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valandhirwriter · 6 months ago

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Story game

do-androids-dream-ao3acc hat gefragt: Ha ... you shoveled your own grave, miss "I am not good at writing Emralt"... now I want one. What-if. Go crazy. 😂

@do-androids-dream-ao3acc send me her wish - and here we go.

What if...

“No troops,” Geralt of Rivia said, his normally gravelly voice becoming stern as he spoke. Arms crossed in front of his chest, he was entirely unimpressed by the Emperor of Nilfgaard and entirely unmoved by their common history.

Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard and conqueror of a good portion of the north, was not a man who usually tolerated insults. And yet, he had to struggle to hide a smile at Geralt’s attitude. The man was magnificent and stubborn all the same. “You will need more than the last few witchers to fend off the Wild Hunt,” the Emperor replied, his voice a study in tight control. “You will need soldiers, the best there are in this world. And you are not qualified to command them.”

Geralt’s frown deepened, and his white eyebrows formed a steep V on his forehead. “I will not have troops under the command of some Nilfgaardian General in Kaer Morhen,” he repeated, and there was that stubborn glint in his eyes that told Emhyr Geralt would not budge.

He never did. If anyone knew what had truly happened between them in Stygga… No, Emhyr did not allow himself to think of that terrible, wonderful, embarrassing day. If the truth ever came to light, the bards would have a field day with it, and the salacious tales would cost Emhyr his hard-earned reputation as an iron-fisted ruler. But if there was one lesson he had learned that day, it was that Geralt could be manipulated if he would not budge. “So your objection is a General leading the troops?” he inquired.

“Yes,” Geralt replied, “he won’t know what to do and not listen to sense. We don’t need that when the battle begins.”

“I agree,” Emhyr replied, hiding even the hint of a smile that wanted to creep onto his face. “So the General would not be the person to give the final orders. That would be agreeable to you?”

He could see the startled glance of the Witcher. Geralt was a smart man, a very smart man even, but he was not good at manoeuvring. “Yes,” he said after a moment, then frowned again. “But who would be in command?”

“I will be,” Emhyr replied, and his heart leapt in a small triumph when he saw the sheer expression of shock on Geralt’s face. “That should alleviate your worry about a commander having no clue what monsters truly mean, would it not?”

He could see Geralt’s shoulders stiffen. “Yes, but… you cannot. It is too dangerous,” suddenly, a very defensive tone slipped into his voice. “We all will be risking our lives there, death will be certainty…”

“I am the Emperor of Nilfgaard; death is the one certainty I have daily on my throne,” Emhyr replied, “and if you agree that me being in command is acceptable to you…”

Geralt cast him a scowl, but before the Witcher could marshall his thoughts and argue, Emhyr had already turned his head to the man standing by the door, awaiting orders. “General, ready Impera Brigade to march come morning, being faced with a battle in an ill-maintained fortification, you are free to recruit whatever additional auxiliaries you deem useful from our forces assembled here in Vizima.”

The tall soldier saluted without talking back. Emhyr knew General Aeron Cadfael was unhappy with the choice but had known what Emhyr had decided on, and seen where this conversation was going.

Geralt harumphed, ready to speak up, but Emhyr ignored him for the moment and gestured to one of the soldiers standing guard at the other end of the room. “Captain, fall out,” the soldier stepping forward wasn’t as tall and muscular as the General; where the General was a formidable field fighter, the Captain was a fast rattlesnake. “Captain, assist the General in the preparations, you are free to find auxiliaries of your ilk if they can be useful.”

The Captain was about to protest Emhyr risking his life in a grandiose fashion. He was never shy to stand up to Emhyr, but Emhyr didn’t give him a chance. “General, Captain… this is it. What I told you, you were preparing for. You had ten years. Now prove you were worth it.” Emhyr kept his voice stern and aloof. He had to. They expected him to. Both saluted and left.

As they walked out of the audience room, Emhyr turned to Geralt. “You were saying…?”

