Witchers do not have dæmons.

Jaskier has heard many stories of witchers and their inhumanity, but none fascinate him more than that of their dæmonlessness. There is nothing a bard wants more than to tell stories about the unbelievable, like men who walk the earth without a dæmon and slay monsters. Of course, a bard must also make a living when not faced with living legends.

Which is how he and Zandria found themselves in a small town tavern, performing for whatever coin they could find. "You think you're safe, without a care." Jaskier ran his fingers gently along the strings of his lute while Zandria whistled a harmonizing tune. "But here in Posada, you'd be wise to beware the pike with the spike that lurks in your drawers or the flying drake that will fill you with horror." He leaned in close with one of the people watching his performance with a bit of flair that some call needless and irritating, which meant it was exactly his style. "Need old Nan the Hag to stir up a potion so that your lady may get an abortion!"

To his utter shock and horror, the entire room began to boo and heckle him. He even found mostly-empty mugs and half-eaten food being lobbed towards his head. "We're so glad that we could bring you all together like this," Zandria said as she flapped up to the ceiling to avoid an incoming cup. She dove back down and rejoined Jaskier as he made his way across the room to avoid a further onslaught of reviews.

And then there it was. Through his own and Zandria's eyes he saw him: the man with no dæmon. A white-haired, armored man who looked hardly conscious sitting at a lone table in the corner.

Time to make our move. Zandria thought with a certain oomph that Jaskier had to admire.

With a smile running across his face, Jaskier confidently strode across the room. This might be it, Zan.

"I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood." Jaskier firmly sat down on the wooden stool opposite the white-haired man. He had to admit it felt kind of funny, looking at a man with no dæmon. The unnerving side of funny where he knew he wanted to laugh, but he wasn't sure it was actually appropriate for the situation. It made him feel uneasy.

He had to mentally shoulder Zandria for snickering at his attempt to communicate.

"I'm here to drink alone." The stranger's response was not wholly unexpected, though it was the slightest bit discouraging. On the other hand, Jaskier was not a man to be discouraged.

Zandria, with no dæmon to address, simply turned around, settling her claws on the shoulder pads Jaskier always wore and let her vision mostly follow his.

"Good for you." Jaskier folded his hands on the table and leaned forward, with Zandria gently readjusting to accommodate the change in stability. "No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except for you." He couldn't help but let the excitement bleed through. "Come on. You don't want to keep a man with...bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me." He began to lean back again, holding his hands up in a surrendering position. "Three words or less."

"They don't exist."

Such a matter-of-fact tone was again, not something Jaskier expected. Firstly, he thought, Well of course my songs exist. After processing for another moment, he helpfully added, "What don't exist?"

"The creatures in your song."

Frankly, Jaskier didn't much care for the truth of that song. He tried to get attention with it, but one song or another got picked up from plenty of other folks. He was working on better songs and stories himself because the best stories were at least loosely based on real ones, but he was going to at least attempt to take offense. "And how would you know?"

There was no reply, which gave him a few moments to think. Zandria thought, He's all by himself. Man with no dæmon, swords, gruff-looking. We both know who this is.

"Oh, fun. White hair, big, old loner, two very very scary-looking swords." He paused for just a moment, as if contemplating his next words. He decided that, yes, the next comment might be worth his head. "No dæmon in sight." No move to grab those very scary-looking swords. That was actually an excellent sign. "I know who you are. You're the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia."

"You believe every story you hear?" Geralt, the white-haired man, lifted his drink to his lips and sipped at it. "Bards."

"Do you have colorful commentary for my conversation as well as my music?" Jaskier shot back, with all the edge and snark he could muster. Which, frankly, was not very much, but it made him feel better to talk back to the witcher.

"I can't change what you believe, or whether you choose to believe something simply because you're told." He took another drink.

"What is it that I believe? Do explain, master witcher." Jaskier put a hand down on the table, and Zandria turned around to give Geralt a glare. It came out as more of an awkward cockatoo glance, but it was mentally a glare.

Geralt gave a nice long break in talking this time, a sigh echoing from his chest. "Witchers have dæmons. Just because you don't see her doesn't mean she's not here."

