Chapter Text
Geralt made a habit of stopping by the messenger’s guildhall whenever he was in a town big enough to sport a brothel. Contracts eventually sputtered up the roads of the Northern Realm to Kaer Morhen, carried to the outpost at the foot of the Killer by whatever young messenger in Ard Carraigh got the short end of the stick that year. But it was a big Continent, and Kaer Morhen wasn’t the only place where witchers had gone to roost. There were plenty of contracts that slipped through the cracks, that weren’t deemed urgent, that got cataloged but never tucked back into messenger bags and mail trunks, that were mistakenly sent south or to some estate or the other. It was best to collect them by hand from time to time.
Tretogor boasted plenty of brothels, and Geralt availed himself of one before heading to the hall. The messenger’s guild didn’t just deal in witcher contracts, of course. Still, the heraldry depicted a rearing dragon, its talon spearing a scroll—a holdover from the days when witchers were more plentiful, the guild having been founded to pen urgent missives to the nearest witcher keep before kingdoms burnt to ashes from a handful of randy forktails. They were still one of the few places on the Continent where they didn’t bat an eye at a witcher. Many locations even held small reserves of coin, collected from tithes and taxes, to be meted out upon the successful completion of a contract.
The guild was outside Tretogor proper, set next to an overgrown field that had been a landing yard for dragons, back when they were common enough that the horses wouldn’t startle. Goats had conquered the field, and a group of them milled about, staring with baleful eyes as they chewed through the thickets. Messengers and couriers in various liveries dashed about, reorganizing their satchels and saddlebags and talking as swift as their mounts—hot-blooded coursers lathered with sweat that were handed over to the stablehands in exchange for a fresh horse. Men hefted lacquered trunks of mail into wagons, to be sent on to the next city at a more languid pace. Geese scuttled about through the muddied courtyard.
The hall's interior was subdued compared to the hectic riot just outside its doors. A tabby cat bathing in a patch of sunlight arched her back and yowled when Geralt strode past. The head clerk passed over contracts with little fanfare, checking each one against his ledger before turning them over. After relinquishing the last one, he took a moment to study Geralt’s hair, then held up an ink-stained finger and rummaged around in a desk drawer. He pulled out a crisp letter sealed with a burst of dark blue wax. Geralt of Rivia was penned in flowing cursive along the back.
“A man left this for you,” he said, passing the letter across the desk and returning to his ledger.
Geralt didn’t need to ask who—the paper smelled like Jaskier, like it had, at one point, been pressed to his skin, his perfume and sweat absorbed into the fibers. Geralt sat in the goatyard under the shade of a tilting oak and picked at the wax seal, whorled with the impression of Jaskier’s thumbprint. The bard’s handwriting was a frantic sideways scrawl, as if he struggled to keep pace with his thoughts, the page dense with words.
Geralt,
I’ve been bribing clerks in messenger halls to hold letters aside for you. I planned to send them directly to your secret dragon keep—someone must deliver the contracts—but apparently, they won’t accept any old letter. Not for love or money—and I tried both. Not even if the sender is a dear bosom friend of the White Wolf himself. That would be you, if you didn’t catch on. How do you feel about it as a sobriquet? It’s just a little something I’ve been trying out while performing your songs. A hell of a lot better than Butcher, if you ask me, but is it too hamfisted? Too many jumbled animal associations? If dear Lady Roach was named something appropriate for her station, something like Tempest or Zephyr, then perhaps I could play on that when designing your new leaf. As it is, I’ll be rotting in my grave before I liken my muse to a fish.
Have you had the good fortune of hearing my latest song? Maybe you’re in luck, and I’ve already played it for you by the time you get this letter. In case you haven’t been so blessed, it’s about your victory against the queen of arachnids, and how you swooped in to save the beautiful maiden from the clutches of her many-legged minions before she could be turned to damsel stew. (If you hear it sung by a caterwauling cat in heat, that would be Valdo Marx—I suggest plugging your ears. Or stuffing his mouth with a pair of well-used stockings.)