***

The walls of Kaer Morhen were more impressive than Emhyr had expected. He had made a point of gathering any scrap of useful information about the school of the wolf, and the descriptions of the sacking of Kaer Morhen had made Emhyr assume that most of the fortress had been razed. Now, he saw that this was a misconception. The enemy troops may have slain the Witchers, but their fortress still stood. The towering walls had taken more damage from the ravages of time since than from the soldiers who had slaughtered the inhabitants. Emhyr’s lips twisted derisively; the Kings of Kaedwen had been fools like all northern Kings were.

Turning his head, he could see the long marching column of the Nilfgaardian forces making their way up the mountain. The terrain was rough, and the pass was ill-maintained, but they moved ahead steadily. Emhyr could see Geralt’s frown - the Witcher had taken to frowning a lot while they marched for Kaer Morhen. He had taken to all kinds of protests since they had marched from Vizima, beginning with the claim that the Nilfgaardian soldiers were not good enough to be of any use. A little duel between him and the General had put paid to that argument.

It had not been something Emhyr had enjoyed. While he knew Geralt was stronger and more robust than the General, who was fifty-six after all, he had also known General Aeron yet beat any of his younger officers on the training fields. What was worse, Aeron knew he was fighting a stronger opponent. Their duel had been a sight to behold, and deep down, Emhyr still hated seeing Geralt going toe to toe with danger. He could not bear it, not since Cintra, not since Stygga… not since knowing that nothing in their hearts had changed. Geralt had emerged unscathed but grudgingly admitted that Emhyr’s Impera Brigade was better than he had expected. He had sulked for two days after, and Emhyr had quietly enjoyed needling him a bit.

Other arguments had followed, until they finally reached the foot of Killer trail and Geralt had pointed out that the pass road was impassable for an army. Emhyr had expected that one, and coolly pointed the General towards the sloping path that had been used by the attacking army of Kaedwen decades prior.

“You had to insist on this, did you?” Geralt growled as their horses approached the stone arch that was the gate of the castle.

“I did, I do,” Emhyr replied, his eyes still surveying the mighty walls and shattered towers. They were in better shape than he had feared, which would be useful. His eyes went to Geralt, and like always, Emhyr had to try to hide a softer expression that threatened to slip onto his features. “Contrary to others, I have known since the night of Cirilla’s birth that this confrontation was coming. All I ever did, all my deeds, as dark as they were, was to prepare for that day.” He had hoped for more time, for another decade, before the inevitable was upon them, but Cirilla’s escape and her incessant hopping between realities had created a trail on which doom was following.

“Nilfgaardians,” Geralt shook his head, “I will never get you. You did away with all the trappings of the old world, the superstitions and false beliefs… and then you turn around and believe in prophecy.”

“All things happen but once, but one time, they have to come to pass,” Emhyr availed himself of a quote that he had picked up from another man. He did not feel ready to fully tell Geralt was driving him. Having lived with the full reality of the prophecy over his head ever since Emhyr had held his daughter for the first time, knowing what was to come was frighteningly real had reshaped the way Emhyr thought, the way he planned. Maybe one day, one day when all this was over, he could tell Geralt, tell him of the icy burden on his shoulders and of the harrowing fear that gnawed at Emhyr. Would his preparations ever be enough?

Luckily they were saved from further conversation by an old Witcher appearing in the gates of Kaer Morhen. He was almost as tall as Geralt, with steel grey hair and he walked like a man who knew no pangs of age. “When I said: bring allies, I did not say: bring the entire northern armies of Nilfgaard,” the older Witcher grumbled, his voice was as rough and gravelly as Geralt’s was, but he spoke with the firmness of command.

Vesemir. Emhyr concluded. This had to be the Master of Wolf school. Vesemir the Grimwolf. “Sir Geralt of Rivia asked for too little when he sought allies,” Emhyr answered, cutting into the conversation. He would not stand by and be ignored like an unwanted guest. “He asked for a few fighters, where even an army would hardly suffice. If I am to commit Nilfgaard to war with the unnatural, I will not do so on half-assed terms.”

