He wasn't sure if he remembered his first name anymore.

While he was pretty sure it was something noble and pretentious, it'd been so long since he used it that, standing here in this tavern, he realized he didn't know what it was anymore.

Clear as day, he remembered who he used to be and the things he did, all of which he never wanted to do again. It was like a vibrant nightmare that he couldn't get out of his fucking head. Reminded him every day that he never wanted to be that person again.

But that name? It was gone, like time had erased it from his memory entirely.

Guess he truly was stuck with Jaskier, or whatever other names he made up for himself. There wasn't a name to go back to anymore.

Granted, he might have to pick up a new name soon. This whole mischievous bard thing wasn't working out that well for him. Despite learning how to sing in tune and even play the lute, people didn't always seem to enjoy his songs. He enjoyed composing them, and felt like a light, idiotic, much funner to be around young man whenever he sang them. He liked being Jaskier, the rogue bard.

Not everyone else liked it so much, though. The man sitting at the table next to him was still giving him this look like he just caught Jaskier sticking a dick in his prized pig.

Sometimes it was almost like the common folk didn't find a man older than a century relatable at all.

That, or his dark humor was just a bit too bitter for them.

Jaskier had thought his abortion joke was hilarious, but clearly the people throwing rolls at him thought otherwise. Their loss, honestly. This tavern served pretty damn good rolls.

The only person not jeering was this man in the back corner, who barely even looked up from his own drink because he was too busy being a brooding stranger from a sex novel. And honestly, Jaskier found that fascinating. Collecting all the tossed rolls (because who refused free food), he shoved them down his pants. Unfortunately, he'd been too impractical to buy ones with pockets.

When you were as old as he was, new fashion styles can be alluring, even if they forwent basic practicalities like pockets or a belt.

He'd have to have some pockets sewn in; he felt a little absurd having bread rolls tucked against his thigh. But that wouldn't stop him from stepping closer to the mysterious, silent stranger with blades on his back. Dangerous, intriguing, and possibly handsome. Just his kind of irresistible mistake.

After a few feet, Jaskier could identify that the man had a strong jawline and pure white hair. He wasn't an old man, though; he looked like he was in his prime, padded muscles under his dark black gear and not a single wrinkle on his face. The only blemishes he had were a litany of scars that Jaskier could only imagine covered his entire body. He'd ask how far they went, but considering how delicate he was about his own scars, internal or external, he figured the warrior wouldn't appreciate it.

Also the fact the man was, indeed, ravishingly handsome upon further inspection helped make Jaskier a little less interested in prying and pissing him off.

A few more steps and the bard was in front of his table, leaning against a post, staring down at him. Jaskier wasn't sure if he just didn't notice him or didn't want to notice him, but that wasn't enough to ruin his interest. After a couple hundred years, shame just isn't something you care about.

Taking a sip from a drink he took off a barmaid, Jaskier said, "I love the way you just... sit in the corner and brood."

A pair of yellow eyes flicked up at him, unamused. Though they kinda made his skin prickle, like a rabbit meeting the eyes of a fox, the fact he wasn't actually a rabbit helped keep him grounded. Since the eyes didn't scare him off, the stranger groaned and said, "I'm here to drink alone."

The longer he stared down at him, Jaskier realized he knew what that look meant, and not just the annoyance behind it. Those eyes weren't just any eyes; they were the yellow glare of a Witcher, the most fearsome, monster-hunting mutants across the continent. He hadn't met many in his time, but they all had their different flairs of brood and bite. Granted, he had to admit this was probably the first one that actually intimidated him in any way.

Back luck for the Witcher, that only made him all the more enchanted by his company.

But he knew he had to play it cool, if he wanted to keep the conversation going. If there was one thing he knew about broad shouldered and white-haired types, it was that they didn't appreciate talking about themselves.

So, he stuck to what he was good at: talking about himself.

Nodding, he moved to stand directly across from the man, making it harder for him to broodingly look away. No matter how "bad boy" handsome that was, he craved to actually interact with the most interesting person he'd met in weeks; maybe months.

"Good. Yeah, good," Jasker said. He just kept nodding, trying to look more like an absent-minded idiot than anything else. With a roll squishing into his more delicate areas while he sat down, Jaskier stomached the discomfort before continuing, "So, no one else hesitated to comment on my performance, except for you. C'mon. You don't want to keep a man with... bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me. Three words or less."

Those yellow eyes flicked his way, but in such a slow, deliberate manner that it sent a chill down Jaskier's spine. "They don't exist."

Considering all the bullshit he made up, he could be talking about most anything from his songs. But, Jaskier was curious what would make a Witcher roll his eyes like that. He asked, "What don't exist?"

"The creatures in your song."

Jaskier frowned. He had to admit, that was a little disappointingly typical of an answer. At least from a monster-hunter, of all people. Of course he'd make an embellished mess out of every creature he mentioned, especially when these scaredy-cat townsfolk hadn't seen anything like that in their entire lives. Jaskier could probably invent an entire new species and they wouldn't bat an eye.

However, there was still fun in the game of poking this tangled, ghost-haired ruffian's buttons. With a smirk, Jaskier asked, "And how would you know?"

