Herbal Monographs

Meadowsweet

Meadowsweet is high in salicylic acid, which is well know for its ability to relieve pain. I find the plant to be a mild to moderate pain reliever that is especially suited to stagnant pain (in a fixed location, possibly with a pounding sensation) and for those with symptoms of heat.

--Herbal Monograph of Meadowsweet, HerbMentor

Winter swung swiftly down from the north, and Geralt turned them southward trying to outrun it. After three nights sleeping on the road, they trudged into Carsten weary and eager for a roof more substantial than canvas. It was a small town, like any of a hundred small towns scattered across the Four Kingdoms, and as good a place as any to try to make some coin.

After a bath to wash off dust and the smell of horse, Geralt donned his armor and had a chat with the innkeeper. After that, he struck out to see the alderman, and then the pellar, and a priestess of Melitele. No one in Carsten had so much as a rodent problem--at least none that they were willing to talk about.

Jaskier, meanwhile, had spent his day at the inn, learning everyone's names. He knew the baker. The baker's wife. The baker's daughter and three sons. He knew the metalsmith, the lawkeeper, three hunters, a pig farmer, the town clerk, the atelier, five housewives (that he could remember), and the stable boy. It had, he said, a good vibe, and he could smell money in the air if they stayed long enough for him to play a few nights and draw a crowd.

Geralt shrugged and agreed, if for no more reason than the desire to sleep in a real bed.

And sleep he did. Like the dead. He hadn't even felt that tired, but by the time he finally roused the next day, the noontime crowd had filtered in. Men shouted at each other over games of dice, or cards, slamming cups and sloshing drink in time with their fortunes. Young men preened in front of the barmaids as they played darts, heckling each other and stinking of hormones.

Burned food and old cooking fat clung to the air. And Geralt retreated to the farthest corners, where at least he could find shielding on a couple of sides.

"Get you anything, witcher sir?" A cautious, harried barmaid noticed him eventually in the corner nearly under the stairs.

He gave her barely a glance. "Whatever you're serving." He scanned the crowd with narrowed eyes. "Have you seen the bard?"

"Oh, yessir. Left this morning."

Geralt's gut clenched. "Left?" He scowled. "Cleared his room?"

"Oh. No, sir." She smiled. "He's still got the key. Just. I dunno. Went walking."

The scowl smoothed, and Geralt relaxed back into his seat. He hadn't realized he'd started to get up. He nodded at the girl and settled in to wait for his food.

Around him, Carsten went about its day.

As the hours stretched toward darkening night, the gyre in his gut wound tighter, and his drink switched from lager to dwarven mead. Not that it would get him drunk, but it tasted like something, anyway. He kept his eye on the door.

Until some minstrels and dancers started kicking up a party in the middle of the main room, and then his gaze flicked to them instead, drawn by the motion and the additional irritation of added racket. That was, of course, when Jaskier slipped inside. Geralt didn't notice the red doublet amidst the general assault of colors of the inn until he was halfway to the table, and then there were so many things to notice all at once. He looked... disheveled. His clothes covered in streaks of mud, his hair plastered down with sweat. He moved like he did when they walked all day. And he smelled like a bog.

Geralt's eyes narrowed as Jaskier pulled up the chair across from him and dropped down onto it with a loud sigh. The tension in his gut eased into curiosity.