The older Witcher turned around; his eyes were not golden like Geralt’s but a pale yellow, like a hawk’s. “Emhyr var Emreis of Nilfgaard, I take it?” he asked, his tone not leaving any doubt that he had recognised Emhyr at once, not a surprise; the armour Emhyr wore screamed the truth. And it did not intimidate Vesemir in the least. “If you are half the man your grandfather Torres was on the battlefield, you’ll do,” he announced before turning seamlessly towards General Aeron. “General, take your men around the castle, towards the east side, and enter by the shattered main gate. You will want to man those walls if I am to guess your plans…”

Emhyr had a hard time not gawking as the old Witcher approached a General of Impera and said something that indicated he knew not only Impera’s preferred strategies but also had read their lesser-known cookbook.

***

“What are they doing here?” Vernon Roche spluttered, shock twisting his face, eyes darting between Emhyr as he was standing in the Eastern courtyard of Kaer Morhen and another man as if trying to decide whose presence was the greater offence.

The other man, none other than Letho of Gullet, grinned broadly at Roche, clearly waiting for the man to lose it and attack. “You didn’t think that the Wolf wouldn’t bring my honourable employer to this little dance?” the Viper Witcher asked, adding a mock bow towards Emhyr. “I cannot serve with a satisfyingly slow end, your always-cantankerous majesty.”

In most situations, Emhyr would have barked a sharp answer, but seeing the Bluestripes Commander go red as a beet was way more satisfactory. “I expected Sir Geralt to bring all surviving Witchers,” Emhyr replied, like he had always known Letho yet lived, “it will be fascinating to compare your numbers to my list, to see whether he missed someone.”

Letho barked a laugh, his eyes betraying venomous amusement. “They are here, Emperor; if I were you, I’d not get into debates with the bears.”

Their barbed conversation was interrupted by Roche’s voice rising as he talked to Geralt. “You cannot let them stay. They smashed Temeria, enslaved Temeria… they are the ones behind those accursed elves…”

Emhyr studied the man coolly, his eyes hardening. “Either make yourself useful and show some of your vaunted military skill, Roche, or turn tail and run down these hills. Maybe you’ll find a hidey-hole with some squirrels in it.”

Geralt’s annoyed glare at Emhyr was worth it, Emhyr decided. There was nothing more formidable than a certain Witcher getting truly pissed and barking orders at people. Did Geralt even know that he had all the command a knight in the armies needed in him? Emhyr wondered. He could see Geralt easily leading men into battle and being formidable at it; he could be so much more than just a wandering monster hunter. Not that Emhyr would give up on that monster hunter any time soon.

Unfortunately, Vesemir came down from the wall where he had been plotting with General Aeron, and one glance of the old Witcher silenced all parties involved. “If you are quite done holding court with your freshly broken-in subjects, your Majesty, the General, and I have a plan on how to make use of all that liquid fire your armies brought along.”

***

Emhyr stood on the west wall of the castle as the night fell, a freezing chill had been creeping into the air during the last two hours, and there was something… something dreadful in the air, something he had not felt since his days as a cursed monster. A dread of something creeping closer and closer. He had to exercise all his discipline to appear quiet and collected, at least on the outside.

Along the battlements were crates with bottles of liquid fire stacked up for easy use. The green liquid inside the bottles shimmering like poison into the darkness.

Down in the main yard, he could hear Aeron address the troops; his powerful voice carried easily up to the main walls. They have told you that man cannot stand against the unnatural; they have told you we never had a chance, that we all are dead. Here’s your truth: we all will be dead. But until then, we stand! When the conjunction spit your forefathers out on these dark shores, they were faced with monsters tearing them apart. Until the Sun Knights drove them back, but until that day, our forefathers stood! When the mages brought the monsters back, our ancestors were bloodied until the Witchers came to put an end to the monsters again. But until that day, we stood on our own! And after all, they threw at us, we are still here! We stand!

Emhyr bit down on his lip, preventing himself from making a face, as a thousand voices answered from the battlements.

We stand!

The Emperor did not know where Aeron had to go in his mind to find another gutsy speech for the men he was to lead into another hopeless situation. He somehow always found the words and then some way to get them through the nightmare. He made it look easy. Emhyr knew the speech should have been his; he should have addressed Impera. Only he never had found the words to get them to that point: ready to tear apart any enemy that came at them, forgetting fear and pain, acting on sheer courage and desperation. It was not the man that Emhyr was - he was a thinker, not a fighter, and the only reason he was here, was to make Geralt accept the help that the Witcher so clearly needed.

