Hell Hath Frozen Over
Chapter 5
The witcher knelt in the sand next to the canal just outside the walls of Novigrad. He had a bucket of soapy water at his side and a washboard in hand. After leaving Tiffani's, Geralt immediately headed back to the Chameleon to borrow some laundry supplies from ViLula, for the first item on his to-do list was to wash the pirate outfit. The last thing he wanted to do was to wear another man's thong. But, if he had to, then he was going to make damn sure it was laundered first.
As he scrubbed Fabian's 'eye-patch' on the washboard, his mind drifted to Vivienne, and a smile came to his face. Seeing her that morning in the cabaret had been a complete – and very pleasant - surprise. He'd honestly thought that he'd probably never see her again. But then he reconsidered. Maybe it wasn't such a coincidence after all. Given the dream that he'd had about her recently back at Corvo Bianco, then maybe he shouldn't have been so surprised that fate had brought her back into his life. In a way that he could never explain, over the decades, Geralt had discovered that not all – but some – of his dreams contained a somewhat prophetic element to them. As a young boy at Kaer Morhen, he'd experienced strange dreams and visions about his mother. Dreams that he later discovered to be true. And later in life, he and Ciri had also been connected through their dreams. His dreams had always warned him when his adopted daughter was in danger. Again, he couldn't explain it. He didn't know if magic was involved or not. Perhaps it was because he was a witcher – someone who could tap into the chaotic Power that permeated the world. But, regardless of whether it was due to his mutations, Destiny, magic, or some other unknown, mysterious entity, he couldn't deny that his dreams weren't quite normal.
However, despite the mystical quality to his dreams, he knew he wasn't controlled by them. He and he alone could decide whether or not to act upon them, and the truth was that the romantic element to his dream about Vivienne still made him uncomfortable. He just didn't think a woman that young – and beautiful – would want anything to do with a scarred-up, sterile, old witcher like himself. But even if she was interested in him romantically, it wouldn't work, he told himself. Because what did they really have in common anyway? In their conversation that morning, she'd talked about attending high-society balls, frequenting midnight dances, and rubbing elbows with the rich and sophisticated. And all of that was about as far away from his idea of a good time as one could get. Plus, his priority – once Dandelion's wedding was over – was to get back home to his vineyard, to check on the harvest.
"And I'm old enough to be her grandfather," he mumbled to himself, not for the first time. "Hell, she can't be much older than Ciri."
And it was because of those thoughts that the witcher was now by himself scrubbing another man's thong. When he and Vivienne had returned to the cabaret, Vivienne's cousin, Marissa, had been there waiting on her. The two of them had then decided to spend the afternoon perusing the shops around Hierarch Square, and Vivienne had invited Geralt to join them. But, at the time, Geralt just figured she was being polite. That she didn't really want some crusty old-timer tagging along. Thus, he'd declined the invitation.
So, if he had so many doubts about their compatibility, then why could he not stop thinking about her now? Why had he enjoyed her company so much that morning? Why had just seeing her smile and listening to her recount her adventures put a smile on his face? And why had his heart skipped a beat when she'd placed her hand in his and pressed herself close to him at Tiffani's door? The memory of her hugging his arm – along with her pleasant perfume – still lingered with him. So much so that he stopped washing the clothes for a moment and let out a long sigh.
"It's been too damn long," he whispered to himself with a shake of his head. "It's clouding your good judgment. You need a visit to Crippled Kate's to clear your head."
But he knew he wouldn't, for his days of calling on the services of prostitutes were way behind him.
"Guess I need a cold bath, then."
He sighed again and looked down at the thong in his hand. He'd already scrubbed it so hard that he was afraid if he washed it any more, it would disintegrate.
"To hell with this," he growled out. He emptied the bucket of its soapy contents and then stuffed the pirate outfit into the bucket, placing the thong on top.