Feel free to send word back to my lodgings in Oxenfurt. I’ve jotted the address below. I’m curious to know whether this letter ever reaches you.
Your friend,
Jaskier
P.S. While in Tretogor, you should drop in on Lucille at The Scarlet Petal. She can do this amazing thing with her elbow that even I struggle to put into words.
P.P.S. Say hello to Roach for me.
It was the first letter he received from Jaskier. It was far from the last.
Summer in Novigrad was sweltering, humid heat trapped like a crazed animal along the caged streets of the Bits. Tenements loomed above them, buildings stumbling into each other like drunkards, scaffolding the only thing keeping them from tipping over. The smell of fish and human waste hung so thick in the air that Geralt could cut it with a knife, and the morning downpour had turned the muck coating the streets into a reeking sludge that oozed between cobblestones. Above them, a proprietress dumped a full chamberpot into the street without warning, and Geralt managed to tug Lambert aside before it could splash onto both of them. The woman cursed colorfully as if she had missed her mark, or perhaps lost a bet, and Geralt pushed Lambert along before the younger witcher could scale the scaffolding to flense her.
They made quick work of the guards by the entrance to the cellar, the alley shadowed enough even at midday for the bodies to pass as sleeping beggars, if one didn’t stop too long to look at their snapped necks. Yen’s informant had been right—behind the racks of wine and crates of beets, behind a wall fitted with a hidden door, were dozens of barrels and crates headed to Kerack on an unassuming merchant ship.
Lambert pried the header off the nearest barrel. Inside floated a dragon’s corpse, curled up tight and pickling in strong spirits, the lash of its barbed tail nearly spilling out over the edge. Lambert cursed and threw the header to the side to pry open another one. And another, and another. Every last one was packed to the brim with dragon flesh; an entire rookery slaughtered.
None of the barrels were large enough to hold what they were looking for, so Geralt opened crates—glass jars filled with desiccated slit-pupil eyes and pulled dragon teeth, bones arranged carefully between layers of wool, salt-cured organs. And then the crates filled with hides. Geralt shifted through them, stomach roiling with nausea as he passed over one with scales like copper. And then he found what he was looking for—a partial hide in mottled brown and white.
He held it in his hands for a moment, feeling the heft of it, letting it slide through his fingers. “Is it—?” He trailed off as Lambert took the hide from him.
Lambert thumbed over the shape of the scales, shoulders hunching in. But after a moment, he shook his head, tossing the hide on top of the rest. “It’s not his,” he growled, turning to kick a crate of jars hard enough that the wood cracked. “Fuck.”
None of the remaining crates held a trace of Aiden’s dragon either. They ruined the stash as best they could, short of setting the entirety of the Bits ablaze, before fleeing back into the labyrinth of sweltering city streets to their shitty room at the Nowhere Inn. Lambert uncorked a vial of White Gull with his teeth before the door had a chance to close.
They’d been on Aiden’s trail for weeks, chasing rumors of poaching rings and eccentric vedyminaicae collectors on foot so as not to tip their own hand, and they were no closer to figuring out what happened to Lambert’s Cat than when they started. Lambert’s worry and rage and despair were mixing inside of him like the alchemical ingredients of a bomb, and Geralt wasn’t going to be the one to set him off. He left Lambert to himself and sorted through the pile of contracts they’ve picked up along the way.
A letter fell out of the pile, smaller and more intricate than the rest, stained with dark tea along one edge, Geralt’s name scrawled along the back. A clerk must have tucked it in without Geralt noticing. The parchment was pressed down into a complicated knot of a fold that bloomed open when Geralt cut the length of silk that threaded it closed. It smelled of the bitter iron fillings that darkened the ink, which was still fresh enough to look blue on the page. A few copper pieces were resting in the center of the letter; Geralt tipped them out into his palm.
