometime, where I won't ever smell it again." The elves once again cackled.

"What has brought you all the way to the north of our fair country, my Dh'oine friend?"

"Wishing to see what my efforts have brought. And perhaps the queen that I've helped install."

"You aren't the only vatt'ghern with that claim. The white haired one did much more than you, I could say. You, neither, have been the only one of your caste that we have seen today. Just recently some orange eyed witch man came with a man tied to his horse, calling on Saskia. Her audience has been a popular request this day. By your kind, and that of a stranger sort. A wizard, that is." Nira's ears perked up at the mention. He had his source of magical disturbance. The fact that the medallion still moved around just a bit denoted the fact that his spell had been extremely powerful. "Fuck wizards, I say. Dh'oine dabbling in magic never leads to good things. Just look at that Eilhart bitch." The elf spoke with a hand on Nira's back, as the pair trod on towards the gates. The witcher had sheathed his silver and given up his reigns to an elf who was leading the gelding behind them.

"I can wait," said Nira as they regained the company of the Dwarves, "I have no where to be in a hurry, as long as I have a place to sleep." The elves all patted him on his shoulders, offering him extra bedrolls in the tent village they had set up, and free drinks at The Cauldron.