Chapter 21: Posada and the Bard
POV: Viktor
Posada emerged from the forest haze like a mirage made of timber and wishful thinking. The town was exactly what Viktor had expected from his memories of the show—a collection of weather-beaten buildings clustered around a single main road, the kind of place where travelers stopped out of necessity rather than desire. Dust hung in the air like a constant companion, and the smell of horses and human desperation permeated everything.
But it was the sound that hit Viktor first: singing. Terrible, catastrophically bad singing drifting from what appeared to be the town's only tavern.
"Oh no," Viktor muttered, recognizing the voice even through its current state of dramatic failure. "He's here."
"Who's here?" Renfri asked, noting the expression on Viktor's face.
"Jaskier. The bard. He's... well, you'll see."
[CURRENT MANA: 15/100]
[MEDITATION RECOVERY: SLOW BUT STEADY]
[STATUS: READY FOR SOCIAL INTERACTION]
Their small group attracted attention as they made their way through Posada's dusty streets. Viktor caught the whispered conversations, the furtive glances, the way people's hands moved toward weapons when they spotted Geralt's distinctive white hair and twin swords.
"The Butcher," someone whispered.
"And his band," another voice added. "Heard they killed a dozen men in Blaviken."
"A dozen?" Viktor muttered to Renfri. "The rumors are getting out of hand."
"Rumors always do. Give it a month and we'll have killed an entire army."
The tavern's interior was exactly as Viktor remembered from the show—low-ceilinged, thick with smoke, and filled with the kind of people who drank during daylight hours because their lives had taken unfortunate turns. On the small stage at the far end, a young man in colorful clothing was being enthusiastically booed by an audience that seemed to take genuine pleasure in his failure.
Jaskier—though Viktor doubted anyone in this tavern knew his name yet—threw his lute down with theatrical despair as a particularly rotten piece of fruit caught him in the shoulder.
"Pearls before swine!" the bard declared, his voice carrying even over the jeers. "Mark my words, when I'm famous, you'll all claim you knew me when—"
That's when his gaze fell on Geralt.
Viktor watched the transformation happen in real time. Jaskier's eyes widened, his mouth fell open, and his entire demeanor shifted from dejected performer to someone who'd just spotted a legend walking through his door.
"You!" Jaskier pointed at Geralt with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested theater training. "White hair, amber eyes, two swords, medallion of the wolf—you're him! You're the White Wolf! Geralt of Rivia!"
Geralt's response was a groan that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.
But Jaskier wasn't finished. His gaze swung to Renfri, and his expression shifted from excitement to something approaching awe.
"And you... dark hair, green eyes, silver brooch, moving like death in silk..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "The Ghost Princess. Renfri of Creyden. But you're supposed to be dead!"
Renfri's hand moved instinctively toward her sword hilt, but Viktor caught her wrist before she could draw steel.
"He's harmless," Viktor said quickly. "Annoying, but harmless."
"And you..." Jaskier's attention turned to Viktor, and the bard's eyes lit up like someone had just handed him a chest of gold. "You're the third one. The mad prophet who danced with death and lived to tell the tale. The Untouchable!"
"I am not untouchable," Viktor protested. "I just have good reflexes."
"This is GOLD!" Jaskier leaped down from the stage, abandoning his lute in favor of approaching their group with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for religious revelations. "The White Wolf, the Ghost Princess, and the Untouchable Prophet! Together! The songs I could write! The tales I could tell!"
Viktor felt a sinking sensation in his stomach as he realized what was happening. Jaskier was already composing, already turning their tragic circumstances into the kind of heroic narrative that sold drinks and earned applause.
"Daily Vision," Viktor whispered, needing to see what complications the bard would bring to their lives.
[MANA DECREASED: 15 → 0]
The visions came in rapid succession:
Jaskier walking alongside their group, chattering constantly while gesturing with animated hands. The bard's pack bouncing on his shoulders as he tried to keep up with Geralt's longer stride.
A contract board covered in notices, with one particular posting highlighted by golden light. Something about grain theft and devil sightings.
A forest clearing where something moved between the trees—not quite human, not quite animal, but definitely intelligent.
Viktor came back to himself as Jaskier continued his enthusiastic monologue about fame and fortune and the unprecedented opportunity of traveling with not one but three legendary figures.