Geralt,
I heard word of a dragon rider taking down a pair of forktails in Aedirn. Was that you? I’d set out to get the story myself, but my obligations are leading me towards Poviss. I’m leaving this letter with the guildhall here on my way north, and I included a few coins so that you may write back with the details of your most recent hunt, forktail or otherwise. The audience is clambering for more songs about the White Wolf, and I’m clambering for more material. Spare no gory detail—the people love a good bloodbath (as long as no one in the audience is from Aedirn).
I’m still not sure whether you’re even getting these letters, or if the chap I bribed tossed this one into the fire as soon as my back was turned. Another reason you should write to me, though I figure if I pay off enough men and stash away enough letters, you’re bound to get one eventually.
I’m working on another song cycle dedicated to your good deeds. A widower in Carreras mentioned something about a basilisk and a copper dragon after a few rounds of Mahakam spirits—I plan on redeeming myself after scuffing the truth in the cycle on the Cintran Cockatrice, even if it means my notebook is filled with some of the most contrived rhymes you could possibly imagine. But I wouldn’t be a great bard if I let a challenge deter me from painting my muse in the proper light.
Do write back,
Jaskier
P.S. If you need a room for the night, mention my name to the innkeeper at the Kingfisher—but only if the barmaid is out of earshot—any barmaid.
Geralt pocketed the coin. He folded the letter back along its complicated creases until it was small enough to be tucked away and forgotten.
The guildhall on the outskirts of Lyria was a small and crooked thing, couched between two buildings that flanked it like jailers. Roach was a farthing away and in sight of the entrance, tearing into what was left of a burnt griffin carcass in the harvested field. Guards shifted nervously as she ate, hardly giving Geralt a second glance when he strode past with the griffin’s severed head dragging behind him. He dropped it onto the guildhall’s steps, letting rancid black ichor soak into the cobblestones. It reeked of burnt fur and feathers; the skin along the side of its face still smoldered. An apprentice spotted him and scurried ahead to alert the head clerk before Geralt could cover the hall in ash and soot.
The clerk came out onto the steps to blink at him, wiping his glasses with a handkerchief before perching them back on his nose. He had the look of a man who rarely saw the sun, and he went even paler at the sight of the griffin head at his doorstep.
“Be sure to let King Reginald know there’s no longer an archgriffin hounding Spalla,” Geralt said, kicking the head for emphasis. A chunk of flesh melted from the bone, falling off his boot to the stairs below. The clerk swayed. The griffin had managed to get a swipe in, shredding through his armor and subsequently his shoulder blade, and he found he had very little patience for the squeamish senses of men.
“I’ll be sure to do that,” The clerk said, strained, holding up the handkerchief to his nose in a futile effort to block the smell of burnt flesh. He fled back inside for long enough that Geralt wondered if he’d have to threaten to grab the coin from the king’s coffers himself. But the man returned with a coin purse, tossing it down the steps so that he didn’t have to get any closer to Geralt than necessary. It felt heavy enough not to be worth arguing over any discrepancies, so Geralt nodded and fisted the beast’s mane to tug it back out into the fields.
The apprentice followed him, jogging to keep up. “Wait, sir,” he said when they were far enough from the guards. “Are you the White Wolf?”
Geralt sighed and paused in the road, grunting something that could be taken as an affirmative. The boy shifted, pulling out a pair of letters from where they had been tucked under his belt. He passed it over. “A friend of yours left these for you. Said he didn’t know when you’d be by, but—well, you only missed him by a couple of days or so, sir.”
The first letter was on Jaskier’s journal parchment, sloppily folded down small so the boy could hide it from the militant clerk, held together by a wide splatter of red wax that dripped down the page as if it was snatched up before it could fully set. It smelled of a brothel—fruity wine and musk and floral perfume—and the hand was long and meandering. Geralt pulled it open with little care for preserving the letter, holding the torn edges together.
