They can hear the song even before they open the door of the little tavern. Geralt's eyes grow wide with surprise. This cannot be possible, can it? What are the odds of running into Jaskier by sheer accident, and here of all places? It must be somebody else who is performing his friend's most popular song. But the voice, he would recognise it anywhere, Geralt is sure of it. It sounds exactly like the bard's, his bard's. Nobody could cover the song so perfectly, could they? Not unless it is a doppler. Would a doppler pose as Jaskier to profit from his fame, Geralt wonders. It is not impossible, but why on the continent would a doppler choose to do so in this out-of-the-way place? Only few people populate the remote mountain region, and they are not exactly famous for being rich or generous. He would not have bothered taking the contract for the myriapod if he were only interested in the - pretty scant - payment. No, he wants to find out if it is another one of those monolith creatures, like the last myriapod he slew, and somehow connected to other spheres and to Ciri. Plus, according to what the mayor has just told them, the monster has eaten dozens of sheep already and come dangerously close to the village. So far, no human has been hurt, however, it might only be a matter of time before things get ugly. Better to take care of the beast now.

"Anything the matter?" Cahir asks softly when Geralt does not make a move to press down the door handle but remains rooted to the doorstep listening to the music.

"Don't know yet," Geralt mutters, a little puzzled by the question, but then he remembers. Cahir has not seen Jaskier or heard any of his songs since he lost his memory. The snippets of the melody and lyrics that waft through the open window would mean nothing to him. "We'd better be on our guard," he adds. "Something fishy going on here." Or not? Perhaps he is just a little paranoid. There might be a simple explanation for this remarkable coincidence. Well, only one way to find out. Determined, Geralt opens the door and enters the tap room, Cahir following close behind.

And there he is, in the middle of the room, Jaskier the bard, his best friend, belting out 'Toss a coin' in exactly the same place where they met for the very first time, how long ago? Twenty-eight years? And he has hardly changed. The hair is a little longer now and his style was a bit more foppish and colourful back then, but otherwise Geralt would swear only a few days could have passed by, not decades. The tavern looks exactly the same, too, like all of Posada, even the smell has not changed. Mostly mushrooms, onions, and, yes, fish. Ale, too, of course, it is a tavern after all. Geralt's mouth starts to water. After a long day of riding through the wilderness he is dastardly hungry. A pint of cold beer would be highly welcome, too.

While not interrupting his musical performance, Jaskier waves his hat with the heron feather at the two Witchers, obviously not surprised in the least at seeing them here. Strange. How did he know they were coming? It is not like they were having a date. He and Cahir only decided to go on this hunt a few days ago. Geralt gazes around warily. Funnily enough, the only unoccupied table is the exact same one he was sitting at when last he was in Posada almost thirty years ago. Another coincidence? Well, no matter what, it is the table he would have picked anyway. A bit separated from the other customers and with a good view of the room. The two Witchers take off their swords and sit down on the wooden benches opposite each other. Not even a minute later, the waitress is there with two big mugs of foamy beer for her newest guests.

"I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood," Jaskier says with a wink, coming over to their table after he has finished his song and collected the little coin the peasants were willing to part with. "But not here to drink alone today, I see."

"No bread in your pants this time?" Geralt asks, his grin matching his friend's. If it is his friend. He knew the exact words of their first encounter, but a doppler also would. Geralt stands up and gives Jaskier a bear hug, inhaling deeply. Yes, the scent is definitely Jaskier's. Could a doppler be able to imitate it that perfectly? Interesting question. The heartbeat is not markedly elevated, so if it is a doppelgänger, he must be very confident in his skills of deception. However, the whole man feels so genuinely like his bard, Geralt is almost certain it is truly him. He inhales once again, hugging him even closer.

"Geralt, would you stop it, for Melitele's sake. I can hardly breathe," Jaskier protests. "It's pretty nice in your arms, yes, I have to admit it, but you're squashing me. Can't you hear my ribs crack? I'm not a lemon for your pike!"

Geralt lets go of his friend, who is rolling his eyes at him exaggeratedly. Hm, he might have squeezed a bit too hard indeed. So hard his silver Witcher medallion - not quite unintentionally - brushed against the bard's bare collar bone. To his relief, there was no sizzling sound or any other reaction to the skin contact with the noble metal. Definitely not a doppler then but the one and only Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.

"Sorry," Geralt says contritely, glancing at the big plates the waitress is bringing over to their table. "Seems like there are plenty enough lemons anyway." The fish does not only look deliciously crispy, but it is nicely decorated with parsley and heaps of lemon slices. It is huge, too. Maybe they do have giant pikes here in Posada after all? Well, being hungry like the proverbial wolf, Geralt does not complain.

"Cahir, good to see you." Jaskier flashes a smile at the other man, who has quietly observed their exchange. He flops down on the bench next to Geralt. "Yennefer told me you've become a Witcher. Hopefully one who is not as stingy with the details as this big old grump here." Affectionately, he pokes Geralt in the ribs with his elbow. "And one who won't abandon me on top of a mountain," he then adds.