"—and the songs! Oh, the songs I'll write! 'Toss a coin to your Witcher, his prophet, and blade!' It has such a ring to it, don't you think?"
"Please don't make me famous," Viktor said weakly.
"Too late!" Jaskier's grin was luminous. "You're all famous already! The question is whether you'll be remembered as heroes or villains, and that, my friends, is where I come in!"
An older man approached their table—the alderman, Viktor realized, recognizing him from the show's casting. The man looked nervous but determined, the expression of someone delivering unpleasant news because it was his job to do so.
"Geralt of Rivia?" The alderman's voice carried the weight of civic authority undermined by obvious anxiety. "I'm Mayor Nettly. We have a... situation."
"Let me guess," Geralt said, his tone suggesting this was a conversation he'd had many times before. "Monster problem. People dying. Authorities helpless. Need a Witcher."
"Devil," the alderman corrected. "Stealing grain, terrorizing farmers. We can offer fifty crowns for proof of death."
Viktor's Premonition Sense tingled—not with immediate danger, but with the subtle wrongness that suggested the situation wasn't what it appeared to be.
"Something's off," he murmured to Geralt, though he couldn't yet articulate what his enhanced instincts were detecting.
Geralt's amber eyes flicked toward Viktor, then back to the alderman. The Witcher was learning to trust Viktor's insights, and that trust had already proven valuable multiple times.
"Describe this devil," Geralt said.
As the alderman launched into a description of grain theft and strange tracks, Viktor found himself studying the contract with growing suspicion. Devils were rare, and they didn't typically steal grain. Whatever was happening in Posada's surrounding countryside, it probably wasn't a simple monster hunt.
"I'll do it," Geralt said finally, his practical nature winning out over his suspicions. Fifty crowns was more money than they'd seen since leaving Blaviken.
"Excellent!" Jaskier clapped his hands together. "I'm coming with you!"
"No."
"I need material! Three legendary outcasts hunting a devil! The dramatic potential is unprecedented!"
"No."
"I'll share my rations!"
"Still no."
Jaskier turned to Renfri with pleading eyes. "Princess? Surely you understand the value of proper documentation? History needs witnesses!"
Renfri looked at the young bard with something that might have been amusement. "He reminds me of a particularly enthusiastic puppy."
"Puppies are loyal," Viktor pointed out. "They also follow you everywhere and require constant attention."
"Perfect!" Jaskier declared. "I accept all comparisons to loyal animals!"
Viktor watched the negotiation with a mixture of dread and resignation. He knew from the show that Jaskier would end up traveling with them regardless of Geralt's protests, and fighting destiny on minor points seemed like a waste of energy.
"Let him come," Viktor said finally. "We might need a witness to whatever we're about to walk into."
Geralt's glare could have melted steel, but he didn't argue further. The Witcher was learning to trust Viktor's judgment, even when that judgment seemed counterintuitive.
As they prepared to leave the tavern, Viktor caught fragments of conversations from other patrons. The rumors about their group were already growing, taking on lives of their own as they spread from table to table.
"Heard the Butcher's got a prophet now. Sees the future, they say."
"Princess came back from the dead to join him. Cursed blade, cursed princess, cursed seer."
"Devil's probably running scared already."
[REPUTATION GROWING]
[LEGENDARY STATUS: EMERGING]
[SYSTEM POINTS GAINED: 50]
[CURRENT SYSTEM POINTS: 975 → 1025]
Viktor groaned internally as he realized that Jaskier's presence was going to accelerate their growing fame whether they wanted it or not. The bard was already composing, already turning their morning conversation into verses that would spread across the Continent.
As they left the tavern and headed toward the edge of town, Jaskier fell into step beside Viktor with the kind of persistent cheer that suggested he'd never met a conversation he couldn't dominate.
"So, Viktor—may I call you Viktor?—how exactly does one become 'untouchable'? Magic? Divine blessing? Extremely good luck combined with strategic cowardice?"
Viktor looked at the young bard's eager face and realized that his quiet days of traveling in relative anonymity were officially over.
"It's complicated," he said finally.
"Excellent! I love complicated. Complicated makes for better songs."
And as Posada disappeared behind them and the forest closed in around their now-quartet, Viktor couldn't shake the feeling that complications were exactly what they were walking into.
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