My dearest White Wolf,
I’ve been in the throes of insomnia ever since my sojourn in Toussaint. Surely even you’ve heard in your faraway castle the song extolling your deeds that won me the golden violet at Beauclair’s Jocs Florals. It seemed to sprint north ahead of my return; I can’t escape it.
There’s a bard downstairs playing it now, poorly—and in a bordello’s parlor, no less. It’s about bloodthirsty, acid-spitting plants, for Melitele’s sake! Let her spare the poor lass who’ll have to deal with the man who raises his mast to that.
They loved it in Toussaint, though—apparently, you managed to save one of their most beloved vineyards. I can already see you opening your mouth to correct me: No, I’m not talking about the one you and Roach razed to the ground. The locals all agree the wine they bottled was plonk and vinegar, and the vintner smelled like cheese left out in the sun. I’m talking about its lovely neighbor, Corvo Bianco. The owner, Bolius, has traded winemaking for merrymaking and throws parties so lavish that it would make a god weep in envy. There isn’t a noble in Beauclair who hasn’t gone missing only to turn up at one of Bolius’s fetes a week later, drunk on the finest wines and with a lap full of the best courtesans in the south. I’m sure if you spared him a visit, he’d make it worth your while. He was quite generous to me during my stay.
I’m using up all of Anna’s candles. I’ll have to gift her some more. There’s a skilled chandler at the market who uses beeswax instead of stinking tallow. Her clientele would appreciate that, I’m sure.
Do you read my letters? You didn’t mention them when we last met, but then again, I never asked. I’m not sure which answer I’m hoping for.
My most recent █████ performance was a disaster. I’m exhausted. I can’t sleep. When I close my eyes, all I see is—I’ve tried booze, I’ve tried sex, I’ve tried tinctures—nothing can send me down deep enough. Any scrap of rest I do get is beset by nightmares. I wish I could scrub my mind clean and wring it out in the Yavina. Sometimes I have to wonder if I’m cut out for this line of work. But if not me, then who?
Eventually, my winnings will run dry, and the madame will boot me from Anna’s bed. I’ll be forced to sleep, nightmares or no, unless I wish to go hungry. It’s difficult to charm a crowd into giving you coin when all you have is dull eyes and dim wits.
Is it strange that I find myself missing you? I feel like you would have some worldly advice to impart, or could use some kind of witcher magic on me—flick my forehead and send me into a dreamless sleep. Or you’d simply snap at me to stop my endless whining and rest, and somehow that’d work. When I tell my own mind to quiet, it just rebels.
It’s nearing dawn now. Soon, the chandler will cart his wares to the market. I’ll slip out with this letter you’ll never read and stash it at the guildhall. I’ll buy more candles than I can reasonably carry. And maybe some sprigs of lavender, too. For the bedside vase.
Yours,
Jaskier
The second letter was on a scrap of the same journal paper, folded down as small and wide as a finger.
Geralt,
Ignore whatever I wrote in the previous note (if there even was one). I can’t seem to find the apprentice I squirreled it away with (if I squirreled it away at all). Perhaps it never existed, but if it does, be assured it was simply the drunken, dramatic ramblings of a bard (much like this).
-Jaskier
Massive swaths of thick forktail hide were spread out across the floor of the great hall—disassembled pieces of Roach’s grimy saddle, unstitched with the help of Yen’s magic. Geralt was buffing the hides down with a horsehair broom, taking care to remove the thick layer of soot and stubborn gore. He’d need to see if they had any wyvern hides tucked away in a dusty corner of the rookery to reinforce Roach’s chest harness. A group of harpies all but shredded through it during the last contract, when they’d clung to the straps in an attempt to hide from Roach’s maw.
Lambert snorted from behind a pile of contracts. He and Eskel had taken on the task of sorting through and assigning them—no doubt to quibble over who got the best of the lot. Geralt knew he’d be saddled with whatever they deemed too dangerous for their own dragons. Eskel leaned over to pick up what Lambert was laughing over.
