Drink with Theora

As Geralt left Triss’ room, he was greeted by Hjalmar, who was walking down the corridor towards him. “Got some action last night, then?” Hjalmar grinned. “Or did you? You were awful quiet.”

“Sound-blocking magic,” Geralt said. “The benefits of sleeping with sorceresses.”

“Ah, I’ll bear that in mind,” he laughed. “See you around, Geralt.”

A few hours later, Geralt wiped the sweat from his brow and sheathed his sword. It hadn’t been a particularly long training session, as his wounds from the leshen fight had barely healed, but it was better to stay sharp while he recovered. At least, that’s what he told himself.

“Your pirouette needs some work,” a voice said from behind him, and he turned to see Theora sitting on a box in the courtyard.

“How long you been there?” Geralt asked.

“Long enough to get an idea of your technique,” Theora replied. “Which can be summarised by ‘hit hard and hope you don’t get hit’.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow imperceptably. “Care to demonstrate?”

“Relax, I’m fucking with you,” she smiled. “Besides,” she gestured to her bandages. “I’d love to, but I should really try and look after myself for once. Anyway, how about that drink?”

“Sure.”

Entering the inn by the harbor, they went straight to the bar, ignoring the wary glances of the other patrons. The bartender looked them over, paying particular attention to the swords on Geralt’s back and at Theora’s waist. “What’ll you have?” he asked.

“Two meads,” Geralt said, handing over some crowns. She glanced at him, as if she was about to protest about him buying her a drink, then shrugged.

“Cheers.” Theora tapped her drinking horn against his, then swiftly downed her drink. “Refill please,” she said to the bartender, who obliged after she held out a few more crowns.

Then she led him to a table and sat down, relaxing as much as humanly possible into the stool. Her pose reminded Geralt of a panther after a meal: a deadly predator that had let down its guard. “So, the great Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken …” she said. “It kinda feels like you may have too many names for a simple witcher.”

“I didn’t come up with them,” Geralt muttered, sipping his mead.

“No one chooses their name,” Theora smiled. “You’re given it, like it or not. So, you must have a few good stories. Care to share them with me?”

“You first. How’d a woman become a witcher?” he asked.

She shrugged nonchalantly. “I have no idea. I’ve got no memory of my life before being a witcher; apparently I was hammering on ****’s door when they found me, nothing worked, so someone decided to try the Trial of Grasses as a last resort, and it … worked. Assuming I’m not a ghost or something.”

“What School are you from?” he asked.

“School of the Manticore, more or less.”

“More or less?”

“An offshoot. I was trained by a witcher called Ja’tel, who was actually from the Manticores, but he left and set up his own thing. He trained a couple of us, then upped and died fighting a basilisk,” she said. “Hence no medallion.”

Geralt thought for a moment. He didn’t know much about the School of the Manticore: only that it was far to the east, probably in Zerrikania. And he didn’t know what to make of her story of becoming a witcher, although it seemed even if she had any more information she wasn’t going to give it up any time soon.

“Anyway, what about you?” Theora asked. “Time to regale me with some stories of the great White Wolf.”

They talked late into the evening, comparing tales of contracts and battle scars. Geralt even touched on the conflict with the Wild Hunt, although he omitted the parts about Ciri; it may not have been exactly secret, but he didn’t feel like revealing it to a relative stranger. Even if said stranger had saved his life.

“And then the git had the gall to offer to pay me with his body, since he didn’t have the coin!” Theora laughed.

“What did you do?” Geralt asked.

“I told him I’d rather fuck his wife than him. Then I took his horse as payment,” she grinned. “It was a good horse, too. Anyway, learnt my lesson from that one – make sure they’ve got the money before you take the job.”

“Smart.”

“I bet you’ve had a few of those,” Theora said, curiosity in her voice. “How do you handle it?”

“Depends. If they seem honest, I wait. If they don’t …” Geralt trailed off.

Theora raised an eyebrow, but chose not to press him.

In the silence that ensued, Geralt heard footsteps, heavy and slightly irregular, approaching their table. He looked around and saw a sailor, drink in hand and clearly also in body. The sailor steadied himself by leaning on the table, and looked at Theora,

“What’re you doing talking to this grandpa?” he slurred. “Come on, lady, you can do better than him!”