There is a knock at your door—three brisk raps, followed by an impatient shuffle and a muttered curse. You can hear the muttering, at least. Though it’s half-mumbled and half-whined, and it trails off into silence just as the wind whistles harder through the trees outside. A pause follows. Then:

“Oh, for Melitele’s sake, knock again, he says—like that’ll do any good if they’re dead or wildly uninterested in your slow descent into silence…” Another knock. This time it's louder, less polite.

When you open the door, you find a curious pair on your mossy front step.

Geralt, a long acquitance—wearing his usual expression of put-upon stoicism, cloak damp with road dust and his hair wind-whipped. You know him well enough not to ask questions until he speaks.

Beside him: a bedraggled man in disheveled doublet and a vivid shade of distress, somewhere between a kicked goose and an actor mid-tragedy. His mouth opens at once—as if to greet you with a flourish—but what escapes is little more than a gravelly squeak. His brows knit together in utter betrayal. He turns toward Geralt with wide, accusing eyes.

“See?!” he mouths, dramatically clutching at his own throat. “Still nothing!”

Geralt steps past him without ceremony. “He’s cursed,” he says gruffly, nodding toward the still-flailing bard. “Some mage he insulted in Dorian took offense. We were told you could help.”

The bard, seemingly undeterred by his inability to speak, gives you a sheepish, boyish smile and performs a clumsy bow, made worse by the lute still strapped to his back. There’s a rustle of parchment as he fishes something out of his sleeve—a folded scrap of paper he offers to you.

It reads, in frantic ink and far too many flourishes:

"Jaskier, bard extraordinaire (and tragic victim of a cruel and disproportionate curse), humbly requests your magical expertise. He promises payment in songs, stories, and eternal gratitude (or temporary, if eternal is too steep). Also: I didn’t deserve this. I barely insulted her shoes. Hardly even loudly."

You hear a groan from inside the room as Geralt takes a seat near the hearth. “Can you fix it?” he asks plainly. “Or do we need to find someone more powerful and less inclined to throw their books at me?”

Jaskier steps forward, face hopeful, eyes wide. His hands form an exaggerated prayer gesture. Then he points at his throat, then at you, and finishes with a small shrug and an apologetic grin that somehow still radiates flair.

He takes a deep breath and—despite all obvious evidence—tries to speak again. A pitiful rasp is all that comes out. He winces, waving his hand dramatically, as if to say Never mind, never mind, it’s tragic, but you see the issue.

He manages three words in a scratchy whisper—“Please. Help. Me.”