“Delivery for pretty boy,” Lambert crowed as if announcing a royal proclamation.
Geralt scuffed off a piece of viscera from a strap as wide as his arm. “A contract?”
Eskel held up a package, waving it like he was teasing a dog with a bone. “Better. A gift from someone named Buttercup. Addressed to the one and only White Wolf.”
Lambert waggled his eyebrows. “How’d a whore manage to get their personal favors delivered to the outpost?”
“He’s a bard.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
A letter was secured to the front of the wrapped parcel, the linen paper pressed into a neat hexagon. The rich, oxblood-red wax in the center stamped so precisely with Oxenfurt’s signet that the ridge around it formed a perfect circle.
Geralt,
I know, I know—no need for all the applause. I told you the professorship was a given; I’m a magnanimous man, so I won’t hold you to your end of the bet, considering the world is rather short on flying, gilded hogs. But you owe me a drink or three the next time we meet, my friend.
You won’t believe where they have me stashed away. I’ll give you three guesses. Apparently, no one else wanted the space, even with all these beautiful windows. See, when old Professor Ullman died, he bequeathed all his mounted monstrosities to the University, and the job of throwing them away storing them passed from unwilling hand to hand until someone simply locked the room up and let it go to seed.
I don’t blame them. He acquired some rather esoteric pieces in his final years. They’re a bit much, if I’m honest. I’ve never once given a thought to a griffin’s pubic bone, and I hope to never think of one again after I finish cataloging these oddities. May they be sent to the bowels of Oxenfurt, never to be seen again.
The air is so thick with dust motes in here that I can hardly see a handbreadth from my nose in direct light. Are these heads of any use to you? I’m positive no one will notice if one or all of them go missing if you have a hidden taste for macabre decor. Or perhaps you could pass them off as trophies? I doubt most will look long enough to realize it’s a stuffed replica. I’ll be happy to see them off, that’s for sure—during the day it isn’t so bad, but I’ve been writing placards by candlelight after my classes and, well, having walls and walls of monsters staring down at you at night—there isn’t a better way to put it. They’re giving me the heebie-jeebies. The artist who made the ekhidna’s glass eyes must be a master of their craft, because I swear the pupils follow me while I move around the room. He has her mounted directly across from the desk, if you can believe it. What a creep.
The real reason I’m writing you—other than to gloat—is that while cataloging the late professor’s belongings, I’ve come across a passel of niche bestiaries and tomes. Most are bogus, even to my layman's eye, and some will be integrated into the greater Oxenfurt library. One, however—well, I believe it’s best left in your care. I’ve found a messenger willing to ensure it reaches your keep.
Yours,
Jaskier
P.S. Please note that I have sealed the edges of the book. Should the seals be broken, well…I pray no one else can decipher the contents.
Wax wept along the corners, where Jaskier had hastily dipped them to seal the book closed, stamped over with the same signet as the letter. Cracking open the pages revealed a mage’s journal. Geralt flipped the pages one by one, until his gaze caught on sketches of vials and lists of herbs, designs for shackles with sigils embedded in the metal, alchemical formulae for potions and poisons. All uncannily familiar.
“What is it?” Eskel asked at Geralt’s expression.
“Nothing good,” Geralt said, and threw the mage’s journal into the great hall’s fire without giving it a second thought. He watched as the vellum pages crackled and curled, and kept watching until the journal was nothing but ash.
Geralt was a sennight into his forced convalescence, and three days into trying to convince Nenneke that he was well enough to make the return trip to Kaer Morhen—if only for the sake of the temple’s goats, the population of which had decreased dramatically since Roach bedded down in the orchard and refused to move—when an acolyte came in clutching a letter.
Nenneke held out her hand for it expectantly, but the acolyte glided over to Geralt’s bedside, robes whispering across the floor. “For you, Master Witcher.”