A few minutes later, the witcher was navigating his way through the dirt roads of Far Corners, the district outside of Novigrad's southern walls. It was a poorer area with single story, wooden homes and thatched-roof businesses, but it was also a neighborhood with a bit of whimsy. For the walls of almost all the buildings were painted with bright, colorful flowers. Geralt honestly wasn't sure when or why the tradition had even started, but he liked it nonetheless. Eventually, he found the shop he was looking for and walked up the short steps and through the front door without knocking.
"Well, well, well," said a tall, lean, dark-haired elf. "Long time, no see, White Wolf."
"Greetings, Elihal."
The elf was a tailor who specialized in the latest fashions. Geralt had come across his path the last time he'd been in Novigrad looking for Dandelion. The front room of the shop displayed a variety of colorful, flamboyant outfits. Outfits that matched the elf's personality to a T.
"I wasn't expecting you so soon. Here to pick up your ensemble already?"
The witcher furrowed his brow.
"What are you talking about?"
"Your outfit. You are to be the best man at Dandelion's wedding, correct?"
"That's right," answered the witcher with a small, curious smile. "But how do you know that?"
"Because, silly, he hired me to create a masterpiece for you."
The smile suddenly left Geralt's face.
"He didn't."
"Oh, you better believe he did. Would you like to see it?"
"Do I have to?"
The elf chuckled.
"Oh, you'll love it. It's simply to die for," said Elihal, heading towards his back room.
"Uh huh," the witcher said after a long sigh. "I bet it is."
A moment later, Elihal re-entered the room carrying a mannequin, which sported an outfit that made Geralt scowl and shake his head.
"This isn't a prank? He really wants me to wear that at his wedding? In public? In front of people?"
"No…and yes, yes, and yes."
The witcher suddenly had a flashback – to the day twenty-five years ago when he'd first met the bard. For the outfit looked awfully similar to what Dandelion had been wearing then. The tights and culottes were a deep, forest green. The shirt was lacy with puffed cuffs and collar. And the doublet and matching beret were an almost-blinding 'dandelion' yellow.
Geralt brought a hand up to his forehead and rubbed his temples. He was pretty sure that he could feel a headache coming on.
"I do believe that my memory was spot on," interjected Elihal. "You know, once I lay eyes on someone, it's as if their measurements are stuck in my brain. Though, it appears that you may have put on a pound or two since I saw you last."
"Well, I am a man of leisure now," the witcher said sarcastically. "It happens."
"A man of leisure! How delightful! You must tell me all about it."
He just sighed and shook his head.
"Maybe some other time. I'm actually here for another reason."
"Oh, do tell."
Geralt set the bucket of clothes down on the floor and then carefully picked up the thong by its string.
"Can you make me one of these real quick?"
Elihal didn't say anything. He just cocked an eyebrow while a small smirk came to his lips.
"Of course. May I ask for what purpose?"
"No. You may not."
"Oh, you are no fun!"
The elf came over and took the thong from Geralt. He spread it out with both hands.
"Just this size?"
"Actually, maybe a bit larger."
"Oh, really? Well, lucky you then. Or, should I say, lucky for the women you romance."
"Yeah, yeah. Look, can you whip something up real quick or not? It's kind of an emergency."
"Of course," said Elihal as he moved to his shelves, pulling down different fabric.
"And look, nothing fancy, alright? I just want a simple thong in a plain, single color. No tiger stripes. No unicorn embroidered on the front. Nothing showy. Got it?"
"Yes, yes. You want boring. Just like you. I got it. Come back in an hour."
Geralt was just about to the door when Elihal called out.
"Do you want to take your ensemble with you?" he asked, pointing to the green and yellow best man's outfit.
"Better not. My hands are already full with this," he said, holding up the bucket. "I'd hate for it to, you know, slip out of my hands, wind up in a mud puddle."
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Accidents seem to be happening to me a lot lately," the witcher answered before shutting the door behind him.
Geralt immediately walked back to the cabaret and then hung the wet, pirate outfit on a clothes line at the back of the building by the stables. He hoped that it would be dry by the time he left for the Passiflora that night.
