Even a lone wolf eventually returns to the pack. This is true for the fabled order of the Witchers. Each spring time the dwindling number of Witchers leave the confines of their broken stronghold of Kaer Morhen, "The Sea Fortress", in the northeast mountains of Temeria. Just like migrating birds however, they return each winter from their Path to gather to train and share their tales. Every winter there are fewer and fewer Witchers who make the return trip.
This tale is of one such Witcher returning now from a year spent slaying monsters, lifting curses, and wooing women. Fall is nearing its end, the red and golden leaves of autumn have long since fallen to the ground covering the roads and forests in a blanket of amber hues. Harvests have been collected from the farmsteads, and fields lay fallow now awaiting the coming of the winter snows. Simple folk prepair for the cold by canning fruits and vegtables, stock piling firewood, and making any last minute travels from village to village.
The road for our Witcher from the west has been rutted with mud, but few people linger in these northern regions at this time of the year. Still a few weeks out of Kaer Morhen our Witcher turns north along the road, heading toward the River Gwenllech that will eventually lead home.
The sun shrines brightly, the air cool and crisp as we begin the final tale before the peace of home arrives...