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Letho’s POV

He doesn't remember when he was brought to the city or even how. Like many of the Witchers he has seen since, he is nothing but a toy, an amusement for the humans who dominate the continent. Once upon a time things were different, but that was so long ago, he can't really remember when or how it changed. Maybe it didn't and that better time is a lie he and the others have told to reassure themselves that they haven't always been here, and there is a way out. 

Countless children have died as the humans and the mages tried to recreate Witchers. With each batch, the survivors, for however long they last, are tossed in the pens with the captured Witchers. Some of them manage to live into adulthood, their lives forever bound to the same trapped life as the others. 

It’s bittercold and muggy, a combination he didn’t realize could coexist before his life here, when a tall stranger nearly as big as him enters the building they’re kept in, carefully moving between the pens. Despite his best efforts, even moving closer to the edge of the pen, he can't get a whiff of scent to get an idea how he should react.  

Three of the newest snakelings shove close to him, eyeing the stranger nervously. Absently he strokes their hair and shoulders, itching to change forms and access senses he can’t use in this form. He remembers how the last time he did, the bastards who ran this hellhole had taken it out on the youngest Vipers. 

A dark hood and heavy cloak covers the silently moving stranger as they weave between the pens. When they pass by him, he catches sight of the bottom of three jagged scars on the stranger’s chin. By the last pen, they pause, turning as if taking in everyone before leaving without a word. 

That night more food and drink is brought to the pens than is normally provided. Even odder, none of it has the potions and poisons used to keep them weak mixed into it. 

“Is it safe?” Sashi, the youngest of his snakelings asks, nose twitching and tongue poking out just the slightest bit to catch the scent-taste. 

“Yeah,” he hums as he takes a small piece for himself and pushes the loaded tray closer to them. “It’s safe, safer than anything else they have brought.” 

From the next pen over, Auckes mutters, "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know," he replies just as quietly. "I think it has to do with whoever that stranger was."

Murmuring spreads through the eight pens, echoing softly off the thick stone walls and magically reinforced metal. 

He’s not the oldest Witcher here, he doesn’t think. Though he is one of the healthiest, over all. Maybe that’s why the others listen when he gives suggestions on how to escape. Those that were born free and hunted monsters preying on sentient beings, each have their own methods for getting out. 

The solitary elder Griffin is against killing as much as possible, despite everything these humans have done. His chicks and fledgelings, the ones who are more than willing to fight, have no such qualms. They want revenge, and for the first time in years, there is a chance it could happen.

The Cats have the largest surviving born clowder and for the most part their methods are similar to Vipers: strike silently and unexpectedly. There is only one problem, the oldest in their group, Jad Karadin, makes his skin crawl and he’s certain is a threat since that Cat seems to be against escape. They’ve also have the most living kittens and adolescents, a lot of spitfires, many with long term injuries and disabilities caused by the fucking mages that like to do experiments on them. 

There aren’t a lot of Wolves in the pens, they tend to get overly protective of packmates and have ended up dead when they got between the mages and the pups. He can understand the compulsion, but one has to survive to care for whoever makes it past the mages, otherwise, how will their culture survive? 

The Vipers like him are the last group of original witcher types. There are only the four of them in the pens. He tries not to think about how he hopes the others live, somewhere else, safe. Away from the dangers and threats that are this place. He’s had the best luck keeping snakelings alive, and as such, there are more of them then any of the others, even if they aren’t often allowed to stay together once he has kept them going and able to survive past the pains caused by those holding them. Like their primary shifter forms, they favor stealth and surprise when dealing with threats. 

The two new types, ones made using magic and mutagens, taking toddlers and infants to torture into new species, don’t really have specialities as far as he knows. The first set the mages have called various types of sheep, he’s always thought their scent was more like the pronghorn-cousin mesmerize. The second set are more avian in nature, like birds of prey or maybe even bats, and they stick to the remaining griffin when young, the older ones smell of extinct thrustaevis. 

They’ve never lived outside these walls and pens as their new selves, never had a chance to learn if they can shift and what other traits they have similar to their shifting forms. The mages have tried to make them sterile, but so far that has only been a truth with each other, what about with others? It’s hard, nearly impossible to say without knowing what was used to make them that way. Hell, it could be something in their food. It’s a good thing, if nothing else, since having younglings here would be bad. 

Discussions rage through the night among the Witchers. Stealth and surprise are leading choices, though the Griffin disagrees, and the Wolves are uncomfortable with it. They can use their skills, their talents, their abilities to get out if given the chance. It doesn’t matter that there aren't many of them left. They'll take the younger ones, those created here, to help them build new lives away from the humans. 

Only one of the captured Witchers seems to be against it, and he already knows what he will do if they do get a chance to escape. 

Most of the adults who were created here are discussing what it might be like to live on the outside. They don't remember their lives prior to being here. They were toddlers or small children when tortured into what they are. Those who kept trying to escape were either killed during the experiments, or had stopped trying to escape years before, tortured and abused too many times, their spirits broken. 

Now though, with this one meal, light comes back to some of their eyes. Those that are not so broken that they can’t feel a glimmer of hope. A lot of them are the ones who have paired off over the years, they are hesitantly excited to see if their relationships can last outside these walls. None of the pairings have had younglings, which is probably for the best. 