“See,” Geralt said, taking the letter. The smooth vellum had been folded down into a tight, weighty triangle that sat heavy in Geralt’s palm. “I’ve been here long enough to receive correspondence.”
Nenneke snorted. “And it hasn’t been long enough. You can leave when I’m satisfied you won’t fall off the back of your dragon for a second time and snap your neck.” She peered at the letter. “One of your sorceresses bemoaning the fact that you’re not at their beck and call?”
“No,” Geralt said, flipping the letter over to reveal Jaskier’s signet stamped into the wax. “It’s from a friend.” It smelled of a spring garden when Geralt opened it, as if Jaskier had managed to package the scent of peony and calendula.
My friend,
Hopefully, this letter reaches you before I do. I’m waiting for the Duchesses’ groomsman to locate a suitable mount for the journey to Ellander—from the dirty look he gave me, it’ll take three times longer than if anyone else had asked, so the Duchess has been kind enough to let me slip a letter to her messenger so that you can suitably prepare yourself for the the tongue-lashing I plan on giving you once I arrive. I’d throttle you myself for the stupid stunt you pulled in Vizima, but I’ve been advised it may be counterproductive to your healing process.
If you could please think of your dear, feeble-hearted friend the next time you jump off of Roach’s back during a hunt, it would be greatly appreciated. Especially when there’s a bevy of noble ladies looking on from their garden party. I shudder to think that I could have learned of your death as court gossip over tea.
Jaskier
Dawn was some ways off yet. Jaskier was curled up against Roach's feverwarm side, mumbling incoherently into her scales as he dreamt. The bard had come bursting out of the treeline the night before while Roach was tearing into the still-cooling corpse of an arachas, already complaining about the chill and making himself at home around the fire, as if it had been hours since they’d seen one another instead of more than a year.
Geralt had planned on heading north for another contract after Roach had finished her meal, but instead found himself pulling out his bedroll as Jaskier spoke of his summer classes in Oxenfurt and the antics of his students and whatever local legend he was chasing after that had pulled him away from the city for the season. The bard had nodded off leaning against Roach’s arm, and instead of following him into sleep, Geralt simply watched him.
He pulled out a well-worn letter from where he’d tucked it under his jerkin and against his chest. He’d taken to carrying it like a good luck charm. The linen was well-worn along its creases now, folded and refolded, the paper gone soft as a cloth where he’d thumbed over it. It was unremarkable as far as letters went, but even in smoldering emberlight he knew the words.
My friend,
I’ve been having these strange dreams lately, where Roach is a horse, and we travel across the Continent from town to town, you doing your witchering and me doing your barking. It’s never quite the same dream twice. This latest one, you went off fighting some beast or another, and you had me watch Horse-Roach—or had Horse-Roach watch me, take your pick—and while you were away, I heard the most beautiful song coming from the sea. And I knew I shouldn’t have gone down into the water; I should’ve stayed with Horse-Roach on the cliffs, but it was such a beautiful song. And so I clambered down to the shore, and I walked into the waves to find the singer. And there were claws around my ankles, digging into my calves, and my heart felt like a doused flame, and—then the singing stopped, and I was just standing in the water. We were both standing in the water, you and me, and you were holding the severed head of an ekhidna. The ekhidna. The one with the glass eyes from Professor Ullman’s office, except it shifted, and it was the same one from my childhood, the one whose eye had been gouged out by the talons of a dragon. And then you dropped it into the water, and it was pulled out with the waves. And we camped on the shore overlooking the sea, and I swear we never spoke, but we talked in that way you do in dreams. You berated me, I think, for going into the water.
It felt so real.
Yours,
Jaskier
The bard woke with the sun, stretching like a cat and grunting as his spine cracked. When his morning theatrics were done, he leaned back against Roach. “Roach, my dear,” he said with a yawn, petting at her flank like she was an overgrown dog. She huffed out a hot breath of air, stirring the smoldering coals of the fire. “I had the strangest dream.”