Emhyr could not admit it to anyone: he was not here for his daughter, for the girl he had lost a long time ago. He was here for a certain white haired Witcher, wo stood ready between his brothers down in the east yard.

One of the Witchers - the grey haired Griffin - suddenly looked up to the skies. “The moon casts no glow…” the words made no sense, until suddenly a gust of freezing cold swept over the yard. Emhyr felt the cold coming, an icy chill that enveloped him, his blood freezing, as the ice encased him, freezing him on the spot.

From afar he heard noise, battle noise, voices, screams, explosions ripping through the air, the battle was erupting… and not reaching him. He was still frozen, the ice forming a barrier between him and the events. An explosion shook the west wall and shrieks rose, as green flame engulfed attackers, burning them in hot green fire. It all echoed past Emhyr.

Then, his eyes, still under the ice, saw a familiar figure down in the yard. Geralt. Faced with two… no, four, attackers, the Witcher had retreated into the yard below, his blade a silver arch, as he pushed back one opponent, ducking deftly under another hit, and coming up, he beheaded one of the Aen Elle attacking him. Another went down, Geralt’s blade in his chest.

But then it happened: as Geralt was yanking his sword free from the falling opponent, he was impaled from behind by one of the two remaining foes. The Witchers’ graceful movements suddenly broke, the power holding them cut like the strings of a puppet, as he crashed to his knees, his enemy’s blade in his back.

Emhyr wanted to scream, to reach out and pull Geralt away from the hunters, but the ice still held Emhyr in place, and so he saw Geralt on his knees and the Elle circling him leacherously. They wanted to play with their prey before allowing him to die. White hot anger rose inside of Emhyr, a bloom so hot he could not believe the ice around him still lasted. Those bastards wanted their pound of flesh, he could see that.

Reaching deep inside Emhyr found the dark spot in the recesses of his mind, that dark coil of fear and hatred that had laced his monstrous existence, the spark of despicable darkness that was his true self. Pulling on it, like he had not since his days as Duny, he brought it forth, feeling the pain surge through his body as the ice shattered, freeing his body from the cold encasement. Losing no time, Emhyr raced along the wall to the crate still holding some bottles of green fire. Taking them, he threw the first at Geralt’s attacker, ready to impale him again. Emhyr might not be a good fighter, but his aim was true - the bottle shattered on the shoulder of the Elle and exploded, green flame engulfing the warrior, who tumbled away screaming.

Emhyr threw the next bottle, hitting the second Elle in the yard, scorching him as well. Hastily he looked around, flames were engulfing most of the gate and the east wall, but the fighting clearly had moved towards the front gate, the attackers were being pushed back. Losing no further time Emhyr raced down into the yard, towards Geralt who had sunk in on himself, breathing shallow and erratic.

Hastening to him, Emhyr knelt down beside him, carefully cradling the wounded Witcher in his arms. Geralt’s breathing was laboured and painful, his skin had taken an unnatural pale tone and his eyes were glazed over. “Do you have any swallow left?” Emhyr asked hastily, he knew the Witchers had a draught that could get them back to their feet from almost anything.

“All gone,” Geralt rasped. “Shattered… you must let me go, ‘Mhyr,...”

The nickname sent a surge of pain through Emhyr’s heart. It was one of the few endearments Geralt had ever used, one that felt sweeter to him than any other. “You cannot give up, Geralt… not when…”

The words died on his lips. Not when what?

The story of their love had been nothing but chaos. Geralt had saved him in Cintra, and that night Emhyr had not wanted his newlywed wife but the Witcher who had saved him. If anything had made Calanthe hate Emhyr, it was his affair with Geralt. And when they had been pulled apart, Geralt taking on the father role for Emhyr’s daughter when they found each other again in Stygga… Emhyr had realised that after all these years, he still loved Geralt, and miraculously, Geralt loved him still. But again, fate, a pogrom, and death had torn them apart.