Jaskier reeled for a moment while he once again tried to allow his mind to catch up. Zandria flapped her wings and hopped down from his shoulders, landing with a slight oomph on the floor as she peered under the table. She didn't see any small dæmon, any sign of a tail or another dæmon limb.

Do witchers have invisible dæmons? Jaskier silently wondered.

Zandria actually shrugged her feathered shoulders. Witchers can do things other people can't. Maybe his dæmon can actually pretend to be human, or somehow disappear and reappear when they need to.

"Well, there must be someone who can help right these wrongs of falsehoods in the minds of the people. A witcher's barker, who tells the untold stories of your adventures." Jaskier was already endeared to this somewhat gloomy but surprisingly snarky witcher, and it was the bard's dream to find a true adventurer who chose not to spread stories of their own accord.

Geralt simply stood up from the table and started walking out of the tavern. He didn't say anything else to Jaskier, and left the bard to stumble after him.

"Wait, come on, it's a good idea," he said, trying to avoid the oncoming boos and jeers. Zandria had to take off up to the ceiling to stop from being hissed at by irritable dæmons who didn't like her singing.

Once out the door, Geralt made his way towards the building that passed for a stables in this middle-of-nowhere town. He began getting the horse ready, and Jaskier couldn't help but wonder whether a witcher could properly keep a horse.

"You said it yourself, real adventures would make better stories and better songs. I won't be but silent backup." Jaskier heard what he thought was a snort, possibly an actual laugh, from the witcher. He wasn't sure whether to feel vindicated or insulted. "You smell of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak. I could make a career just out of the stories you could tell."

"The smell is onions."

Zandria snickered, and Jaskier had to shoot a glare her way. She fluttered up to his shoulder again and settled in. The two of them were fairly set on following this witcher down the road now, regardless of the resistance from the man himself.

"I can spread the many tales of Geralt of Rivia," he lifted his arms up as if he were framing an imaginary scene, "the Butcher of Blaviken."

Zandria muttered in their head, I don't think you should've said that.

What happened next all happened a bit too fast for Jaskier to process. First, he saw the bright eyes of a wolf coming towards him from down the road. Zandria felt a shiver run through her body, and she panicked, jumping into the air and flapping until she was a couple of feet up. Then, Geralt said to him, "Come here." His tone of voice was not one to be argued with, and Jaskier complied, and found his legs swept out from under him. His ass hit the ground quickly, and he felt Zandria flinch as he hit the dirt below them.

*"Ow,"* he complained as he rubbed his backside, trying to clamber back up to his feet.

The wolf, whoever they were, was bounding towards where Zandria flitted in the air. Zandria flapped about, eventually trying to take shelter on Jaskier's shoulder once again. "Leave me alone you, you, wolf."

"Nice comeback, Zan." Jaskier finally settled back onto his feet, and found that Geralt and his horse had pulled ahead.

"Her name's Roach." The wolf finally spoke. It did take both Jaskier and Zandria by surprise.

Consistent with his image, the white hair and the stoicism. We could call him the White Wolf.

Good point. Zandria nodded her head, then turned her dark eyes towards the wolf. "I'm Zandria. That's Jaskier."

"I know. I saw your performance. I'm Gwynbleidd."

Again, very strange to think of a dæmon being able to process their performance without being there. In a very big effort to not come across as rude, the two of them stifled comments. Zandria fluffed her wings while they continued down the path. "He won't really mind if we tag along, right?"

"He will. I won't." Gwynbleidd had a funny look in her eyes, an age betrayed only by the way she looked at them. Her eyes were the same as Geralt's, with that catlike iris and yellowed color.

"Right then. Good to be met, then, Gwyn. Mind if I call you Gwyn?" Zandria was glad to have someone to actually talk to, finally. It had been so awkward in the tavern where all the other dæmons either one, hated her, or two, were not present at the time. "We'll have to come up with some good rhymes with Gwynbleidd. Might have to focus a bit more on Gwyn."

Before the minute was up, Gwynbleidd was back at Geralt's side, and Jaskier and Zandria were chatting away about the million different things that could have occupied their minds at any moment.