"But what does it bloody matter?" he growled to himself. "Won't be wearing it for long anyway."
The thought of being half-naked in front of a large group of women honestly didn't bother the witcher all that much. While it was true that he wasn't quite as lean as he'd been on the Path, he knew that he was still in very good shape. Performing manual labor at the vineyard every day had seen to that. Plus, there'd been a lot of women over the last eighty years that had seen him naked. So, what were a few more? No, what was most concerning to Geralt was the fact that he was going to have to dance in front of them. And not just dance, but dance in a provocative enough way for them to actually give him money. He just didn't see that happening. Vesemir and the other witcher cadre had trained him in a lot of disciplines back at Kaer Morhen, but stripping wasn't one of them.
"Bloody hell," he growled again. "I'd rather face down an ekimmara."
He was so consumed by his thoughts that, when he first entered the back door of the cabaret, he didn't initially register that someone was calling out to him.
"Geralt!"
He looked up to see Priscilla – waving him over - near the bar of the Chameleon. She was surrounded by a group of people and looked to be very relieved to see him. As Geralt approached, his eyes first landed on an older gentleman with greying, light brown hair and fancy, waxed mustaches. He was a handsome man, but he didn't look happy. Next to him was a very attractive woman who had to be Priscilla's mother. The two women looked almost identical – blonde hair and blue eyes – except for the two decades difference in age.
"Geralt, I'd love for you to meet my family," said Priscilla. "May I introduce you to my father and mother."
"I'm Geralt. It's a pleasure," said the witcher, shaking the man's hand and giving a slight bow to the matriarch. For some reason, the man's scowl grew deeper upon the introduction. In fact, it looked as if he'd just bitten into a very bitter lemon.
Priscilla, then, made introductions to the others in the group including her older brother and sister and her great aunt, Eunice – a small woman who looked to be at least seventy years of age.
"You're the best man, correct? The bard's friend?" asked Lord Finkenbinder.
"His name is 'Dandelion,' Father," said Priscilla sharply.
"I refuse to call a grown man such a silly name."
"Fine, then, call him 'Julian.'"
"Very well. I find it curious that Julian went on a business trip just days before his wedding. What kind of man isn't present to greet in future in-laws when they arrive in town? It's insulting, I say."
"Now, dear," said Lady Finkenbinder, patting her husband's arm. "I'm sure it wasn't intentional. Right, Priscilla?"
"Yes, Mother, that is correct. And, as you can see, Father, Dandelion has turned this place into one of the most successful cabarets in the city. He has a lot of responsibilities. So, if he had to leave on a business trip, then it was absolutely necessary."
The lord harrumphed.
"Maybe so, but I still don't like it."
"When was the last time you liked anything?" asked Eunice – Priscilla's great aunt - rolling her eyes.
'Well, this is awkward,' thought Geralt.
"So, are you all staying here at the Chameleon?" he asked, trying to bring the conversation to a safe topic.
Lord Finkenbinder harrumphed again.
"Stay here? In this den of iniquity? Lebioda forbid!"
Priscilla sighed. "Father, how many times do I have to tell you that the Chameleon is not a brothel. It's a cabaret."
"Yes, dear," chimed in Lady Finkenbinder. "They have musicians on stage. And poets and troubadours. Not harlots."
Lord Finkenbinder didn't bother to answer. He just continued to scowl.
"So, friends with the poet, huh?" piped up Priscilla's brother – filling the silence. Quentin was as handsome as Priscilla was pretty. Tall and broad-shouldered with flowing locks that touched his collar. He also wore a very polished sword and scabbard at his hip, and, just like his father, he also sported a scowl on his face. "Must be another ne'er-do-well."
Geralt didn't say anything. He simply furrowed his brow and looked at Priscilla. What the hell was going on? Being a witcher, Geralt was used to people taking an instant dislike towards him, but he was surprised that Priscilla's family would be in that group. He felt like he'd just stepped into the middle of a nekker nest.