“I cannot let you die again,” Emhyr’s voice was rough as he tried to move Geralt into a more comfortable position. “I cannot. I mourned you once; I was ready to burn the entire North in punishment… I just… I can’t do it again.”

A small voice inside his head reminded him that he still was a monster, a worse monster even than Duny had been. He was cold, the blood on his hands was the blood of nations, and his love was all dark, tainted, poisonous. Geralt’s death, then and now, would be caused by Emhyr’s darkness.

A movement at the entrance of the yard made Emhyr startle. Another Elle had appeared there, sword in hand, and Emhyr didn’t need to see his face to know the wolfish smile on his face. He had no green fire left to fight the Elle off, either.

He let Geralt go and scramble to his feet, drawing his blade. His heart was racing against his chest. Emhyr had made a point of re-learning sword skills after he became the Emperor, it was expected of him. Aeron had been a patient teacher, trying his best to give Emhyr a good basis to defend himself. And Emhyr had hated every moment of it.

The Elle rushed him, the attack wild, powerful. Emhyr evaded, sidestepping him, blade raised before him, ready to block. The Elle came about, and a quick series of attacks followed. Emhyr parried, ducking under one, parrying the next. Steel crashing on steel, in the old song of war. He followed the Elle’s movements, blocking the next advance; his blade slid down his opponent’s, hitting the crossguard; he felt the pressure against his hands as the Elle broke free his blade in one powerful movement, sending Emhyr’s blade flying across the yard.

Emhyr panted; he could not even be shocked or afraid. This was it. The End. He would die here. And maybe… maybe if Geralt was free of Emhyr’s taint, he could live, be better for it. He raised his chin, daring the Elle to do his worst when a movement behind the Elle alerted him that they were not alone, and a huge blade cleaved through the Aen Elle, sending him down to the ground in two halves.

A huge witcher stood there, seven feet tall, with a grey mane of hair. “You injured?” he asked in a growling voice.

“No, but Geralt…”

“He’ll make it. I hear his heartbeat, and he is breathing alright - he’ll come around.” The Witcher replied. “Stay with him; we’ll clear the stragglers.”

Stragglers… did that mean the battle was done? Had they… had they somehow, impossibly somehow… won? Emhyr stumbled back to Geralt, who was trying to get up and stand. Knowing how useless it would be to tell him not to, Emhyr extended a hand and helped Geralt get to his feet and lean on him. The Witcher coughed, finding his footing. “Are you crazy going toe to toe with them?” he asked, rasping.

Emhyr cast him a glare as he guided him to sit down on the stairs of the battlements. “Should I have left them to you?” he asked tersely. He hated swordplay when he had to fight himself, but having protected Geralt made it worth the countless hours he had spent sweating in the training yard.

“Oh, shut up,” Geralt grumbled. Suddenly, Emhyr found a familiar warm hand at his neck and was pulled into a fierce kiss.

Wrapping his arms around Geralt, Emhyr let himself sink into the kiss, claiming the next when one ended. From somewhere behind him, he heard voices; orders barked as the troops moved across the fortress to clean up. Settling beside Geralt, Emhyr snatched a third kiss, not letting go of his Witcher. He spotted Aeron’s voice among the others. He lived. Good. He could handle clean-up and then come up with the next strategic steps along with the old Wolf Master - Emhyr did not intend to leave Geralt’s side anytime soon. Death had failed to tear them apart and Emhyr would not give it another chance.

#witcher fanfiction #ask game #emralt #emhyr/Geralt #Emhyr var emreis #emhyr var emreis x Geralt of Rivia #Battle of Kaer Morhen

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revoevokukil · 4 months ago

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TW3 Story Leaks

It's Saturday, and I bring you some cold, hard rumour.

It seems somebody on reddit is working through the leaks of The Witcher 3, claiming approximately 300k of lines relating to the previous story iterations also leaked in 2021. Much of what they are claiming matches with the leaked files from 2014. There is completely new information too, though, and they plan on publishing their work-through early 2025.

