121 Ambition

After listening to Wayne's proposal, Francesca Tilney took a sip of her elderberry wine, her brow furrowed in contemplation for several moments. "Your words hold weight, Wayne," she finally conceded. "We cannot rely on the benevolence of humans. Our people live under their watchful eyes, like livestock awaiting slaughter, vulnerable to their whims at any moment."

A pained expression flickered across Francesca's beautiful face as she met Wayne's gaze. "However, Wayne," her voice dropped to a whisper, "altering the current dynamic is no easy feat. High-ranking humans are neither ignorant nor indifferent towards non-humans, as you might believe."

"They, like witchers themselves, are cunning and calculating, keenly aware of their adversaries. Whether non-humans or witchers, the harsh societal climate they face is a direct consequence of their perceived intentions."

"Any large-scale action on our part would be swiftly detected by humans, prompting a brutal retaliation. Consider the countless historical tragedies – non-human races wiped from existence after millennia under human rule."

Francesca's voice softened, a hint of despair creeping in. "It's not that we elves lack the desire for change or a better life, Wayne. We simply fear hasty actions. Yet, inaction breeds stagnation, and our weakness exposes us further."

"Thousands of years ago, we suffered a crushing defeat in the war against humans. Time has only amplified their power. A head-on confrontation today would be utterly suicidal."

Wayne was taken aback by Francesca's words. He hadn't anticipated such clear-sightedness from the leader of the Dol Blathanna elves, a woman portrayed as easily manipulated in the books. Francesca, a powerful sorceress, seemed to possess a deeper understanding than most.

Wayne pondered for a moment, a plan formulating in his mind. Given Francesca's words, helping the elves aligned with his own interests as a witcher.

"Francesca," he began, "are you familiar with Ithlinne's Prophecy? Do you lend credence to it?"

Francesca, a powerful sorceress, was well-versed in elven prophecies. In fact, they held a deeper understanding of the "Elder Frost" mentioned in the prophecy than most in the world. She gave a curt nod, her expression unreadable.

"Of course, I am aware of it," she said evenly. "Ithlinne, the elven prophet, was once a friend of my father's."

"The prophecy remains obscure to the common folk, but those in power, mages, and leaders of various races, all have their own interpretations. Many elements of the prophecy have already come to pass. Naturally, I heed the warnings conveyed by the elven prophet."

Wayne nodded, his gaze flickering to Toruviel, who sat deep in thought beside them, then returning to Francesca. "As do I," he said.

"The time of swords and axes is nigh, the White Wolf's Age and Snow. A time of Elder Frost and white light is coming, an Age of Madness and Contempt: the Time of the End. The world shall perish in frost, and be reborn under a new sun. That is when the seed, Hen Ikeir - the Elder Blood - shall be sown anew. This seed will not sprout, but burn..."

"For the world devourer approaches! Our lands will be ravaged and carved asunder. Cities shall burn, their people scattered like frightened deer. Homes will become desolate havens for carrion birds and venomous creatures."

He finished the unsettling fable with a heavy sigh. "According to the prophecy," he continued, his voice low, "wars, plagues, famines, and relentless slaughter will soon grip the world once more."

Wayne glanced around the encampment, a flicker of concern in his eyes. He conceded, "the current state of the Northern Kingdoms, the Empire, and even distant lands seems to mirror the prophecy's warnings."

"There's truth to these words," Francesca remarked, a hint of bitterness lacing her tone. "Humans, for all their advancements, remain a race consumed by greed and prejudice."

"Having established dominance," Wayne added, "they see no external threat, only rivals within their own species. Power and dominion – that's the new battleground."

"When human kingdoms tear at each other, engulfed in continent-wide warfare," Francesca said, a glint hardening her eyes, "that's the opportunity other races have been waiting for."

"The window won't stay open long, perhaps a decade, maybe two. The prophesied return of the Elder Blood will mark the true beginning of this fated era."

"Until then," Wayne said, his gaze sweeping over the assembled Scoia'tael, "all who fight for survival under human rule – witchers, dwarves, elves – must unite, build their strength, and bide their time. The hour of reckoning approaches."

After a tense dinner, Wayne and Toruviel took their leave of Francesca, returning to the Kaedwen ruins. As they had planned, it was a simple meal, a brief exchange of perspectives, and a swift conclusion to their business.

The encounter felt akin to forging a new bond. Neither side was ready to lay all their cards on the table, a natural consequence of burgeoning trust. Yet, Francesca Tilney, a sorceress of immense power, surprised Wayne with her generosity.

Beyond the promised reward of two priceless elven magitech armors for his relic-hunting efforts, Francesca offered future assistance with spells if needed. While left unsaid, a subtle alliance had formed. In moments of dire need, Wayne had gained a potential collaborator.

Wayne found this prospect far more reassuring than his entanglement with Keira Metz. Francesca, an elf-like himself, shared his plight and goals. Keira, a human sorceress, would inevitably prioritize her own race, and their romantic bond could easily dissolve in the face of such allegiances.

For now, Wayne's strength and influence weren't enough to forge an equal partnership with Francesca, who wielded the near-entirety of elven resources. But Wayne wasn't one for haste. The year was 1250, and it was his second as a witcher. Before true pandemonium erupted, he had nearly a decade to bolster his power and sway.

A witcher with his own prowess and a helpful system at his back had ample time. According to the unfolding narrative, Ciri, the prophesied Child of Destiny, would be born next year. Wayne might even cross paths with the figure destined to ignite continental warfare – Emhyr var Emreis, the flamboyant Emperor of Nilfgaard.