"Oh, pull the shafts from your asses, you two," said Eunice. She then turned to Geralt. "Please forgive these two jackasses, Master Witcher. They've got the manners of a boar-hog and about as much sense. It is both a pleasure and honor to meet you. Dear Priscilla here has told us all about you."
"She has?"
"Indeed, and I want to personally thank you for what you did for her back when she was brutally assaulted. For exacting justice against her attacker."
Geralt just nodded.
"Oh? That was you?" asked the baron.
"Yes, Father, it was," said Priscilla. She then glared at her brother. "Not only that, but this ne'er-do-well also happens to be a knight. Knighted by Queen Meve of Rivia and Lyria, herself. Isn't that correct, Sir Geralt?"
Quentin had the good graces to look slightly abashed while Geralt was just uncomfortable and wanted to leave. He never told anyone that he'd once been knighted, but clearly, Dandelion had no such reservations. The little twit never could keep his mouth shut. He wondered just what other stories the bard had told his fiancée.
"Yeah, that's right," he finally admitted after a long sigh.
"He even owns a large estate down in Toussaint."
"Well, then, it truly is a pleasure to meet you," said Priscilla's sister – Lois – stepping forward and offering her hand. She was also batting her eye-lashes at the witcher.
'Oh, boy. I definitely don't need this,' Geralt said to himself.
"You know, I'm Priscilla's bridesmaid," continued Lois. "And since you're the best man, then you and I should really get to know each other better." At that point, she reached out and rested her fingers on his arm.
"Maybe later," said Priscilla, coming to the rescue. "I need to speak with Geralt alone for a moment." And then she grabbed the witcher by the arm and led him a safe distance away.
"Your father and brother don't seem to like Dandelion much, huh?"
"That's an understatement," Priscilla answered quickly. "They all got off on the wrong foot the first time they met, but never mind that, right now. Where's Dandelion?"
"I still don't know."
"Then, why are you here, Geralt? Go back out there and find him."
Geralt grabbed her gently by the shoulders.
"Priscilla," he said calmly, looking into her frantic eyes. "I working on it, okay. As fast as I possibly can. I think I'm close. Just hold on for another day. Can you do that?"
She breathed out slowly and eventually nodded.
"Yes, I can. It's just - my family can be difficult. Even in the best of circumstances. Aunt Eunice is the only one I truly get along with. So, I really need you to bring him back."
Geralt hated making promises that he wasn't sure he could keep, but the woman clearly needed some assurance.
"What you said earlier to your folks – about him coming back tomorrow. I think that was accurate. I hope to have him here by tomorrow. Okay?"
"You promise?" she asked, the hope clear on her face.
"Yeah, I promise."
All I've got to do is strip in front of a large group of women. Piece of cake.
oOo
Geralt was pacing back and forth in his room at the cabaret, and he glanced out the window for what must have been the hundredth time. The sun had recently disappeared behind the horizon, and the darkness would soon be settling in. That meant that he needed to leave for the Passiflora soon. He was just turning from the window to continue his pacing when there was a knock on his door.
"Maybe it's Tiffani – come to tell me she's changed her mind about tonight," he whispered to himself as he walked across the room. But he knew that was only wishful thinking.
When he opened the door, Vivienne was there with a smile on her face. Her skin was flushed and she was breathing a bit heavily – as if she'd been running.
"Excellent," she said between breaths. "I was hoping that you'd still be here."
"I was just about to leave, but come on in. Please. Is there something wrong? You look out of breath."
At that, she blushed a bit more.
"No, nothing wrong. I just ran up the stairs – wanting to catch you before you left for the Passiflora."
"Oh, okay," he said, a small smile coming to his lips. "My first thought was that maybe somebody was chasing you."
"No, no one was pursuing me." She then slightly bit her lower lip. "I, uh, I bought these for you."
She brought forth both hands, objects in each.
At first, Geralt was so taken aback that he didn't move or say a word. Eventually, though, he reached for her gifts and said, "For me?"
