The mushrooms smelled foul. Like eggs and sulfur. Their shapes were distorted and ugly, long white tendrils covered in yellow nodules. There were several handfuls of them in the basket; breakfast lunch and dinner.
I tore off a large piece. The smell grew more pungent as I brought it to my mouth. It was soft, crumbly like cheese. The acrid taste tugged at the back of my throat, urging me to gag and expel the poisonous substance. I forced back down the urge to vomit and swallowed.
The mushroom tingled in my oesophagus. The tingling became more intense as seconds passed. Then it became a burning pain. The veins in my temples bulged and breathing became a battle.
The sensations were horrid. It felt as if I were drowning and gasping for breath at the same time. Waves of dizziness hit me. I stumbled, tripping backwards. The wall caught me before I could fall. The air was knocked from my chest.
Then, mercifully the sensations began to recede. The tightness in my chest was fading. The world ceased to spin and strength returned to my limbs. I sighed and sat down heavily on my bed.
'How is anyone supposed to survive this?' I thought solemnly.
The walls of Ka'er Morhen were made of thick irregular blocks of stone. The architecture was harsh and cold. The stone was thick, but the screaming and thrashing of the other adepts penetrated easily. I hated that the sound of their agony no longer disturbed me. Humans were adaptable. Even as I was being turned into something no longer human, this adaptability still remained. In fact it had become stronger.
The scene outside the window was beautiful. The world was white. Pristine almost. The snow fell without end, covering everything. It was the job of the adepts to clean the snow from the walkways and roofs each morning.
The screams of the other adepts gradually began to quieten. Their whimpers and sobs were softer and more difficult to hear. They would be immobilised for at least an hour more. The toxins in the mushrooms were potent. The portions of the herbs and fungi that poisoned our bodies were increased each week. At first it was only a piece the size of a fingernail. Now it was given to us in handfuls.
Our immunity to the toxins built up over time. What would've killed a grown man could only confine the other adepts to their bed for an hour or so. They would live, or at least a few amongst us would. Survival ought to have been celebrated. But those who survived would only face more torture. The trial of the grasses was brutal, it reaped children's lives without care.
Those who died would be buried in the icy ground. Two graves I had dug. There were orginally eleven of us. Now nine remained. I knew from the ghostly complexions and uncontrolled muscle tremors in the remaining adepts that more were destined to die.
The other adepts didn't like me. Some hated me. The toxins that made their lives worse than death were metabolised by my body in a matter of seconds. It was jealousy. I understood their dislike of me. We were supposed to suffer together. Our suffering bound us together. Those who lived would forever be connected by the trials we had undergone. I was an anomaly.
The sorcerers had studied me vigorously. They had taken dozens upon dozens of blood and tissue samples. Some amongst them were kind enough to offer sedatives for the procedures. Many did not. The older witchers were not fond of the mage and his apprentices. They spoke in hushed tones about his troll like intellect and sorely lacking talent. In many senses we adepts were his experiments. He was a poor researcher.
The witchers had no choice but to meet his often ludicrous demands. Fortunately they were fiercely protective of the young adepts. His request to dissect me were met with violent and threatening rebuttal. The murderous look in Vessemir's eyes as he pressed his blade to the mage's neck showed that these were not empty threats.
The world thought of them as unfeeling. The guilt and pain in their eyes as they buried the children who had died spoke otherwise. It was a blessing that I had been taken in by the school of the wolf. I was uncertain whether the cat's school creed would risk offending a sorcerer for an adept who'd not even undergone the trial of dreams.
Unfortunately he was the only sorcerer brave, or perhaps mad enough to conduct the trials. The school of the wolf needed him.
I closed my eyes. A tall and muscular figure dressed in red and black appeared amongst the darkness. He was unmistakably eccentric. His costume didn't expose any skin nor could his eyes be seen, but this couldn't hide the craziness of his personality.
Deadpool. An irreverent superhero who caused chaos like his life depended upon it.
Next to his figure, a second silhouette was gradually becoming more coporeal. The progress of this was slow, painfully so. I looked forward to the changes it's completion would bring.
Deadpool's powers had taken ten years to emerge. Every day before their appearance was perilous. Only wealthy families could guarantee clean water and access to medicines. For those who couldn't afford a doctor, any infection could spell death. Those who managed to survive to 60 were considered elders. Living beyond that was rare.
Those ten years were spent working tirelessly for a minor noble. His name didn't matter. I never even saw his face. My time was spent cleaning the stables and grooming the horses. The stink of manure followed me wherever I went.
The sillhoutte that greeted me when I closed my eyes was my lifeline. All those nights laying on the same straw as the horses, shivering. The thought that perhaps things could change stopped me from surrendering to the cold. And at long last they did.
Deadpool's powers were a godsend. If nothing else at least I didn't have to worry of dying of infection. Without access to medicine and often unclean water, this was a very real threat.
Fate liked to act in strange ways. A few days following on from these powers emerging, my fate changed for the second time. A passing witcher had saved the lord of the estate. He didn't ask for a monetary reward. Instead he requested a child to pass on his skills. The son of a dead servant was the perfect fit.
I dressed myself in the standard ouftit for training. The fur was warm and soft. The deer had died under my arrow.
The door opened with a creak. The corridor was just as cold and grey as my room. My inhuman healing factor had been discovered within a day of my arrival to Kaer Morhen. I had thought at first that I might be able to hide it. How foolish of me to think that anything could hide from a witcher's senses.
