The Witcher

Ciri. Ciri...

Dara?

Please...

don't hurt me.

Keep your aim true.

I'm lost.

I don't know... how I got here.

Please.

If she runs, kill her.

Where are you taking me?

I need to find Dara. Please!

What is your name?

Fiona.

- Where am I? How did I get... - You are in Brokilon Forest.

Follow me.

I tell you no lie,

it swallowed the whole village, it did.

Not a bone to be found!

Oh, don't give me that look, shitling.

That's why we had to call him...

The White Wolf!

And he stood in the middle of that frozen lake

like he knew it was coming for him.

The ice cracked open

and a selkiemore shot out!

Oh, you've never seen one,

but it'd take down a ship with its cavernous mouth

full of devil's teeth!

And it... swallowed...

that witcher...

whole!

Oh, this is brilliant!

Oh, sorry. It's just Geralt's usually so stingy with the details.

Uh... and then what happened?

He died.

Eh... He's fine.

Look, I was there.

I saw it with my own...

See?

Oh...

What's that stench?

- Selkiemore guts. - Ugh!

Had to get it from the inside. I'll take what I'm owed.

Thank you!

You're welcome.

And now, Witcher, it's time to repay your debt.

"What debt?" you're probably asking yourself in your head right now.

Well, I'll tell you.

I've made you famous, Witcher.

By rights, I should be claiming ten percent of all your coin,

but instead, what I'm asking for is a teeny,

teeny-weeny little favor.

Fuck off, bard.

For one measly night of service,

you will gain a cornucopia of earthly delights.

The greatest masters of the culinary arts

crafting morsels worthy of the gods.

Maidens that would make the sun itself blush

with a single comely smile.

And rivers of the sweetest of drinks from the rarest of...

Fuck!

Food, women and wine, Geralt!

Now, now, stop your boorish grunts of protest.

It is one night bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world.

How hard could it be?

I'm not your friend.

Oh. Oh, really?

Oh, you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?

Yeah, well, yeah, exactly. That's what I thought.

Every lord, knight and two penny king worth his salt

will be at this betrothal.

The Lioness of Cintra herself will sing the praises

of Jaskier's triumphant performance!

How many of these lords want to kill you?

Hard to say. One stops keeping count after a while.

Wives, concubines, mothers sometimes.

Ooh, yeah, that face!

Ooh!

Scary face!

No lord in his right mind will come close

if you're standing next to me with a puss like that.

Ooh, on second thoughts...

might want to lay off the Cintran ale.

A clear head would be best.

I will not suffer tonight sober

just because you hid your sausage in the wrong royal pantry.

I'm not killing anyone. Not over the petty squabbles of men.

Yes, yes, yes.

You never get involved. Except you actually do,

all of the time.

Ugh. Is this what happens when you get old?

You get unbearably crochety and cantankerous?

Actually, I've always wanted to know, do witchers ever retire?

Yeah. When they slow and get killed.

Come on, you must want something for yourself

once all this... monster hunting nonsense is over with.

I want nothing.

Well, who knows?

Maybe someone out there will want you.

I need no one.

And the last thing I want is someone needing me.

And yet...

here we are.

Hm.

Where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier?

Ah. Well, uh, they were sort of covered in selkiemore guts,

so I sent them away to be washed.

Anyway, you're not going tonight as a witcher.

Right, so stick close to me, look mean and pretend you're a mute.

Can't have anyone finding out who you are.

Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!

Oh, shit.

I haven't seen you since the plague.

Good times, Mousesack.

I've missed your sour complexion.

I feared this would be a dull affair,

but now the White Wolf is here, perhaps all is not lost.

Why are you dressed like a sad silk trader?

- What? - Walk with me.

To Mousesack!

- Yeah! - To Mousesack!

Prince Windhalm of Attre!

I've been advising the Skelligen crown for years.

A tad rough around the edges, but they're of the earth. Like me.

- Castellan Haxo. - Old and crusty.

How long before this horse trading is done?

I find royalty best taken in...

small doses.

I wouldn't count on leaving before dawn.

These suitors will vie all night for Princess Pavetta's hand.

Marrying into this monarchy is a mighty prize.

Who wouldn't want to be king of the most powerful force in the land?

Hm.

So, which one of these little shits is your coin on?

Come with me, there's much for you to see.

It's not a fair bet.

That red-headed scanderlout over there, Crach an Craite, will marry Pavetta.

The Lioness has already arranged it with the boy's uncle,

Eist Tuirseach.

No one would dare make a move on an alliance that powerful.

Handy with a blade.

- Handy with women, too. - All an act.

Queen Calanthe refused his proposal three times after King Roegner died,

despite the two of them gliding around each other

like courting swans.

No, no, no.

She was not for living in her husband's shadow again.

Something about you reminds me

of a scoundrel I once saw fleeing my wife's chambers!

Um, well...

- Drop your trousers. - What?

I didn't get a proper look at the little shit's face,

but that pimply arse I'd remember anywhere.

Well... uh, uh... Ah, Geralt.

Forgive me, my lord.

This... happens all the time.

It's true, he has the face of a cad and a coward.

- Mm. - But, truth be known,

he was kicked in the balls by an ox as a child.

Well, that's...

tr... true.

Apologies.

Here, drown your...

sorrows on me, eunuch.

Oh, wow. Thank you. Thank you so much.

First of all, you hog all the fanfare,

then you go and ruin my courtly reputation.

I saved your life. You're on your own from here on.

Try not to get any daggers in your back before dawn.

All rise for Her Majesty, the Lioness,

Queen Calanthe of Cintra!

Beer!

Apologies, noble sirs.

A few upstart townships in the south needed reminding who was Queen.

I find it's good for one's blood and humors.

Ready your suitor's tales of glory, good lords.

My daughter is eager to have this over with.

As am I.

Bard, music!

No, no, no! A jig!

You can save your bloody maudlin nonsense for my funeral.

Three, four...

It will be done soon.

You think I wanted to marry your father?

I'll have none of your waterworks here.

You're the daughter of the Lioness, behave like it!

Perhaps I should have some starving serfs brought in to slaughter, then.

Or I could decapitate some elves

and have their heads hung about as a lesson to those who would defy me.

I will not have your hysteria turn this night upside down.

Besides, that boorish lout is the key

to Cintra holding power after I taste clay.

He's from good stock.

You could do worse.

I could do better!

You can have who you want when you're married.

You have your mother's blood. You'll be fine.

Where were you headed, Fiona, to end up so lost?

I was running...

from the war.