"Yes. I was thinking about you this afternoon."
Geralt suddenly looked up.
"Really?"
"Yes. I kept thinking about, well, you know, what you're going to have to do tonight, and, then, I came across these items. I thought they might help."
He looked down at a blue bottle in his left hand, and when he turned it in order to see the label, his eyes widened.
"Whoa. Bitter Steel?"
Vivienne nodded and smiled.
"What exactly is this for?"
"Well, I could tell from your reaction at Tiffani's that stripping in front of a large crowd may not be something you'd be comfortable with. I know I wouldn't. So, I thought a little bit of alcohol might help."
"Yeah, well, you're right," he said with a long sigh. "In fact, I may need several shots of 'liquid courage' just to even get out on the stage. But how did you know I was a vodka man?"
"Well, you are from the North," she said with a smile. "So, I just made a calculated guess. Did I choose well?"
Geralt let out a slight laugh.
"Yeah, very well. Bitter Steel might be the best – and most expensive – vodka in all the Northern kingdoms. I don't think I've had it more than once or twice in my entire life, and it was always when someone else was buying. Never could afford it myself."
He glanced down at the bottle in his hand and then back at Vivienne.
"This is way too good for me. But thank you. I truly appreciate it."
Her smile slowly vanished, to be replaced with a serious look on her face.
"It is not too good for you, Geralt. Not too good at all."
And, suddenly, the little room became completely still and quiet. There was so much tension in the air that Geralt felt like he was standing in the middle of a Place of Power. The two of them stood there for several long moments, just a couple of paces a part. Neither said a word. They just stared into each other's eyes, and, once again, the witcher could smell her perfume. It smelled wonderful – like a blooming orchard of fruit trees on a cool, spring morning. Finally, he swallowed, broke his gaze, and looked down.
"And, uh, these?" he asked, holding up what looked and felt like two pieces of black, silky cloth.
"Here, let me show you."
She took the objects from his hand and led him toward a small mirror on the wall. She then stood in front him – their faces less than a foot apart.
"I saw these in a boutique," she said softly, as she reached up and put one of the pieces of cloth around the top of his face. "I remembered that you have to dress in a pirate outfit tonight and immediately thought of you – that you might want to wear them."
She adjusted the cloth until Geralt could see out of the eyeholes. It was a simple, black mask that covered the top half of his face. She then took the other piece of silk and placed it around the top of his head. She was now only inches away from Geralt, and he could feel her breath on his lips and cheeks. She slowly and carefully tucked his hair underneath the fabric, her fingertips brushing against the skin of his face and scalp. Her touch was almost electric. He peered closely at her face – her emerald-green eyes, her smooth skin, and sensuous lips, and he had the strongest urge to lean in and kiss her. But something inside of him kept him from doing so, and a moment later, she moved behind him to tie the ends of the cloth into a knot at the back of his head.
"There," she said, standing right next to him with a smile on her face. "Now, your face and hair are both covered. No one will know who you are. I know that would make me feel better if I had to take my clothes off in front of strangers."
Geralt looked at himself in the mirror for a moment before his eyes landed on Vivienne's reflection. This woman had thought about him during the day. And not only that, but she'd actually bought him a couple of gifts. He honestly couldn't remember the last time that someone had given him a gift. It must have been years. But she had, and that thought made him smile at her in the mirror. She smiled back at him, and for a moment, he wondered what it all might mean.
Eventually, he broke his gaze and glanced at the window again to see that the night had finally come.
"Thank you, Vivienne," he said, turning towards her. "Your support really means a lot."
"You're welcome, Geralt. That's what friends are for."
Upon hearing that, he winced slightly.
"Right," he said, nodding his head, a sad smile slowly coming to his face. "Friends. Of course. Well, I, uh, I'd better go."
"Okay. Good luck."
"Right."
