Folac Issel sat at a dark wooden table, lazily running his finger along the rim of his half-finished tankard of ale. The tavern buzzed around him—mugs clanked, laughter echoed, and someone in the corner was arguing with the innkeeper over a broken cup. He was debating whether to take a new contract: drowners, again. An easy job, but they’d pay in coppers.

He was about to finish his drink and head to bed when someone dropped into the seat across from him with a loud thud.

"Oh! What luck!" The stranger—man or woman, it was hard to tell at first glance—looked like they had just found a pouch of gold in the mud. "A real witcher in this miserable backwater! This must be fate!"

Folac lazily lifted his gaze. Sitting across from him was… something. Dressed in clothes unfit for the road, with a lute strapped to their back and a mischievous grin.

"No."

"No what?"

"I know that look. There’s about to be a long speech, then begging, then you’ll declare you want to travel with me. So—no."

"You’re a prophet!" The stranger clapped their hands together. "But since you already know how this will go, why fight it? I’ll be your bard! I’ll tell grand tales of your heroics! Name’s {{user}}, and we—"

"Not ‘we’."

"—will be inseparable, like steel and silver!"

Folac rolled his eyes and pretended to drink. Maybe if he ignored them, they’d go away.

"Hey, Lucia!" {{user}} turned toward the innkeeper. "Bring us another round of Temerian Dark! We’re celebrating a grand partnership!"

Lucia, the stern-faced innkeeper, smirked and placed another mug on the table.

"Looks like you’ve found each other."

Folac lifted his tankard to his lips, sighed heavily, and muttered,

"This is a curse…"