So far, this is the information I've gathered from their posts:

Iorveth's daughter was Vernossiel. Her quest had her involved with a cult of the Bloody Mother; spores from a particular "flower" affected her thinking so she got brainwahsed into being sacrificed in a ritual killing in order to rise as the Bloody Mother herself.

Cerys was fake-Ciri.

The Baron (or Baron’s men?) was originally a rapist.

The Big 4 was originally Big 5, including Isengrim. Isengrim and Iorveth had houses in Novigrad.

Vincent Meis' model existed.

There was a quest with “thralls” (most likely Following the Thread involving Jad Karadin and the Faroe island) where Geralt would temporarily get married to a chieftain’s daughter.

We’d lock Yennefer in dimeritium handcuffs at one point to prevent her from interfering with the King’s Gambit questline.

Avallac’h provided Geralt with the means to warg as a rat in order to eavesdrop on the meeting of the Big 5 (including Isengrim) on Dijkstra’s ship. (Iorveth was planning on blowing the ship up.)

The Catriona Plague questline. It had a Nilfgaardian general Martin running a krankenhaus, where was infecting his countrymen with the plague and stealing their valuables. He made deals with Gaunter O’Dimm (his involvement in HOS is as a leftover from here) to get a cure for the Catriona, then with Gaunter’s archnemesis to get to keep the cure. Geralt had to figure it all out as Catriona was becoming more and more rampant and the faction with the cure would have huge leverage in how the war questline would resolve. Geralt would get the chance to hand the cure back to Gaunter, to Radovid, or Emhyr.

Iorveth got infected with Catriona, then infected Thaler to improve his morale on getting a cure (Thaler promised Iorveth a cure for assassinating Emhyr or some such.)

The war quest lines were somehow related to the dreamer Corinne Tilly who was a Nilfgaardian spy.

Voorhis laid siege to Crow’s Perch because Temerian rebels took it over.

The Sabbath originally had slave markets, an orgy meadow, and ritual suicides. Changed after 2014.

There was an option to assassinate Radovid after taking out Roche, so Dijkstra's rule was always an option.

Roche originally preferred fighting for Temeria no matter what. Reason of State had Roche vs Thaler and Dijkstra.

Radovid was more like his W2 self. Emhyr "more like Stalin."

Radovid took over the Temple Isle.

Emhyr was supposed to appear in the army camp center.

If Emhyr lost, Voorhis would overthrow him.

All the content showcasing Nilfgaardian war crimes was cut: a Nilfgaardian general was spreading the Catriona plague, robbing his dying countrymen; Voorhis' cruelty during the siege of the Crow's Perch, Nilfgaardians' direct attack on Kaer Trolde.

Crach died during the battle for Undvik and Voorhis negotiated over his body; the corpse was returned and Nilfgaard respect local burial traditions.

Melusine quest line had more content related to blood shrines.

There was an opportunity to try and convince Caranthir to betray Eredin, after which he'd get replaced by some elven lady (Isilira?). (Conflicted about this, as in 2013 leaks it seemed Caranthir knocks Avallac’h out on Naglfar when Geralt and him try to infiltrate it.)(Isilira is the lady you meet in Avallac’h’s lab in the released version.)

There was a sequence in White Orchard in the Empress ending where Voorhis had announced he'd arrive and propose to Ciri in few days, but Ciri lost Emhyr's signet ring to prove his approval of the marriage. Then some kind of gamble ensued under the influence of a Korred, and Ciri decided if she'd win she'd marry and if not she'd run away (not sure if this shouldn't it be the other way around).

Gameplay-wise:

There was a 'vital spot' system, where you gained points by performing various actions and could then use those points to perform combat moves that would either weaken of 1-shot an enemy.

Manticores were cut.

Players could buy boats and horses; rowboat for rivers and lakes.

Wind tunnels and proper storms in which a boat could tilt over.

Water combat was cut.

Focus mode in combat was cut.

#the witcher 3 #the witcher #geralt of rivia #ciri #yennefer of vengeberg #witcher games #avallac'h #emhyr var emreis #morvan voorhis #bloody baron #cdpr #iorveth #roche #aen elle #nilfgaard

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