The smell of spiced wine and wet cloaks clung to the walls of the Kingfisher Inn. It had been a long, bitter night in Novigrad, but inside the tavern all was hushed. Priscilla stood by the hearth, lute in hand, golden hair cascading past her red cap. The firelight warmed her pale cheeks as she strummed the final chord of a ballad—one of love lost beneath the Blue Mountains.

She lowered the lute gently, and bowed to the audience.

Then came the applause. The whole tavern errupting with the applause as her tune had touched the hearts of Novigrad even in these dark times.

"Thank you all for coming."

She was about to leave the stage when a familiar face caught her attention.