Work Text:
They turned up late in the evening—just as the last windows of the town were darkening, the last candles being snuffed out.
It was quiet in the inn, just like every other night. And just like every other night, Tolloc was spending her last hour of wakefulness scrubbing at the bar with her faithful old rag, trying in vain to vanquish the sundry suspicious stains littering the surface. The last few nights had seen her wage war with one in particular; large, sticky, and an ominous shade of violent yellow, she and this stain were locked in a vicious battle of wills, a valiant war of attrition. The stain had forced her on the offensive as of late, and she refused to give in without a fight.
Such was her determination to reign victorious that she didn’t hear the regular tell-tale sign of the heavy door across the room opening and shutting, or the footsteps creaking on the wood. In fact, she was only alerted to the arrival of a new customer when a shadow fell over both her and the offending stain, dulling it from its true toxic shade to more of a mellow dandelion hue. She looked up, only to be met with the same colour in the eyes of the stranger.
Tolloc startled, dropping her rag. “Oh! Blimey, you near scared me to death.”
The stranger grunted, somehow making the noise sound apologetic. “Sorry,” he said. Well, growled—guy sounded like he’d been gargling gravel. That, or he had a really nasty chest infection.
Or it was something to do with his mutations; she reckoned she knew a Witcher when she saw one, what with the hulking stature, multiple swords, and unnaturally pale hair. This was probably the famed White Wolf she’d heard about in all those infernal songs. She couldn’t be certain, of course, not unless she saw the—
The stranger leaned on the bar, and the distinctive medallion around his neck swung forward, glinting in the low candlelight.
Ah. Definitely a Witcher, then.
Tolloc relaxed, offering him a welcoming smile. She’d never understood all the fuss everyone seemed to make about Witchers; surely they weren’t all that different from any of those other rough-type men, save for some physical improvements here and there and a rather undesirable profession. They were just tradesmen, after all, paid for a service. So long as they did what they were hired for and didn’t cause any problems, she didn’t see why she should feel any differently about them. And anyway, she wasn’t about to run the baker out of town for burnt bread, so why did the Witcher deserve any less?
“How can I help ye?” she said, looking unflinchingly into those bar-stain-coloured eyes.
The Witcher nodded. “We need a room.”
Tolloc glanced around the empty tavern. “We?”
The door burst open and bounced off the wall, causing Tolloc to jump and the Witcher to close his eyes and sigh like he was willing his patience to remain loyal.
“Geralt,” said the new stranger, striding into the room and stopping in the middle, crossing his arms like a scolding mother. “While I understand the desire to abandon the frigid night air as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t abandon me out on the street in the process.”
The Witcher rolled his eyes. “You had company.”
“Your new horse hates me and you know it.”
The Witcher smiled, looking over his shoulder at the stranger. “Knew there was something about her I liked.”
“Oh ha ha.” The stranger approached the bar and leaned next to the Witcher with dramatic emphasis. “You joke, but she tried to kick me in the head yesterday. In the head, Geralt. That is attempted murder, and quite frankly, I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough.”
Tolloc caught sight of the instrument slung across the stranger’s back, and her lip curled.
Of all the types of men the Witcher could have been staying with, why did it have to be a bard? Demented little things they were, peacocking around her inn and expecting her customers to give up their hard-earned coin for what was often no better than the sound the cats made behind her house in the night, and they didn’t demand payment for the privilege. But her patrons seemed to enjoy a bard on occasion, and what kind of businesswoman turned away something that brought in customers?
Still, that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it. You were never safe so long as a bard was around—she didn’t want to be the unwilling star of the Continent’s newest favourite scathing ditty because she’d pissed off the wrong one. ‘Tolloc Is a Bollock’: taking the nation by storm.
The Witcher turned back to her, apparently electing to ignore the bard’s theatrics. She liked him more by the minute. “As I was saying, we need a room.”
“Right you are,” she said. She went over prices and payment with him while the bard inspected the dining area, looking up and slowly spinning around. Probably deemed her little inn below his standards. Typical.
