The Witcher: Part XXVII
Back to the Future
Previously, on The Witcher:
Team Witcher met a fortuneteller woman called Abigail. And she revealed to them, that in their future, they are all going to die!
What is happening?
Geralt stared at the fortuneteller in disbelief.
"We are not going to die! You're a fraud!"
"I'm afraid, Geralt, that thee and thy three associates wilt die," said the fortuneteller with the delicateness of a flying brick.
"Geralt, I don't know if you've realised, but everyone has a limited lifespan," pointed out Lady Feudalism. "Everyone dies at one point."
Geralt sighed.
"So if that is the case, then you still haven't told us anything new," he said to Abigail.
"If ye wouldst likest more information, I will oblige only if you give me another 50gp," said Abigail.
Ciri flicked over another 50gp. One of the gps hit Abigail in the head, and she said "ow."
She then quickly returned to her act.
"I see a vision of ye before your final fight," said Abigail. "I see an old woman, a young man, a young witch, and thee, Geralt, flying on thy carpet towards thy final destination."
Geralt sighed again.
"She's not telling us anything we don't already know," said Geralt.
"It will be another 50gp if thou wouldst like details on the result to thy quest," said Abigail.
"I'd be interested in hearing it," said Iorverth, who had begun to tire of the stupidity of this 'fortuneteller'. Ciri paid another 50gp.
"Very well..." began Abigail. She pulled out a crystal ball and rubbed it with her hands.
"I... see... the result of thy quest," she said. "Thou wilt not succeed entirely, yet thou wilt not fail entirely. Some of your number may die, yet some of your number may not die," said Abigail.
"That is the most useless prediction I have ever heard," Iorverth said. "Let's stop wasting our money on this moron."
A man from the town walked into the hut.
"I'll have you know that Mrs Abigail has never been wrong with any of her predictions, not once," said the man, with much reverence.
"She has predicted warm weather every summer and cold weather every winter."
"She has predicted that all girls in this village grow to be women and all boys grow to be men, given that they do not die."
"She has predicted that the sky shall lighten and the air shall warm in the morning, and that the sky shall darken and the air shall cool in the evening."
"Okay, I've had enough of listening to these non-predictions," said Iorverth. "We've wasted 150 gold pieces on this rubbish already."
"But she's never been wrong though, not once," replied the man.
"Okay, think about it like this," said Iorverth. "Have you ever made a single prediction in your life, young man?"
"No, sir, I believe not," replied the man.
"Then, have you ever made an incorrect prediction?" asked Iorverth.
"No," replied the man.
"Well, that's the secret of your friend Abigail. She never actually makes any predictions so she can never be wrong," explained Iorverth.
The man stared blankly into the distance for a while.
"You know I am a true fortuneteller, and not a fraud," said Abigail.
"Why is your language suddenly modern?" asked Geralt perceptively.
"Uh... what? Oh. Thou heardst nothing," Abigail muttered.
"You, madam, are a fraud," said Iorverth, smacking his fist down on Abigail's table. "Your type prevents the furthering of human knowledge and growth."
"If you want a prediction so badly, then I will predict this..." said Abigail. She looked into Iorverth's eyes.
"You will die before you reach Mountain of Death."
And she grabbed her crystal ball and smacked it over Iorverth's head in an attempt to kill him.
Geralt shot a bolt of magick to send the crystal ball into the wall.
"You can't turn your back to the future!" shouted Abigail furiously. "My prophecy will come true!"
Team Witcher exited the hut and climbed onto their magick carpet and flew away.
"I can't believe we wasted so much time with that moron," said Iorverth.
"Yeah," replied Geralt.
Christian Grey knelt beside the priest again.
"I killed another guy," he said. "I'm here to repent."
"You're a murderer," said the priest. "You can't just kill people and then come here and repent and expect that it'll all be fine."
"You're a dumb priest," said Christian Grey.
"Good people aren't generally murderers!" replied the priest, exasperated. "How many times do I have to repeat that for it to get through your thick skull!"
"But it was justified! He was an ISIS guard!" said Christian Grey.
"Oh. If he was a Muslim, it's probably okay then," replied the priest sarcastically.
"Really?" asked Christian Grey.
"No! If you keep finding yourselves in situations where you're killing people, then maybe you should consider a different job," said the priest.
Christian Grey sat and contemplated the purpose of his existence.
Team Witcher found themselves at the beach on the north coast of the Southern Continent of Rivia. Geralt stared out into the sea.
"Beyond that sea is the Northern Continent," explained Iorverth. "And in the northern region of that continent, there exists the Sky Rim. That is where we are travelling."
They boarded the flying carpet and flew off, across the ocean separating the two main continents of Rivia.
Unfortunately, Geralt was getting tired quickly. Over land, it was easy to fly the carpet, but for some reason, flying over sea was much harder.
And also, there could be no stopping for toilet breaks.
It got to the point where the other three members of Team Witcher were continually shouting at Geralt, begging for him to find some way for them to do their business.
But Geralt wasn't listening, as he struggled to keep the carpet in the air.
"How... much... further?" asked Geralt to Iorverth, who held the map.
"Not too far. We're 0.02 percent of the way there! Keep up the good work!" replied Iorverth, who was trying to retain some semblance of an optimistic attitude despite his bladder being on the verge of bursting.
"I think... this is a bit... impractical..." said Geralt.
He collapsed, unconscious.
And then the flying carpet collapsed out of the air, and Team Witcher fell into the cold and treacherous waters.
TO BE CONTINUED
IN
THE WITCHER: PART XXVIII
THE HAPPY PRINCE