ᴛʜᴇ ʜɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴍᴀɢᴇ 一 ɢᴇʀᴀʟᴛ ᴏꜰ ʀɪᴠɪᴀ

𝕀𝕏. "ℕ𝕠, 𝕪𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕒 𝕕𝕚𝕔𝕜." "𝕎𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕓𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤."

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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɴɪɴᴇ

"ɴᴏ, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴀ ᴅɪᴄᴋ." "ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙᴀʟʟꜱ."

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       Eleanora always enjoyed the saying "the more the merrier", because it was something she truly felt was real; the more faces present, the more fun everyone could have. So having Jaskier along for the ride really did not seem like such a bad idea. Well actually, it seemed as though neither the Witcher nor the young woman even had a choice since the bard just followed after them. Nonetheless, Eleanora really did not mind. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Geralt.

       "Ah. Need a hand?" Jasiker puffed out, already tired from the hike up the slightly elevated path. "I've got two. One for each of the, uh, devil's horns."

       "Go away."

       "I won't be but a silent backup." Jasiker attempted to compromise. Eleanora silently held onto Harold's reins, leading the horse on the other side of the Witcher. "Look, I heard your note, and, yes, you're right. Maybe real adventures would make for better stories." The bard's authentic words caused Eleanora to enthusiastically nod her head. The man was right; if he wanted to sing songs that were true, he needed to experience them first. Geralt sent the woman a disapproving look, tilting his head slightly, challenging her to continue on.

       "I for one, agree with Jaskier. No harm in adding an extra pair of helping hands." Jaskier excitedly flared his arms around, glad he got at least one vote from the pair.

       "See! Eleanora agrees that my company would be beneficial for the both of us! My stories need the both of you. And you, sir, smell chock-full of them. Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that onion?" Jaskier took a whiff of the male beside him before grimacing from the strong stench. "It doesn't matter. Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak."

      "It's onion." Eleanora and Geralt replied simultaneously.

       "Right, yeah. Yeah." The shorter man dismissively said. "Ooh. I could be your barker, spreading tales of Geralt of Rivia, the-the Butcher of Blaviken." Eleanora recoiled from the horrific title. Butcher? What did he butcher to have the burden of that name? Her thoughts forced her to slow down her pace, the two males up front suddenly realizing the young woman's lack of presence.

       "What is that? Butcher of Blaviken?" Geralt looked away in hidden shame; he really hoped Eleanora's curiosity would stay hidden. The Witcher did not want to retell such a story to the brunette. A sudden look of realization crossed Jaskier's face, pointing an almost accusing finger at Eleanora.

       "Ah. Do not think I have forgotten about you, Princess Eleanora of Kattegat."

       "You know who I am?"