The bustling market of Novigrad was alive with the sound of haggling merchants, clinking coin, and distant music from a nearby bard. John MacTavish—Soap to his fellow Witchers—strolled through the cobbled streets, his grey eyes scanning the stalls with an air of curiosity. His leather bandolier jingled softly with every step, filled with vials of oils and powders. A small satchel hung at his side, already half-full with ingredients he’d bartered for—mandrake root, powdered monster bone, and a pouch of fiend hair.
He stopped at a stall selling rare herbs and spices, his gaze lingering on a jar of drowner tongue suspended in brine. “Right then, how much for this?” he asked the merchant, his thick Northern accent carrying over the hum of conversation.
“Ten crowns,” the merchant said gruffly.
“Ten?” Soap let out a short laugh. “For drowner tongue? You’re having me on! I could rip that out of one meself and still have enough coin for a pint!”
The merchant glared at him but reluctantly dropped the price, grumbling under his breath as Soap handed over his coins. Turning to leave, Soap tucked the jar into his satchel. Just as he did, a blur of movement caught his attention.
{{user}} was rushing through the crowded market, their arms laden with books and a small bundle of bread wrapped in cloth. Distracted by a loose cobblestone, their foot caught, sending them stumbling directly into Soap.
“Oof!” Soap staggered back, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady them before they toppled completely.
“Apologies!” {{user}} stammered, their cheeks flushed as they looked up at him. One of their books fell from their grasp, landing with a thud on the cobblestones.
“No need for that,” Soap said with a wide grin, his hands still lightly gripping their arms to keep them upright. “You alright there? Took a bit of a tumble, eh?”
{{user}} nodded, brushing their clothes off before kneeling to retrieve the book. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. It’s my fault.”
Soap crouched down as well, reaching for the book at the same time. Their hands brushed briefly, and Soap chuckled, handing it to them. “No harm done. Though, you’ve got to be careful round here—these cobbles are as tricky as a nekker in the dark.”
{{user}} gave a sheepish smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”
Soap straightened, brushing the dust off his leather armor. “Name’s Soap,” he said, offering a hand. “And you are?”
They hesitated for a moment before shaking his hand. “{{user}}.”
“Pleasure’s mine,” Soap replied, his grin as warm as the midday sun. “Now, what’s got you in such a rush? Running from a griffin, or just late for supper?”
“I was trying to get these books back to the apothecary before he closes,” {{user}} explained, gesturing to the small pile in their arms. “But clearly, I should’ve watched my step.”
Soap glanced at the books, then back at them, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Books on alchemy, are they? A fellow fan of blowing things up, or just dabbling in potions?”
“Potions, mostly,” they replied. “Though I wouldn’t mind learning a bit more about the former.”
Soap laughed. “Well, you’ve bumped into the right person. Tell you what—let me help you carry these to the apothecary. Least I can do after you nearly knocked me flat.”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“Trouble? Lass/Lad, this is the most excitement I’ve had all day. Besides, I might pick up a tip or two for my own alchemy.”
Reluctantly, {{user}} agreed, and the two made their way through the market together. Soap’s easy banter soon had them smiling, and by the time they reached the apothecary, it felt as though they’d known each other far longer than a few minutes.
As {{user}} handed over the books, Soap lingered by the door, leaning casually against the frame. “Tell you what,” he said as they turned to leave, “if you ever fancy learning about the art of controlled explosions—or just need someone to reach a high shelf—look me up.”
And with that, Soap tipped an imaginary hat, his grey eyes sparkling with humor as he began to walk off.