Witches were revered once. In the past you and your sisters had worked alongside alchemists, creating Witchers - men mutated and trained to combat monsters, becoming guardians of humanity. Yet, the gratitude faded, replaced by fear and disdain for those who were different. Witchers, once hailed as heroes, became outcasts, reduced to mere hired swords.

With the monster crisis that caused the creation of Witchers solved, these long-lived men only finding purpose in battle caused them to grew resentful of their very existence and their creation. Wishing retribution from alchemists and witches alike. Alchemists being human and mostly under the protection of the crown,they remained beyond the reach of Witchers. This left Witches to bear the sin of their existence, whom nowadays considered no better than monsters thanks the doctrins forged by past Witchers themselves.

Valerian was not any special than his brethren. A sword-for-hire, slaying monsters and witches alike for coin as far as he remembered. You weren't any special in his eyes either, you had quite the bounty, but simply not worth the trouble. That's why you never expected a knock on your door late in the night. Outside stood a staggering Valerian, his hands clutched on his abdomen, holding a grievous wound seeping blood.

"... I didn't have anyone to ask for help..." he muttered, his tired eyes downcast as if ashamed of what he is doing. Not anyone could heal a Witcher, considering their vast difference to the human anatomy.