The Sword of Destiny

For a very natural limit of possibilities prevents it.’

‘What limit is that?’

‘Mutants,’ the muscles in Geralt’s jaw twitched violently, ‘mutants are sterile, Borch. Only in fables survives what cannot survive in nature. Only myths and fables do not know the limits of possibility.’

there are no limits to possibility; or at least nature doesn’t know any

But golden dragons are mythical creatures. Fabled. Like the phoenix, let’s say. There are no phoenixes or golden dragons.’

Véa, leaning on her elbows, looked at him curiously.

‘You must know what you’re talking about, you’re a witcher,’ Borch ladled beer from the keg, ‘but I think that every myth, every fable, must have some roots. Something lies among those roots.’

‘It does,’ Geralt confirmed. ‘Most often a dream, a wish, a desire, a yearning. Faith that there are no limits to possibility. And occasionally chance.’

‘Precisely, chance. Perhaps there once was a golden dragon, an accidental, unique mutation?’

‘If there were, it met the fate of all mutants.’ The Witcher turned his head away. ‘It differed too much to endure.’

‘That which represents Chaos is menace, is the aggressive side. While Order is the side being threatened, in need of protection. In need of a defender. But let us drink. And make a start on the lamb.’

The superiority of man over other breeds and species, the fight for his rightful place in nature, his vital place, will only succeed when man has put an end to his aggressive, nomadic search for food, where he moves about in accordance with the changing of the seasons.