Chapter Text
“I’ll give you one hundred crowns,”
Geralt sighed, he could do without this aspect of the trail, “The agreement was four hundred, also …” the witcher slapped the three mutated heads on the alderman’s table. “Your information was way off, it wasn’t a hippogryph but a chimera”
The man looked more closely at the heads and huffed, “That looks like a ram to me, did you go out in the field to slay one of farmer Cree’s animals?”
Geralt gave him his best deadpan glare, “I don’t know is he stupid enough to let his goat fuck lions and giant serpents?” he thrust the serpents head in the face of the alderman.
Infuriated he slapped away the evidence, “Blasted monster! You’ll take my money and be happy for it. Now sod off before I sick the dogs after you.”
Geralt took the coin and left the heads. Stupid humans. A couple of decades ago he would have dragged the man over his counter and made an example out of him in the town-square. After the Butcher of Blaviken disaster Geralt opted to avoid such dramatics if he could.
A hundred crowns though, that hurt. The fight had not been an easy one. He had burned through his potions and his sword needed replacing. That venom had been nothing to sneeze at either. He desperately needed a drink.
Geralt was used to the hush that followed after he entered an establishment. The few kids present were quickly ushered away.
“Careful, he’ll steal you if you make any noise,” a mother whispered as she left through the backdoor with her sons.
Geralt sighed and took a seat at the bar. The drink he received had been watered down so much he couldn’t even tell if it was supposed to be piss poor beer or piss poor wine.
“Kitchen is closed,” the barkeep said unprompted.
Geralt arched an eyebrow, his nose told him different. He wouldn’t trust these humans enough to prepare his food anyway if the drink was any indication.
“Rooms are fully boarded up as well,” the barkeep’s wife piped up. She stood nervously behind her husband as they both glared and waited until Geralt finished his beer.
The message was clear, We do not want you here.
So much for enjoying an evening of drinking. Geralt hmm’ed, Roach was better company anyways.
He still craved a decent drink though. The first some-what hospitable bar he found was in a little dingy bar in Posada of all places. Fuck, he needed that drink. Geralt hoped people wouldn’t notice him if he receded into a dark corner. Hopefully everyone would just let him have a couple of drinks in peace.
Oh well …
“The contract was for three hundred,” Geralt argued.
“I don’t see any proof,” the alderman said with a smirk. There wouldn’t be any proof either. Had Geralt left any remains of the night wraith unscorched the problem wouldn’t have been solved. Geralt sighed and looked inside the bag. Fuck, not even fifty crowns … he couldn’t even replace the sword he lost on the quest.
Before he could say anything someone popped up between them. Jaskier strung his lute dramatically and the alderman stepped back, bewildered by the strange creature. Jaskier wore more colors in one outfit that this measly village had seen in their lifetime. Together with his lack of personal boundaries and general disregard for social protocol and propriety he made a fearsome but strange adversary. Geralt himself hadn't known what to do against his strange arguments and seeming lack of common sense. He found it better to step back and let the bard tire himself out.
“What’s this I hear? You want to hear the tale? My kind sir allow me,” Jaskier yelled loud enough to attract the attention of the entire bar.
Jaskier send a wink over his shoulder, as if Geralt needed to be reminded that he was up to no good. Geralt rolled his eyes and rubbed at his temples.
Jaskier jumped on the bar and addressed the villagers, “There he was the white wolf in the black of night, naught but his sword and keen witcher senses.” It wasn’t a song … yet … but the bard played his lute for dramatic effect. To Geralt’s surprise it seemed to work, “The wraith, a poor survivor of a horrible fate, a humble maiden none older than you and beautiful as a field of sunflowers in the summer heat.”
It was too cold up here for sunflowers, Geralt doubted any one of the villagers had seen one but still they all nodded along to the story. Jaskier’s poetic retellings never made any sense to Geralt, but as long as it made the girls swoon Jaskier continued with a theatrical thrum.
He did a dramatic and entirely unnecessary turn or the bar that nearly had him careening off the edge, but as any true performance he recovered without missing a beat, “A horrible old man had taken her from her home and left her bones to rot inside a well. Her lover, determined to find her, perished by the hand of the gruesome old man before he could reach the well. They died so close together but infinitely far apart.”
Jaskier paused and Geralt could hear the shuffling of chairs in the room as everyone inched closer to hear the end. The corner of Jaskier’s lip curled up. The bard heard it too, Geralt shook his head.
“The girl’s spirit, eternally distraught, lashed out at anyone approaching the well.”
Hushed voices erupted throughout the room, Yes, I’ve hear it, my cousin was attacked, I’ve seen it terrible vision.
The bard let the silence grow for two beats too long and finally strummed his lute to once again capture the attention of the crowd, “Until my friend here, Geralt of Rivia, the white wolf himself, shed his cloak and in the darkest night he dove straight down the well,” Jaskier jumped down the bar and landed between two women, they squeaked as he landed amongst them, “Into the abyss,” he whispered.
The alderman shifted nervously on his feet. Geralt could smell the nervous sweat dripping down his back.
Jaskier paved a way through the bar, towards the stage he so desperately craved, “There he fought creatures of the darkness until he reached the remains of the poor girl. Whence he surfaced he burned the remains of the girl and farmboy together. A pyre fit for a princess and her knight, reunited at last in harmony for all eternity.”
The bar burst out in applause and Jaskier took a bow and glared at the alderman. Even from across the room his look was menacing.
“We were discussing the payment for the contract,” Geralt reminded him.
The alderman fidgeted in place and tried to recover his side of the argument. “There is no proof, how …”
Jaskier interrupted, “Toss a coin to your witcher, oh valley of plenty, of valley of plenty …” the bar joined in. Geralt shook his head and was about to walk out without pay. He HATED the bloody song. When the alderman forked over the money, all of it, as agreed.
“I don’t want to see either of you come morning,” he said and walked out.
Though it was a tad early to start his performance Jaskier just rolled right into it. He send Geralt a wink before he started his next song.
Geralt, refusing to allow any credit of his fortunes to the bard turned back to the bar and ordered another beer.