Mahakam - Mount Carbon, the Capital of the Realm of Mahakam
The Golden Dragon tavern was warm and bustling, filled with the sounds of dwarven laughter and the clinking of tankards. The smell of roasting meat and the distinct, earthy scent of dwarven ale that had been aged for decades in mountain cellars. The patrons were a mix of a majority of dwarves, humans, and the occasional elf.
In the corner of the room, a figure sat alone. He was old, or at least, he appeared to be old. His face was lined with age, his hair grey and thinning, his body shrouded in a hooded cloak that obscured his features and cast his face in shadow. He nursed a tankard of ale, his eyes fixed on the table before him, his presence alone seemed to repel the other patrons.
The dwarves eyed him warily, but none dared to approach. There was something about him that made them keep their distance. He did not speak with anyone, he simply sat, watching, drinking.
At a nearby table, three figures sat in animated conversation. Two elves and a dwarf, their voices carrying the easy familiarity of old friends who had shared countless battles and countless cups of ale. The first elf was tall and lean, his hair tied back in a practical knot, his eyes sharp and watchful. He wore the simple clothes of a traveler, but there was a sense of command about him, a sense of leadership. His name was Faelorn, a commander of the Scoia'tael, a man who had led his people through the darkest of times and had emerged on the other side with his spirit intact, they had made it all the way from Redania to Mahakam safely.
The second was a she elf, her bow resting against the table within easy reach. Her name was Lune, an archer of unparalleled skill, her eyes carrying the same sharp intensity as her companion.
The third figure was a dwarf, his thick beard braided, his face weathered and he only had one arm, Yarvik. the trio had fought alongside Sebastian and he trusted them with his life.
Their voices rose and fell. Faelorn's voice was low, thoughtful. "This bloody war has changed everything. The Northern Kingdoms are fractured, and the Empire grows stronger every day... We the Scoia'tael are scattered, hunted like animals.. We are no longer fighting for victory, we are fighting for survival.. It pains me to admit it but we must remain here for a while.. a long while."
Lune's spirit was still burning bright despite everything she had endured. "They will never break us! We have survived worse and we will survive this, too. Our people have endured centuries of persecution, and we are still here. We will not be wiped out by a few human kings and their armies!"
Yarvik's voice was gruff. "We have survived, yes. But at what cost? Half our people are dead. The rest are in hiding... Like the rest of us, maybe it's not a bad idea to stay here and find more recruits."
Faelorn nodded slowly. "You are right, Yarvik. We must survive before we can thrive, maybe we can find eager dwarves to join our cause."
The old man in the corner listened, his eyes still fixed on his tankard. A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth, barely visible beneath the shadow of his hood.
Faelorn continued. "That Witcher Sebastian really almost changed my mind about humans... Young and skilled maybe even naive a bit, yet he helped us when he didn't have to. He could have walked away, but he chose to fight. He chose to stand with us... the bastard almost made me forget that he was a mutant for a while and not a human... I was starting to like the cunts."
Lune's eyes were brightening with the memory. "I shall never forget him, he is the reason why we are here afterall. He was different from the other humans. Kinder, somehow. There was something about him that made me trust him deeply." She paused, her eyes meeting those of her companions with an intensity that brooked no doubt. "Believe it or not, but I was ready to give my life for him. Without hesitation. That is not something I say lightly, and I do not say it to impress anyone. He earned that trust."
The old man's smile widened, just a fraction. His fingers tightened around his tankard, his knuckles whitening with the pressure.
Lune's eyes sparkled as she spoke, her fingers traced the rim of her tankard, her gaze growing distant as she lost herself in the recollection.
Yarvik laughed deeply, his fingers wrapped around his tankard, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I believe you wanted to give him far more than just your life, Lune." He teased her. "The way you looked at him...like he was the answer to all your prayers. I've seen that look before. It's the same look you get when you see a particularly fine bow."
Lune's face turned a deep shade of crimson, her hand shooting out to punch him squarely in the shoulder with enough force to make him wince. "Hey!" she protested.
"Now that I'm a one-handed dwarf, you are far more confident in hitting me, eh, Lune?" He rubbed his shoulder, his grin undiminished. "That's not fair. You know I'm sensitive about my missing arm."
Lune's eyes narrowed. "I could beat you even if you had three hands, Yarvik. You know that. I've been besting you in fights since before you lost that arm, and nothing has changed."
Yarvik's grin widened. "With your stick for arms? Hahaha! Come on now, admit it. You fancied Seb. It was clear as day." He gestured with his one hand, he just found the topic for the next bottle of Mahakam spirit. "The way you looked at him before, the way you spoke about him just now, even I could see it, and I'm not exactly the most observant dwarf. It was written all over your face."
Lune's face flushed even deeper. "I did not fancy him! I simply respected him. There is a difference."
Yarvik's laugh was unrepentant. "Respect? Is that what you call it? I've seen you respect commanders, Lune. You never looked at them the way you looked at that witcher."
Faelorn remained quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful as he observed the exchange. Then he spoke. "Enough, Yarvik. The bloody witcher could charm any female, regardless of their species. Give her a break." He paused, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "He can impress anyone with his flames. It's a talent, I suppose. One that he wields with remarkable skill."
Lune's face flushed even deeper. "You too, Commander?! I expected better from you."
Faelorn raised a hand, a gesture that brought their squabbling to an end. "Alright, alright. Knock it off, both of you. Finish your drinks and let's leave. We'll proceed with what Yarvik suggested, we'll find more req..."
The sound of a tankard slamming onto their table cut through the conversation, shattering the comfortable atmosphere.
The three of them looked up, their hands instinctively moving toward their weapons, their bodies tensing. And standing before them was a figure cloaked in shadow, his face obscured by the hood of his worn traveling cloak. He was tall, his frame lean, and there was an air of confidence about him.
His voice, when he spoke, was smooth and polite. "Sorry, friends," the man said. "But can I join you here? You see, I really need to ask you a few questions, and I believe that you'll answer those questions." He smiled, though his eyes did not. "Please?"
He did not wait for an invitation. He pulled out a chair and sat down. his hand moved, pushing back his hood just enough to reveal his face. It was a face that had seen much, lines of age and experience etched into his features, the scars. But it was not his face that drew their attention.
It was the medallions that dangled from his neck.
They caught the firelight, gleaming with a cold, there were a collection of them, each one different, each one bearing the emblem of a different witcher school. The School of the Bear. The School of the Griffin. The School of the Cat. their surfaces worn and scratched, as if they had been carried for a long time.
Yarvik's hand froze on his axe. Faelorn's eyes narrowed. "Witcher medallions.." He whispered. "You carry three of them.. That is not something you see every day. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen anyone carry more than one... "
The man's smile widened. "Sorry for the confusion but I am not a witcher, my friends. I am simply a collector of sorts. A traveler who has acquired certain... taste over the years." He paused, his gaze sweeping over them with an intensity that made Lune's skin crawl. "But I am also a man who is very interested in a certain witcher. A young one, by all accounts. One who has recently made quite an impression on certain people... very powerful people."
His eyes settled on Lune, and she felt the weight of his gaze. "And I believe you know him.."
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