Where is Triss Merigold?
A path littered with blood crusted soil and worn out stones from years past continue to guide him along his way. The skies above are saturated with clouds that seem anxious to rid themselves of the rain held within them, yet it is the streams of light pouring down onto his path that cut through the clouds, giving doubts to the idea of rain. Geralt of Rivia knows what he must do. Upon reaching the Nilfgaardian camp Geralt's eyes survey his environment. The encampment has not been kept in good form. Stone walls crumble out of utter embarrassment of whom they serve to protect and the remnants of old fortresses weep filth that licks at everything nearby. It isn't long before Geralt encounters an ambassador that has had one too many meals in his lifetime, along with a taste for senseless conversation. Eyeing the guard that will attempt project his excellence, the witcher prepares for what he must do - a silver tongue will not sway this one in revealing the location of the woman he seeks to find. A conversation begins. Geralt's witcher senses begin to enliven him, prepare him. The rush overwhelms him. A quick jab to the throat. An elbow that bends the knee inward. Steel slicing through ligaments and tendons of youthful flesh, giving way to a rush of blood spraying the already stained stone walls that surround them. The ambassador's sweat begins to patter against the sword Geralt has put to his neck. Perhaps there will be rain today after all.
Now in control, Geralt make use of the little time he has before other guards are altered of his presence. Guiding the plump hostage through the pathways of the camp and into an old hall lit with torches, Geralt knows what lies ahead will not be easy. A crossbowmen, no doubt a companion of the man Geralt committed to carnage minutes ago, joins their crippled walk leading them with his steel tip raised at the ready. Exiting the hall, Geralt is surrounded by more Black Ones who believe they can play the role of the hero for today. They are mistaken. Words cannot save the ambassador, for the price on Geralt's head is too much to resist an attempt at, for the irrational guards. Treachery ensues and soon his excellence is clutching his throat, falling to the stone beneath him, clammy hands slipping on the feathers of an arrow that has just been lodged into his neck. Gore leaks from the cracks in-between his fingers as they move like chubby garden worms trying to seal an unclose-able wound. Soon the creases of his tunic are tarnished with crimson - his death will not be the day's last.
The Black Ones stare into the cat-like eyes of the man standing before them. Many of them are arrogant, ignorant and unwilling to recognize the ability of the witcher. All except one - one guard cowers inside his helm but soon finds comfort by warming his legs with the urine that leaves his... Geralt moves too quickly for them. Steel rains on steel and soon our frightened guard falls to the ground with a fatal slash across his chest. Screams begin to pierce the air as Geralt combines masterful sword technique with magic that harbors no prisoners. As soon as it began, is had ended.
Continuing on his quest, no man is a capable match for the witcher. Many men stand before Geralt but several more fall. Even the self-proclaimed commander of this garrison falls much to quickly to give the witcher any sense of a challenge. Moving briskly through the camp, the witcher finds the dungeon to which the key he stole from the commander opens. The doors are heavy but they swing open nonetheless. The air inside of the prison leaves a taste of iron and bile on the tongue, but the witcher has tasted worse. His yellow eyes attune themselves to the darkness of the dungeon and soon he begins to see signs of struggle, torture, and deprivation, but the witcher has seen worse. Rounding a corridor, Geralt hears the whispers of Death urging him to lose hope, to give in, that he will fail. But Geralt does not answer to Death. Finally, the witcher arrives to an iron door colored darker than the soot from a dragon's flames. The stolen key fits inside the lock and the door cries out, almost as if in pain, as its aged, withered hinges force it to swing open. A single torch on the far wall of the room attempts to cast light in this decrepit place, but does little other than create a calming sound - the sound of fire eating away at life. Under the torch the witcher eyes two arms tied to the wall doing little more than holding a beaten figure upright. As he approaches, Geralt begins to recognize the rose colored hair, the crimson red lips, the delicate face with new cracks that have caused blood to smear all over. His quest's prize, the reward justifying all of the slaughter, the lover he believes will be his to hold for the rest of their days. Sensing the presence of someone, Triss Merigold painfully lifts her head in an attempt to make out who stands before her. After a moment, she realizes this man is not her torturer, not her executioner, and not Death himself. He is the witcher, Geralt of Rivia, and he has come to save her once again.
Although there's more to this mission and many more just as thrilling, it is by far my favorite! The entire sequence is masterfully paced with just the right amount of storying and combat mixed together. I thought it would be fun to describe my favorite moment as some type of a story sequence brought to life with detail. I hope you enjoyed reading this CD Projekt RED and many thanks for creating the best video game(s) out on the market!