I remember when the old man first wished me luck on ‘my path.’

Then, I was eager to take on the world. I felt my time overdue and was ready to get out of that dusty decrepit keep. Thought I had seen more in my few years of life than some grizzled war-torn men had in their entire lifetimes. That dilapidated castle felt like it had been nothing but a relentless angry shadow that slammed - my then - smooth-skinned youthful face into the jagged rocks and dirt, time and time again, till it was rough and pocked marked. I was told it was the only way for me to be made ready for what the world had waiting for me outside the ‘safe walls’ of the castle.

Then, there I was, outside her gates. Equipped with little more than my two swords, a fresh mare, and a small bundle of goods. The old man stood next to me, soaking in the product of his creation. His leathery sun-beaten face flashed an odd sort of smile. One of little joy, but of more concern, sorrow even. Not that an old witcher like him could feel such emotions.

At a loss for any more lessons or cautionary tales, he settled for clapping me on my knobbly back with the palm of his leather gauntlet and merely said, “Good luck on your path, Wolf.”

‘Good luck on your path,’ he had said. As if I even knew what that meant. Up until that point, it felt like my path was just whatever he decided it to be that day. Hell, I didn’t even know what the tail-head of my path looked like. Was it a nice and wide foot-trail through a spring meadow, or was it going to be a jagged snow-covered trek through a mountain pass? If life had been any sort of indicator up to that point, I figured it would be safe to assume the latter to the former.

Though there was no way for me to know specifics, I knew that there was never going to be an easy or ‘respectable’ path for a mutant like me. A man-made abomination to kill nature made monsters. The unpleasant rabble necessary for the Lords and Ladies to preserve the poor, forgotten, filth-encrusted peasants from the occasional drowner who would wander into a village and wreak havoc. Killing workers and hurting merchant’s profits. The royals couldn’t have that now, could they? After having thrown wave after wave of boys dressed in their father’s army uniforms, milk still staining their smooth cheeks, at the problem, the court would finally decide it was time to pay the unsightly viper-eyed freaks to clean up the mess.

For most of my life, I thought this was my path. To be sought out of some filthy hole by someone born with a silver spoon in their mouth to clear them of their pesky man-eating cockatrice. Only after having risking my life would I be cast back aside to the shit-encrusted gutter of their pristine capital city where they liked to play at running the world.

It was my life, has been my life. Along the way, I made connections and friends. People that joined me on this winding jagged icy pass that I had first thought I was cursed to walk by myself. Some stayed and some came and went. Some wished me well on my path and I on theirs, and a few whose paths ended at the razor's edge of my cold steel.

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It wasn’t the path I would have chosen, but it was the only one available to me. Maybe by one of these ‘loving’ and ‘merciful’ gods, I hear so much about. I did the best with what I was given and tried to do right by others. I wasn’t murdering or dying. I wasn’t thriving or starving. I was…existing. And thought my path, thus, to merely exist.

Till a young emerald-eyed girl with stringy ashen hair locked paths with my own. Though she was young and naive, I could tell at first glance she, too, had seen more than most grown grizzled war-torn men had their entire lives. What I couldn’t have known at the time was this young girl was my path by the unwelcomed manipulation once again because of these these ‘merciful’ and ‘loving’ gods’ twisted desires.

With nowhere more suitable to take this poor orphan girl, I brought her to the only place I knew, the old witcher’s keep. The place I detested so much as a child was now the last bastion of safety for this forgotten child. With the aid of the old witcher and my brothers we fed her, raised her, taught her. It was only as time passed did I realize how over my head I had gotten. This was no ordinary war-orphan, but the manipulator of space and time, the child of the elder blood. A girl with the ability to wield the power of the sun and stars. It was clear to me then that this wasn’t just another person on my path, but that this young bright girl, was my destiny.

As the moons progressed it was evident she needed more than what the humble keep could provide. I, along with all those I’d met along the way, joined together in raising and preserving this girl from the bitter world she had already been long exposed to.

The bright-eyed girl soon turned into a brilliant young woman with ambitions and desires of her own. A unique path she had to tread that I could not follow and protect her from. I didn’t understand then why she had to leave, but I respected her decision. Her ability far outweighed my own in realms I couldn’t even imagine. As she left I was once again left to struggle with that same phrase that was clapped onto my back so many years before.

‘Good luck on your path, Wolf.’

I returned to my usual work. Hunting and cleaning up the problems of those who could afford it, and even a few who couldn’t. But it wasn’t the same. I found myself taking more risks with deadly creatures and the coin in my purse didn’t seem to jingle as loudly as it used to.

I thought of her often. Not the child of space and time or of the elder blood, but the closest person I’d have to a daughter. Finally, I began to understand the look the old witcher had given me so many moons ago. The flash of pride, then intense sorrow. Joyful for his charge, yet worried if he did enough. As the old man did for me, I respected her independence. She had her own path to walk now, as washer right. All I could do was to wish her luck on it.

Till my dreams began to be swallowed up in whirlpools of thick sticky tar and impregnable darkness. Images, not of my daughter, but of the child of the elder blood consumed in my mind. She was in pain and pursued. Sweat matting her ashen hair to her face, she ran as fast as she could from a biting cold pursuer who never seemed to tire. Then the old witcher’s voice again echoed in the hallowed chambers of my mind.

‘Good luck on your path, Wolf.’

Now here I find myself. As I did as a child with nothing but two swords, a fresh mare, and bindle. Except now I knew my path to walk, and it needed me now more than ever before.