He gave her a final smile before grabbing the small bag on his bed – a bag containing the pirate outfit - and walking out the door.
oOo
The witcher was sitting backstage at the Passiflora – the most high-end and elegant brothel in all of Novigrad. He was sweating through his pirate outfit, and when he looked down, he saw that his left leg was bouncing up and down. He stared at it for several seconds before he grabbed it with his hand, squeezed it hard, and pressed his foot down on the floor. Eventually, he released his grip on his knee, and a few moments later, his leg started to involuntarily bounce again. At that, he exhaled slowly before taking another long pull of vodka from the bottle next to him. But he was too anxious to enjoy the top-shelf flavor.
He'd arrived at the Passiflora an hour before and explained that he was replacing Fabian for the evening. Fortunately, he already knew the madame of the brothel, Marquise Serenity, so she'd had no objections. In fact, she thought the whole ordeal was quite humorous. After she'd briefly explained to him her expectations of him for the rest of the evening, he'd gone backstage to change. It wasn't much later that the brothel began to fill up with customers, and then the first dancer hit the stage. Madame Serenity announced to the crowd the dancer's stage name and then the band started playing an upbeat song – heavy on the drums and stringed instruments.
At first, Geralt had peeked through the curtain to watch the other strippers in action, but what he'd seen had only made him more nervous. To the witcher's eyes, the crowd of women seemed more like a pack of wolves. There was a ravenous, hungry look on their faces, and they howled at the top of their lungs whenever the dancers took the stage. And watching the performers had only made his stomach drop even more. They were totally uninhibited – strutting around almost completely naked in perfect timing with the music. Sometimes jumping out into the audience to rile up the she-wolves even more. And by the gods – the humping. There was so much humping. The dancers humped the floor of the stage. They humped the pole in the middle of the stage. They humped the chairs and potted plants at the edge of the stage. They humped the collecting bowls at the front of the stage. They'd even straddle the legs of the audience members and gyrate in front of their blushing faces. It seemed that all the dancers actually did was hump. Geralt had never felt more out of his element.
oOo
"I cannot believe you actually wanted to come here!" Marissa yelled over the music and shouting. "What's gotten in to you tonight?"
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Oh, please, cousin. You know exactly what I mean. I've been trying to get you to loosen up and let your hair down for months. You've made it clear that these types of establishments are not your cup of tea."
The two southerners were sitting near the back row of chairs in the Passiflora, watching the male strip-show. Marissa glanced at the dancer on stage before turning her focus back to Vivienne.
"Are you here simply because of my lesbian remark last night? You know, I don't care if you are."
"No," answered Vivienne with a roll of her eyes. "I'm not trying to prove anything to you. Perhaps, I am simply in the mood to admire the male form. Why is that so hard to believe?"
Marissa didn't say anything in return, but Vivienne could easily detect the suspicion on her face.
"Okay. Whatever. Don't tell me. But I know something's up."
"Just watch the show, will you?"
For the next twenty minutes, the two cousins rarely spoke. While Marissa hooped, hollered, and clapped along with the music, Vivienne wrung her hands together and scanned the first floor of the brothel. She didn't bother watching the dancers, though. She was simply trying to get a glimpse of Geralt, for she was wondering just how he was holding up. Hopefully, better than she was. With each passing minute, it seemed as if her heart was beating faster and her palms were getting clammier. At one point, her mouth became so dry that she went to bar and ordered a goblet of Erveluce.
As she drank her wine, she wondered exactly why she was so worried about the witcher. Why was she suddenly so invested in his well-being? Because the truth was that the two of them hardly knew one another. She could probably count on one hand the total number of hours that they'd spent together in their lives. So, why did she seemingly care so much about him?
"Because it's not the quantity," she said to herself. "It's the quality."
Two people could know each other for decades and never be anything more than acquaintances while two others could become fast friends in a matter of hours. It all came down to trust and intimacy. And it dawned on her right then that, except for her father, the witcher knew more intimate details about her life than any other man alive. And not only that, but she also trusted him more than any other man alive. He'd proven his honor to her two years ago. So, how could she not care about him and want what was best for him? He had freed her from her curse. He'd saved her from her pit of despair and given her life.
