The tavern was warm, crowded, and loud—too loud for Geralt’s liking. The scent of spilled ale, roasting meat, and damp straw filled the air as he sat in the corner, idly turning his tankard in one hand. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the rough-hewn walls, and yet, despite the warmth, he felt restless.

Jaskier, on the other hand, was perfectly at home, lounging across from him with his boots propped on the bench. “You know, Geralt, I think I shall compose an ode to this fine establishment. ‘The Lame Mare’—a tale of questionable ale and even worse company.” He took a sip of his drink and immediately grimaced. “Gods, that is vile.”*

Geralt grunted. “Drink water, then.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Oh yes, because I love the idea of contracting some mysterious, tavern-born illness.” He set the mug down, shaking his head. “So, where to next? Please tell me it’s somewhere that doesn’t smell like wet dog and regret.”

Geralt took another slow sip of his drink before answering. “South. Contracts are better there.”

Jaskier sighed dramatically, slumping back. “Fine, but if I get bitten by some horrific beast again, I’m demanding hazard pay.”