"I did it only once," Geralt grumbles. "And I apologised."

"Ah, yes, I do remember this deep, guttural 'And I'm sorry, Jaskier.'" He lowers his voice, imitating his Witcher friend. "Geralt's always so emotional, yap, yap, yap," he then says, winking at Cahir while snatching a pint of ale from the waitress's tray for himself. He raises his mug. "To our happy reunion. Cheers!" Jaskier takes a long drink. Then he puts the half empty mug back on the table with a thud. "I missed you, Geralt. You, too, Nilfgaardian."

"This is where I'm expected to protest that I'm not a Nilfgaardian, I suspect," Cahir says with a slight frown.

"You are indeed, comrade," Jaskier confirms with a smile, wiping beer foam off his chin with a frilly handkerchief. "But as Yennefer has also filled me in on everything else, including your little memory problem, I won't insist."

"Was it she who told you we'd come here for a contract?" Geralt asks. It would explain a lot, although not everything.

"Naturally." Jaskier flashes Geralt another grin. "Yen was so happy to see me the other day, she hardly stopped chattering. Must've been starving for a proper conversation, poor girl, with only Vesemir and the two of you around for the last couple of weeks."

"Hm. That explains how you're here, Jaskier," Geralt says, knitting his brow, "but not why."

"You mean besides coming here to marvel at the magnificent countryside and the gravity-defying architecture? Isn't it obvious?" Jaskier asks, then answers his own question. "To reminisce, of course! To remember our very first adventure together! To commemorate the evolution of my most iconic and successful ballad! To drink to the astounding change of image of your profession - thanks to my song! Not to forget, to celebrate our eternal bond of friendship!"

"It's not a milestone anniversary yet, Jaskier."

"I am aware of it, Geralt. I can count. But who knows what the future will have in store for us? I, for my part, might have opened my own cabaret in Novigrad by then, a very responsible job which will make it impossible for me to travel the continent. Even you, Geralt, might become tired of witchering and settle somewhere in a milder climate. So, I gathered it'd be best not to wait another two years but grasp this splendid opportunity by the forelock. Or rather the horns. You are hunting some kind of horned monster again, aren't you?"

"A myriapod. Resembles a giant centipede, but with the skull of a wolf and a ram's horns."

"Ah, I knew it, it has horns! At the edge of the world, fight the mighty horn," Jaskier intones, "that bashes and breaks you and brings you to—"

"Your pike's getting cold," Geralt interrupts his friend's loud singing that garners far too much attention from the other customers.

"The pike with the spike, that lurks in your drawers," the bard switches to another song, unperturbed, "or the flying drake that will fill you with horrooor."

"Gods, it was so nice and quiet when it was just the two of us," Geralt mumbles, addressing Cahir, who is silently eating his fish.

"Need old Nan the Hag to stir up a potion. So that your lady can get an aboooortion."

"Jaskier, I said it back then and I say it now. The creatures in your song. They don't exist."

"I know. They're fun, though, if you even know what that means. And still, you better remember, Geralt," Jaskier adds with a grin, "here in Posada, you'd be wise to beware! The pike with the spike—"

"Beware yourself, bard, or I might eat your dinner," Geralt cuts him short gruffly. However, after Jaskier has finally stopped singing and he has sufficiently satisfied his hunger and thirst, Geralt's mood lightens considerably. The two best friends spend the rest of the entertaining evening telling Cahir all about their adventure with the satyr and the elves at the edge of the world. The true version, not the song one, Geralt makes sure of that. The copious amounts of smooth beer might have helped raise the Witcher's spirits, too. Moreover, Jaskier is not wrong, he has to admit. Their long and very special friendship deserves a little celebration indeed, even if it is not an anniversary yet.

While they are talking animatedly, the summer sun disappears behind the mountains in a breathtaking display of orange and red. Eventually, the last patrons are leaving one after the other and the waitress and barkeeper seem eager to close the tavern for the night.

"Time to hit the hay," Geralt decides and stands up from the bench. "We'll set out to find the monster at dawn, Jaskier. You'd be wise to not sleep in if you don't want to miss it."

Jaskier, not an early riser by nature and especially not after a boozy night at a tavern, grimaces as he gets to his somewhat unsteady feet.

"Right. As if the monsters wouldn't be there in the afternoon, too. But no, it must always be at dawn, how could I forget," he grumbles. "When every rational creature is still fast asleep. Witchers. By the way," he adds mischievously, "no vacancies. You can sleep in my bed, though, Geralt. It's big enough for two."

"If you swear on the heron not to talk or sing in your sleep."

"I swear. On the heron's feather." Jaskier twirls his hat with a smug grin, then he starts toward the stairs. "You too, Cahir, there's a little sideroom with a cot. Wouldn't let a friend sleep on the floor, or in the stables."

So, this is where we leave the three companions to themselves and the night. A balmy summer night with plenty of stars and even the one or other shooting star. However, travel-worn as they are, they fall asleep almost instantaneously, oblivious to those nighttime wonders. And dawn is not far.