But in seconds, he could see the man recoiling from him. His hand was moving to collect his blades and he had already tossed a few coins on the table for his pint. Well, seemed that poking wasn't going to work.

Jaskier figured that he might as well pull out all the stops of his knowledge and furrowed his brows like he just discovered something brilliant. Had to play the face right, to keep up the mask of him being less-worldly. If he played his cards right, maybe he'd catch the Witcher by surprise. "Ooh fun. White hair, big ol' loner, two very, very scary looking swords. I know who you are." He was totally pulling the next part out of his ass, but since he only knew a few monster hunters of this calibre, he took his best guess on which one it was. "You're the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia." When the man cut his eyes, growling at him, and started to evacuate the tavern, Jaskier felt a little disappointed. But at least he was right. That was consolation any day.

Despite the fact Geralt wouldn't even look back at him, he yelled, "Called it."

Jaskier was giggling the entire time the man stomped across the tavern, and even more when he slammed the door. Didn't realize he was such an efficient Witcher repellant. Was goddamn worth it for such an amusing time taking with an interesting being. Most days, he would've been content by the end of the exchange, maybe write a song about Witchers being secretive, unfriendly gits, call it a win.

But as he kept staring at the door, it was like the enjoyment bled out of his left foot. That, or the pressed rolls were starting to cut off circulation to his leg. He hoped they still tasted half as good after being pancaked between his thighs.

Whether it was the bread's fault or not, Jaskier was all too aware that he'd probably never see the Witcher again. Especially not if the man with that scowl had anything to do about it.

Thinking back, he hadn't been this amused in months, maybe years. And not only would a person like a Witcher be entertaining on his own, but his journeys would be pretty damn invigorating, too.

He'd spent hundred of years as bankers, merchants, card players, courtiers, anything that kept him worlds away from the life he used to lead. But he deserved an adventure or two by now, didn't he?

With a scathing glance across the room, he looked at the snarling, piss drunk collection of cranky old men and exhausted young women trapped here in this town. This was not what he dreamed of when he chose to become someone new. Hell, he was trying to mix things up when he chose being a bard as his next life. He wanted to sing great songs about great stories, maybe to kings and queens, making balls filled with beautiful people go electric with his musical manipulation.

Jaskier winced. That sounded a bit too much like the old days.

Spending his time here, though, wasn't getting him anywhere closer to doing something with his songs. Maybe this Geralt could be his shot of actually enjoying the bard life, having a great time as Jaskier. He'd been Jaskier for six years or so now, it was about time he found it fucking interesting.

When he decided that, he got on the move. He stood up, weaved through the people, grabbed his lute. Geralt of Rivia would make being a bard fun or he would take up a new name and try something goddamn else. He was tired of living on bread scraps, trying to build a life like this.

Upstairs, Jaskier collected everything in his room and didn't even wait for the tavern-maid to pay him. It wasn't like he needed it, with all the money he collected over the years. How else did he afford nice clothes making music for people who hated him in Upper Posada?

Every step he took, it was like his soul was being cut free from the wretched attempt at being a basic, old, tavern bard. No, if he was going to do this thing and not want to lob his own head off with his lute strings, he needed to do it his own way. And after years of playing it safe, he wanted to see the world again.

No one cared, seeing him leave with his pack. It was about as just of an exit as he expected. But just for good measure, he stood on a table and spoke to the patrons that insulted him for far too long. "Hello, horrible, miserable people of Upper Posada. I gleefully stand before you to tender my resignation to this damned tavern. Though Millie makes the best damn rolls on the continent, yeast will not keep me in this damned town one day more. I hope you all live long lives where you're haunted by how much you hate yourselves, because I certainly do. Thank you for the free rolls, and if you want a delicious way to have your soul depart this wretched town, feel free to choke on one."

They all looked so stunned, even his harshest critic, who often said the kindest phrases like "abort yourself" or "wished you choke in the womb" or "your mother should've left you to die" (his insults were often limited), was speechless.

Jaskier smirked. Yeah, that felt right.

His head was high as he walked out of the tavern, feeling more invigorated than he'd felt singing make-believe diddies here these past year. He could even start pulling a tune together already, thinking about the handsome Witcher. "Witcher" would sound nice in a song, wouldn't it?

But just then, someone grabbed his collar and pulled him around the corner, shoving him into the wall. "Saw you with the Witcher. Hope nabbing his friend will finally get the fucker's attention."

Jaskier blinked into the stone, pressed so close into it that he could see the flecked granules of the igneous rock. This wasn't quite what he meant by craving something interesting.

Before he could react, with a spell or any sort of retreat, he felt something crash against his skull and his body crumple to the alley-way ground.

This thug was a goddamn idiot. The Witcher wouldn't come for him; they weren't friends. Jaskier wanted to forcibly accompany Geralt places, but they weren't at that point yet. Right now, he was just some bard who pissed him off in a tavern. They were going to be sorely disappointed when no white-haired wolf appeared. Jaskier would have to weasel his way out of this asshole's hostage situation all on his own.

Next life maybe he should just raze this entire town to the ground.

Who was he kidding? Fuck Upper Posada and fuck Geralt of Rivia. None of them were worth all this trouble, not when they didn't care about him.

Oh, and fuck being a bard.

/

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