Sunny
1150 Words
"My name is Geralt, Geralt the White Wolf."
The stranger spoke his name, smiling as he gestured with a welcoming hand.
Across from him, a boy of about eleven or twelve quickly switched seats, moving inward.
Geralt wore a worn leather jacket, with stitching on the pocket coming undone, leaving it slightly frayed. His neck and shoulders were bandaged, and a round gray medallion hung from a silver chain on his chest, engraved with the fierce head of a wolf.
On his back were two weapons, which Crowen assumed to be one-handed swords.
The boy was dressed similarly, though he carried only a single weapon; their attire appeared somewhat eccentric.
To discuss business with me? Interesting.
Crowen, though sensing no malice from the stranger, instinctively slid his hand into the pocket of his coat.
The touch of the g*n's warm grip steadied him.
He settled confidently, placing his medicine case on his lap, and said with a resolute tone, "You're an outsider. You likely have no idea what I do. So tell me, what kind of business could we possibly discuss?"
If you can't give me a good reason, I'll leave without a second thought.
Geralt didn't answer directly; instead, he called to the counter, "Bartender, a fine rye beer for my friend as well."
"We can talk while we drink," he smiled faintly.
Although his hair was snowy white, he looked no older than thirty.
The barkeep's assistant, Abel, arrived promptly with earthen mugs, setting them on the table. "Gentlemen, our finest rye beer, 20 copper coins a glass."
Geralt reached inside his coat, drew out a small pouch, and counted out 21 coins, handing them over. "The extra's your tip."
Abel’s eyes lit up as he accepted the coins with both hands, “Kind sir, may the Lord of Flames light your path.”
“The world is growing darker; the Lord of Flames may have little time to guide us,” the boy murmured under his breath. Though barely audible in the bustling room, Klaun heard it clearly.
His eyes narrowed slightly. 'A non-believer? Or perhaps they worship another god?'
In this world where deities display tangible powers, unbelievers are often synonymous with heretics. Though Crowen himself was more of a pseudo-believer, doubting that any god would heed human prayers, he still offered a casual prayer whenever he went to church.
Reflecting on this, he felt his patience wane; regardless of what these two believed, he didn’t want to get too involved.
Heretics faced repression from all godly churches. Followers of other gods might have odd customs, and if things were to go wrong, the encounter could easily turn violent.
The white-haired man before him was tall and powerfully built, his face scarred—a sign he wasn't to be trifled with.
As if ignoring the impatience on Klaun's face, Geralt pushed a mug of dark beer toward him. "I mean no harm, only to make a friend."
You think I’ll believe that? Friendly gestures for no reason often conceal ill intentions.
Crowen said nothing, meeting Geralt's gaze steadily.
“Heh, don’t look at me that way,” Geralt chuckled, half-smiling. “I have an incredibly sharp sense of smell. I can tell that you have an herb I need in that box of yours.”
Herbs? There’s only one herb in my case, boxed twice over, and yet you can still smell it? Do you have the nose of a hound? Crowen’s eyes flashed with a hint of surprise.
“Black tail sage. I happen to need some. I'll buy it for 50 silver coins per sprig."
Hearing this, Klaun straightened, testing the waters with, "Not for sale. But, if you have blue tulip petals, we could trade."
"For Bloodboil potion? Blue tulips are more precious than sage, but those plants are useless to me, and I have none in reserve."
Crowen's face broke into a grin—the man was clearly from the mystical world!
How could an ordinary person know about Bloodboil potion?
He pointed toward the door behind the man, asking, "I don’t have much stock on hand. I haven’t been out to gather herbs recently. Have you tried asking the merchants here?"
“The Gysares inflate their prices absurdly high, thinking they can rob me blind. We couldn't reach an agreement."
Good news; there were two groups of people from the mystical world!
Crowen took a sip of dark beer, then, after a few moments, offered, "I have some business with the Gysares that should be concluded shortly. Either way, I'll reserve two sprigs of black tail sage for you. Could you wait a little while?”
His mind still lingered on his regular potions, which were all quite practical and valuable to any discerning merchant.
The Gysares were a nomadic people, with knowledge as vast as the lands they traveled, and Crowen was confident his potions could fetch a fair price.
“No problem. We’re staying at this inn; without any enchanting ladies around, I’ll be drinking here until they close up,” Geralt said, lifting his mug with a knowing grin.
Nodding lightly, Crowen responded with a smile, “I just ordered two roast lamb legs. Later, I’d like to share them with new friends.”
He hoisted his medicine case over his shoulder and headed for the back door.
As the small, oil-stained wooden door swung shut, Geralt’s intense gaze dimmed. "Alan, have I brought you into exile with me from Kaer Morhen, and do you resent me? We've lost our potion supply chain, and the Trial of the Grasses for you can't be delayed much longer, yet I haven’t found an alchemist to brew it for you.”
“Master, how could I resent you? Without you, I’d have perished at the age of five, just like my family, under a monster’s claws.” The boy paused from eating, a solemn expression on his face. “No matter what becomes of you, you’ll always be that honest, fearless, oath-bound hero who fights monsters in my heart!”
The white-haired man’s gaze softened in gratitude, though his heart grew heavier.
He sighed, memories drifting back to that fateful night when everything changed.
“Master, Master,” the boy’s call brought him back.
“Why did you intercept that man for a trade, Master? With your current needs, black tail sage can hardly suffice, and I haven’t undergone the Trial of the Grasses, so I don’t need it yet.”
Geralt closed his eyes as if savoring something.
After a while, he reopened them. “There's something very comforting about him, like the warmth of sunlight on a winter’s day—gentle, bright, and comforting.”
“I didn’t feel a thing,” Alan muttered, returning to his meal.
The lamb stew, seasoned with pepper and thyme, tasted heavenly to the boy, who had endured many days on the road.
- Writer
