Bard's Song

CH 3 : In Hell I'll Be Good Company

Alcohol.

That's all he wanted at that moment. Some watered down grog swimming down his gullet to fill his belly to ward off the cold in the way this... this fire didn't. Fuckssake was it cold; how had he never noticed how blasted cold these backwoods bars were? Was it years of finer things with Yen? Was it the distraction of-

Head shook to ward off that train of thought. No use getting lost in memories. Golden eyes rose from his usual back-of-the-room seat to take in the masses piled in front of the fire, Geralt self -sequestered to a corner to put the barn cats and other patrons at ease.

If you can't see the Witcher, he can't bother you.

But damned if he didn't still draw every eye from across the room. Heard the whispers; complaints of him, his presence mingled in with the whines about the chill, the food. Same as always.

Oppressive, unrelenting. Years of the same thing would make you think the prejudice would die down, somehow it seemed to only worsen until they needed a favor or monster slain.

Hand fisted around his pint. Maybe it was the weather, the cool of Spring leaching into the wood, still snow kissed evenings leaking through the drafty parts of the building to linger in the corners and on the floor. Hovering in the spaces the fire's warmth didn't touch. Maybe it was the goddamned nostalgia that seemed to hunt Geralt wherever he went.

Fuck, but Gods end it all, that damned song the fucking bar wench was singing didn't help matters the least.

Another swallow of another drink that didn't burn like it was supposed to. Why the Hell had he come here? Just because he'd, what? Geralt scoffed as a set of eyes skittered off him like so many crawling things.

Because I what? Geralt glared down at the table, scuffed and filthy down into its fibers. Because I was... No. A faint shake of the head as he slammed his cup down a touch too loudly, earning a few more nervous glances. No he wasn't allowed the thought.

There was no such thing as loneliness for a Witcher. He was the white wolf, the fucking Butcher of Blaviken.

Another swig, deep and almost just satiating, mug empty when it met the table top again. Bowl of bread placed before him by a comely lass. Finally Geralt feeling some warmth in the room. Fucking emotions souring the whole purpose of being around people again.

Fuck maybe there's a job. Geralt's eye roamed over the bodies, the mess. There's always a job.

"And now," a young man stood, some damnable instrument in hand Geralt didn't care to name or pay much attention to as a barmaid refilled his horn, drink back in hand, eyes averted to glare again at the wall. "I'll play you the latest from the infamous-"

The words drowned out as the people broke into raucous uproar, mugs being banged, voices full tilt, feet stomping.

Gods and damnation. Geralt hissed, regretting ever more the decision to step foot in the stinking bar and inn.

And then the strings were plucked.

And the crowd silenced.

The magic of the bard never ceased to amaze Geralt in a jilted sort of way.

And his voice rose, higher than Jaskier's did. Geralt lamented the thought as it slid, unbidden, across his mind.

"Here stands a Knight

So fair and brave!

Slew the beast,

A maiden did he save.