"But it's more than gratitude you feel for him," said a voice inside of her.
And she couldn't deny it. Yes, he was weathered, rough, and rugged. He certainly didn't fit the profile of all the dashing and regal-looking men she had dreamed about falling in love with when she'd been a young girl. In fact, he was unlike any man that she'd ever met. But despite that – or maybe it was because of that - she found herself incredibly attracted to him. And she had so wanted him to kiss her back in his room earlier. At one point, she had thought for sure that he was, but the moment had passed, and a part of her now regretted not having seized the opportunity herself.
"So, why didn't you?" she chided herself.
She sighed and her face fell because she knew the answer. A dark voice in her head – a voice that had been with her from the day that she had first learned that she was cursed - answered back.
"Because who could ever truly want to be with a freak like you. So, quit fooling yourself. At most, he'd want to be your friend. Nothing else."
She sighed heavily again and took a sip of her wine.
"We can be friends," she whispered out loud, nodding her head. "That will have to be enough, and I'm grateful for that."
At that point, she came out of her introspection and glanced up at the stage to see a dancer gathering up all the coins from the collecting bowls. A moment later, Madame Serenity sashayed into view, and once she was standing in the middle of the stage, the band lowered the volume of their playing. The madame spoke in a loud, cheerful voice.
"Ladies! I hope that you are all enjoying the show so far."
The audience clapped and yelled out in response.
"Well, do I ever have a special treat for you next! Our next dancer is gracing our stage for the very first time tonight. He comes from a land faraway. He's a brigand. He's a scoundrel. He's a master with his sword. And he's here to loot your booty and steal your virtue. May I present 'Captain Lambert the Prick, the dreaded pirate of the great, high seas!'"
Upon hearing that, Vivienne's heart skipped a beat. This had to be Geralt. She quickly gulped down the rest of her wine and rushed back to her seat next to Marissa. A moment later, the curtains at the back of the stage parted, and sure enough, it was the witcher who walked out. With the black mask and head covering, it could be no one else. He was also wearing black trousers and boots and a dark brown vest over a puffy, white shirt. Several women in the audience began shouting out.
"Show us your peg-leg, Captain Lambert!"
"I want to walk your plank!"
But it wasn't long until the excitement died down. Soon the women were no longer shouting or standing but, instead, sitting quietly in their seats. The only noise in the brothel was the music from the band. Vivienne brought her hand up to her mouth. She wanted to cry because, in her entire life, she'd never seen anyone look so uncomfortable. Geralt was moving his body to the beat of the music, but it wasn't much. And no one would ever call what he was doing dancing. He was simply strolling around the stage, motioning his arms and shoulders in an incredibly awkward fashion. And then to make matters worse, he actually started snapping his fingers to the music.
"Is this a joke?" she heard a woman a few seats over ask out loud. And several women got up from their seats and headed to the bar for drinks.
Luckily, the first song was a short one. Vivienne had only been at the show for an hour, but she had easily picked up the routine. Each dancer would get three songs in their set, and during the first song, the dancers would stay completely clothed. She hoped that with the start of the second song – and the commencement of some actual displaying of skin – Geralt might be able to engage and energize his audience.
But her hopes were short-lived. As the second song played, he continued to just mosey around the stage, casually taking off one article of clothing after another. There was absolutely nothing tantalizing or enticing in his stiff movements. However, he did get a reaction once he was finally down to his thong – a robin-egg blue fabric stretched tightly over his package. There were several gasps and comments from the crowd.
"What a waste," Vivienne heard from a woman nearby. "He's got a frigate in his pants, but he's got no motion in his ocean."
"That is without a doubt the worst pirate-stripper I've ever seen," said another spectator.
"By the gods – look at that body!" exclaimed Marissa. "But what's with all the scars? Those can't be real, can they? It's got to be makeup for his act, right?"
