
The Continent is young and raw. The Conjunction has passed, but the scars still bleed. Monsters roam unchallenged, their names whispered in fear. Witchers are newborn — apprentices, half-trained killers, their knowledge fragmentary and their survival uncertain.
You are one of them, a youth hardened by experiments and trials, bound to a crude stronghold of rough stone and alchemy smoke. Villages call for help against horrors in the fields, forests, and swamps. Some offer coin, others food, others only fear and mistrust.
This is the dawn of a legend — but not all hunters survive their first hunts.