The younglings of all the groups are actually the quietest of them, listening to everyone else. Those in his pen crowd close to him, watching and waiting as if to see what he has to say. Snakelings in the other pens mostly avoid created adults and stay closer to the Witchers like him. 

He doesn't understand why he's the one they prefer when given the choice. 

"Don't make plans just yet," he suggests as morning approaches, wanting to forestall any rash decisions. "We need to see how long this goes on, at least get several non-drugged meals in us first."

There is some grumbling but they agree overall. They have a basic outline anyways, one that can be worked on in order to get out.

Not long after, the snakinglings curl together in the nest of blankets near his pallet, going to sleep. For the first time since they were changed they smell full, as if they have had plenty to eat. More than enough to fuel their gifts and bodies properly, to give them the strength to run if given the chance.

To his surprise, their captors continue to feed them full and undrugged meals over the next week. Even more surprising is the fact that they are getting them six times a day. 

He makes sure the weakest of them have plenty to eat, to help build their strength up. The pens don’t have a lot of room, not compared to the space needed for proper movement, as another way to keep them weak, but they still manage what they can. He encourages as many as he can to walk the outer edges of the pens. It isn’t the most interesting way to build endurance but it helps. Some make it into a challenge to see who can go the longest, the most times, or the fastest. He’s not sure who suggested kneading the thick oatmeal delivered in the morning. It is not as effective as kneading dough for bread but it still helps build the muscles in the arms and shoulders, and strengthens their fingers. Any and every little stretch they can get away with in the space they have is used whenever possible. 

He doesn’t know about the others but he despairs of how a possible escape will go between the malnutrient, lack of endurance, some with disabilities, and difficulty accessing supplies. Not that it will stop them if given a chance. 

On the seventh day, whatever made their captors feed them extra and undrugged food ends, as there isn’t anything brought early in the morning. When they finally do bring their breakfast, it has the old drugs in it, as if nothing had changed. None of them eat it. 

Between the time the meal is dropped off, and when their captors come to get the dishes from the pens, the rough outline of a plan from the first day is hashed into something detailed and ready to use. 

That night they execute their plan - as well as almost all the humans within the building their pens are in. The snakelings and other younglings act as a distraction, many of them far more willing than their older counterparts to fight back. While they do so, the Cats and Vipers kill any they can get their hands on. 

Surprisingly, it is one of the Wolves watching over the younglings and young adults that snaps Jad’s neck, shattering it as the betrayer goes to shout a warning to their captors. 

It takes far longer than he anticipates for them to get every one of their kind and many of the other non-humans found locked up or caged throughout the building freed. Those that are not willing to go, or are beyond healing, are given quick mercy. They raid the building as they sweep through it, taking what they can even though it is not nearly enough for every one found. 

Once outside the compound walls, the majority of the non-humans scatter, except a few related to the now Witchers. It’s probably a good thing that this place isn’t part of a city or town, more of a castle hidden in the middle of grassy fields. 

Over the next several weeks they travel by night, some of them hunting in forms other than human to provide food without having to stop within the communities they bypass. 

The Griffin, Jerome, is actually the one who has the best luck teaching the created Witchers how to shift in small groups during the morning before they begin traveling for the day, or at night when they are done. Many of them only have one or two forms, unlike the elder witchers who have multiple forms tied to their species. 

Exhaustion weighs heavily on many of them, a combination of lack of supplies and years of mistreatment. He’s rather thankful for what they were able to get, and the fact some of the Cats among their number have been willing to work with whatever they could get their hands on to create tools and other supplies as needed. 

They make their way northwards, towards where he remembers many of the schools and their individual tribes having come from. When they rest at night, it is not uncommon for cuddle piles made up of both the born and created to sleep together. A part of that is from habit, used to safety of being close together, but another part is the lack of protection when the sun goes down makes things cold. 

Then comes the odd night. 

They had bypassed a community in the middle of some sort of festival the night before, steering clear by several miles to be safe. So when a bard wanders into the glade they had picked to stay in for the night as they try to figure out where to go in the long run, none of them quite know what to do. 

That’s particularly true when he looks around sleepily before smiling widely, eyes nearly closed. Everyone is silent as he sets his lute and travel bag aside, changing into a small cat, and joining those already curled up in a pile. The bard curls up with the youngest of their number, kneading and purring gently before falling asleep as if he belongs.

“Letho?” Auckes mutters, scent as confused and wary as he feels. 

“I don’t know,” he answers, not sure what else to say. Who is this shifter and why did he just curl up with them so easily? He’s quite sure the bard isn’t a Witcher, the eyes are all wrong. Even in the years before his capture, he doesn’t remember shifters being in the open often, tending to stick to their own communities and hiding in plain sight instead. 

He’s not sure when he passes out as he speaks with Auckes and Serrit, curled up on his side on the outside of the pile to protect the others. When he comes to, the bard is sitting by a fire, telling the snakelings and younglings a fantastical tale of a city made purely of non-humans, away from human reach.

“That’s not real,” he mutters, sitting up and glancing over at the shifter.