My footsteps didn't make a sound as I walked the corridors. The witchers had taught us how to walk softly. I wasn't talented at stealth. I was below average in all almost all of our taught subjects. The lack of talent was remedied by hours upon hours of gruelling training.
The only thing I was good at was combat. Swordsmanship thrilled me. Every swing of my sword was done with all my strength. Fatigue did not affect me as it did my peers. Every blow I delivered could be dealt without regard for exhaustion.
It would be untrue to say that I was talented with a blade. In fact on my third day of swordsmanship training I had managed to carelessly spear my eye on the point of my wooden sword. The pain was worse than anything I had experienced. It healed within a few minutes.
I was ranked top of my class for swordsmanship and unarmed combat. I trained thrice as long as my peers. The witchers became so fed up of my requests to spar that they began striking with such force that their blows left bruises. Their smirks fueled me to get back up. Unless a tendon was severed I could continue fighting.
Vessemir stood in front of my class and announced that my stamina was greater than even his. He did not do this to inflate my ego. A moment later he told me to draw my sword so that I could duel with him in front of the class. He fought as if it were an art. Every step he took forced me to recieve his sword at an awkard angle. He struck with unmatched precision, knocking my sword out of my wrists time and time again. The defeat was crushing. It didn't matter how many times I got back up, it was like a newborn was trying to defeat an adult.
Vessemir taught me strictly. Once night fell the other adepts would return to their rooms to rest. Under candle light I continued to train. During this time I became the sole reciever of his teachings. He would sit on the edge of the training grounds. His head always buried in a book. Anytime my footwork deviated or the path of my swing was crooked, his stern voice would ring out. His eyes never left the page.
I put the thoughts of training out of my head. Flurries of snowflakes swept through the training ground. I retrieved a shovel from the weapons rack and started to work. Vessemir considered my inhuman healing factor as a gift. He believed that gifts were not to be wasted. Thus my training plan was altered.
The snow parted easily under the shovel's edge. It gleamed silver. Weapons maintenance was done by the adepts. I had sharpened it myself.
The howling winds kept me company while I worked. I threw the snow from my shovel and over the side of the walkways. It fell for hundreds of meters. I wondered how long it would take for me to do the same journey.
The other adepts gradually began to emerge. Their steps were unsteady but their eyes were firm. They greeted me with grunts. No words were exchanged. Talking required energy they didn't have.
The work finished after a half hour. I didn't require breaks like the other adepts did, I had cleared nearly half of the snow before they arrived.
"Thanks." Spoke one of them, offering a small smile.
I returned the smile, "Same to you."
His name was Bevald. He was the oldest amongst our class. Perhaps it was his maturity that allowed him to overcome the jealousy the others were so consumed by.
The task was finished. Idle hands were not treated kindly by our mentors. In a witcher's hand a snowball was no less painful than a fist. I selected a sword from the rack. The other adepts did the same. A few chose axes or bows instead.
"Looking lively lads!" The ever unserious Eskel approached. His sword rested dangerously on his shoulder. The blade's proximity to his jugular didn't bother him. His personality was slightly unstable, possibly a consequence of his mutations.
"Morning." Long white hair. Cat like eyes. The unmistakeable white wolf. The butcher of Blavekin.
Every step he took was carefully measured, always covering the same distance. Always steady. He was a master of the sword. His skills were on par with Vessemir.
"Let's get started." Geralt spoke, his voice gruff.
We lined up in front of the obstacle course. Huge axes and battering rams were suspended by pulleys. Their edges were cushioned with fur and cotton. Nonethless they hurt. A lot. Eskel stood with one hand on his sword and the other on a lever. His slightly maniacal grin was in contrast Geralt's impassive countenance.
"Begin!" Eskel yelled. He yanked the lever hard. The axes began to swing.
The adept at the front of the line sprinted forwards. His footsteps were quick and nimble. He ran along the thin wooden beam as if it were flat ground. The axes and battering rams were still gathering momentum. He took advantage of their slowness to charge past the initial few.
An axe swung through the air. The air whistled in its wake. The adept hurriedly threw his weight backwards. The axe narrowly missed him. He gritted his teeth and pressed on.
The sound of wood and fur colliding with flesh had become all too familiar. The adept was sent hurling through the air. He landed in a tall pile of snow. Red-faced and embarassed he hurriedly got to his feet and returned to the back of the queue.
The other adepts took their turns. One by one they were sent hurtling off the beam and into the piles of snow. They joined the queue with gritted teeth, some clutching their no doubt bruised arms and stomachs.
My turn came. I ran forwards. The first axe swung harmlessly behind me. I had timed it well. A battering ram came next. I didn't break my stride. My feet soared off the ground, carrying me a few feet into the air, just high enough to avoid the battering ram's path. I kept running. The course became harder. I narrowly avoided another axe but they were now coming harder and faster. Iron chains jangled and whipped about wildly, a few struck me and knocked me off balance. I kept going, fighting to stay balanced. Then the ram hit me.
I was sent flying before the pain had the chance to register. The force behind the battering ram was immense. The grueling training process was what allowed witchers to slay monsters several times their size. The evasion tactics that had been ingrained into their muscle memory year after year. A witcher moved without thinking. There was no time to think in battle. Training and instinct took over.
The snow caught my fall. The pain followed shortly. I got to my feet. The pain was far from enough to incapacitate me. The injuries mended themselves quickly. By the time I rejoined the queue the throbbing pain had been reduced to a dull ache. After a minute it vanished all together.
Training continued.