By the time the Witcher had passed her his coin, the bard had wandered over to one of the empty dining chairs, flopped down into it with a creak, and pulled his lute around with a flourish. He began strumming gently, humming under his breath and staring sideways out the window. Tolloc gritted her teeth.
She tried not to make her irritation too obvious; bard or not, he was a companion of the Witcher’s, who was now a paying customer. It was her job to put on a friendly face.
She’d apparently failed, because the Witcher gave her a knowing, strained smile. “He’s insufferable, I know.” He looked over to the bard then, who was now playing an upbeat tune with his eyes closed, singing something about washing lines and tapping his foot in time. Inexplicably, the Witcher’s smile softened to one of genuine—if exasperated—fondness. “You get used to it. Eventually.”
Ah. Not just a companion—a friend. “If you say so, mate.”
The bard, apparently finished with attempting to wake the whole town with his caterwauling about laundry, hopped up and approached the bar again, slinging his lute around his back. “So,” he said, giving her a sickly smile, “our delightful lodging awaits, I presume?”
The Witcher grunted. “I need to tend to my horse,” he said to Tolloc. “Could you show my…” He paused. Glanced at the bard. Glanced back to Tolloc. Stared down at the bar. Sighed. “…my friend to the room?”
The bard’s head snapped around so fast Tolloc was surprised she hadn’t heard his neck crack. He gaped at the Witcher, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, looking for all the world like his brain had escaped his head and gone on a wander. The Witcher didn’t look at him; he marched across the room and slipped into the night with intent. The bard kept staring, turning as the Witcher passed, and was now gaping at the closed door.
For the first time since the insufferable little man had sauntered onto the scene, silence reigned at the inn. Unfortunately for Tolloc and her sanity, it didn’t last long, as after several seconds of staring the bard span around again to gape at her instead. “Did you hear that?”
Tolloc’s fists clenched. What, just because she hadn’t immediately jumped to attention and escorted him to their room with a curtsey and a complimentary ale, he thought she was deaf?
“Loud and clear,” she said, through her best and most hollow ‘polite customer service’ smile. She moved around the bar to stand by the darkened corridor beside it. “If you’ll kindly –”
“He just said…” The bard huffed a laugh. His slowly growing grin was halfway giddy and all the way nutty. “He just called me his friend. Unprompted. To my face.”
“…Right.” Tolloc wished she was still within reach of the hefty plank of wood she kept behind the bar—clearly this particular bard was off his rocker.
“I mean, you heard it too, right? That wasn’t just a desperate figment of my poor naïve imagination?”
“I… I heard it.” Maybe that horse really had kicked him in the head. “What, you saying you ain’t?”
“No, no, I am, obviously, I just…huh.” Another overjoyed little laugh bubbled up from somewhere inside him. “’Friend’. Never thought I’d see the day. Figured he’d take that word to the distant grave.”
He finally made his way over to her, although he did so with a little hop in his step, because apparently bards couldn’t move like normal people. He was still wearing that unsettling, giddy smile of his too. “Lead the way, my good woman.”
Tolloc said nothing, simply continuing to doggedly smile at the bard (she was basically baring her teeth at this point) before showing him to the room. He followed in almost silence, although she distinctly heard an awed-sounding whisper of “friend” somewhere along the way. She was exceedingly happy to leave him behind, closing the door to the room with a sigh of relief. Frankly, she felt lucky to have gotten away unscathed; that fellow was clearly not quite right in the head, even as far as bards ever dwelt in the realm of sanity. Perhaps he wasn’t a bard at all—perhaps the Witcher suspected he was something more sinister, and had decided to keep an eye on him, just in case.
No, no, unfathomable as it was to her, he’d clearly had a genuine soft spot for that infernal twittering songbird. He’d said it himself—they were friends. Unfortunately. Despite the bard’s apparent reservations on the matter.
Either way, Tolloc at least felt safer knowing the Witcher would be there. Witchers she understood. She’d always known bards were trouble, and this latest encounter hadn’t exactly dissuaded her. God help the White Wolf; man must be a saint.
She rolled her eyes as she went back to her doomed battle with the suspicious stain.
Bards.