Vivienne couldn't answer. She just sat there – with her mouth open - staring at the witcher's body. But it wasn't his lean, muscular build that had her speechless. It was the damage. She didn't know how it was even possible for a single body to carry that many scars. And once again, her heart went out to him. She couldn't imagine the pain that he must have endured over the years to acquire such a patch-work. And then she looked at his face and almost started crying again. He was doing his best to smile and act like he was enjoying himself, but the embarrassment in his eyes was unmistakable.
And, suddenly, she was on her feet, rushing toward the stage. She didn't really know why. She just knew that she wanted to be near him, to let him know that he wasn't alone. He saw her coming down the aisle and moved to the edge of the stage. At that point, it didn't really matter since very few women were actually paying him any attention any longer.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"I came here to support you."
"This is a disaster."
"I know."
"Well, what should I do?"
"You've got to loosen up some."
"How the hell do I do that?"
"I don't know," she said with a sigh. "Just…imagine that you're making love to the audience. You know, let your hips move."
"I am not going to hump everything on this stage. That is not me."
"Then, I don't know. But you've got to do something…something different."
"Like what?"
"Just do what comes natural."
Suddenly, the witcher's eyes glanced over Vivienne's head. When he looked back down, he had a smile on his face.
"That's it. You're a genius."
Before she could say another word, Geralt leapt off the stage and ran down the aisle to the far side of the room. On the wall was a shield with two decorative swords crossed in front of it, acting as wall art. He gripped one of the swords by the handle and wrenched it free before sprinting back to the stage. Vivienne watched the entire thing with a confused look on her face. What was he planning to do?
Geralt jumped back onto the stage, looked at the band leader, and nodded. Instantly, the group broke into the third song – a song with an incredibly hard-driving, drum-led beat. And the witcher – with nothing but a thong over his crotch and a sword in hand – began performing his sword drills. But instead of slow and methodical, as he had performed them almost every day of his life, now, he moved with blazing speed – in perfect pace to the bass drum. Vivienne couldn't believe her eyes. The difference was astonishing. Geralt had suddenly transformed from uptight and rigid into a whirling tornado. He was jumping, flipping and pirouetting across the stage with an incredible grace and fluidity while his sword was an absolute blur around him.
And that's when she noticed the noise behind her. She turned to see all the women standing. Some were clapping. Some were shouting, and some were stomping their feet. But all of them had their eyes transfixed on the witcher. For the next three minutes, he put on a show that none of them had ever seen before. His strength, agility, and flexibility were superhuman, and he put them all on display. At one point, he somersaulted through the air and landed into a perfect, one-handed hand-stand. He immediately did several one-handed presses with his feet above him and the sword to his side. He came out of that into the splits, causing the audience to gasp. Towards the end of the song, he put a closed fist to his mouth, and when he blew out, he opened his fist and flames shot from his fingertips, making it look as if he was somehow breathing fire. By that point, the women in the audience were either screaming in excitement or shocked into silence. The song was building to its final crescendo, and just as the last beat of the drum sounded, Geralt came out of a forward flip. He landed nimbly on both feet and let out a thunderous yell, throwing the sword over the heads of all the women in the audience. Everyone turned, and when the blade buried into the wall – an inch away from its original position near the shield – they all screamed in triumph and ecstasy.
"Did that just happen!?" someone yelled above the bedlam.
Immediately, the women rushed the stage and began tossing their coins at the witcher. He was breathing heavily, and sweat was glistening off his chiseled body. Vivienne thought that he looked like some kind of mythical god of virility, come to life off the pages of a fantastical fairy tale. She also noticed that he wasn't looking at any of the women or the coins at his feet. He was staring straight at her, a warm smile on his face. The moment overcame her, and she couldn't help but laugh.
"You've got to be the best pirate-stripper I've ever seen!" she yelled over the din.
He glanced around him for a brief second – his eyes scanning over all the coins at his feet. When he looked back at her, he broke into another smile and gave her a slight nod.
"So it would seem."