The alchemy room was very quiet, with only the soft burble of an unknown liquid simmering in the cauldron—blup… blup… as small bubbles broke the surface.
Sensing how awkward the silence had become, Angoulême jumped in to smooth things over. "Let me introduce him. His name is Dandelion. He's Geralt's friend. We traveled together for a long time, and he was there when Geralt fell in Rivia…"
Victor barely heard another word after "Dandelion" reached his ears. He stared at the slick-looking man's face, momentarily blank. There was no chance of mistaking him—the name and the man's whole vibe matched perfectly. This guy was absolutely Dandelion himself. And he really was blessed with a fine face… no wonder he could leave broken hearts everywhere.
Sure, the man could be an infuriating bastard, but if you were his friend, then he was the kind of bastard who'd step into danger for you and never abandon you. In this world, he was one of the rare genuinely positive figures who constantly radiated clown-energy in the best way. And the songs he wrote—Victor had heard them more than once since coming here. They really were good.
The frost on Victor's face melted. He waved for Angoulême to stop talking, removed his sunglasses, and stepped out from behind the table.
"My apologies—how rude of me. So it's Dandelion, the greatest poet in the North, gracing my humble home. I admire your work. Please allow me, as your host, to treat you properly."
Angoulême's eyes widened and her mouth fell slightly open, stunned by the sudden shift. From what she'd seen, her captain had met plenty of powerful people, and never once changed expression just because someone announced their name. So why was he being so polite to this womanizing, cowardly, useless fellow who did nothing but hum crude little verses?
For Dandelion, Victor's change in attitude wasn't strange at all. The nobles who loved to pretend they were cultured were always like this.
The bard immediately found his rhythm. "Ah… honorable Mr. Victor, thank you for taking care of Angoulême. She and I have endured wind and frost together, walked through rain and snow. We are the best of friends. I'm deeply honored to accept your hospitality."
Victor had "been" the White Wolf countless times in games, so he knew Geralt's closest friends well enough—and he tended to be a bit more forgiving toward them.
And Dandelion was practically the comedic core of those stories. With Victor's closeness to Ciri as it was, this man counted as a natural ally no matter how you looked at it.
He had to learn from the mistake he'd made with Zoltan before—friendship had to be built gradually, step by step, until it became solid.
Smiling sincerely, Victor patted the bard's arm. "Come on. I've got a few good bottles upstairs—Toussaint's finest Est Est red. Maybe we can drink while we listen to your ballads. And to be honest, I've dabbled in the lute myself. I even performed at an elven festival once."
"You play too?" Dandelion's brows shot up. Then he froze mid-thought. "Wait… Victor… that name… don't tell me you're the 'heaven-sent musician' from the Flotsam forest summer festival—the one whose song made a thousand people cry?"
That title left Victor a bit dumbfounded. Somehow the rumor had gotten more and more distorted with time. Before, people had only called the tune "heavenly." Now it had spread to the person and become "heaven-sent musician."
He answered with a weary sort of honesty. "I wouldn't dare call myself that, but yes—'With You' was performed by me."
Dandelion's face flushed. He grabbed Victor's hands tightly in both of his. "By the gods! I've heard elf friends on the road mention your music—everyone who heard it said they could die without regrets, and they praised it so highly it made every other performer sound worthless. I never imagined I'd meet you here. Come, come, come—we have to go upstairs and talk properly!"
And just like that, the two men went up the stairs with arms slung over each other's shoulders, completely ignoring Angoulême. She was left staring, shocked by how fast their "friendship" had exploded. They'd known each other less than ten minutes, and already they looked like they were about to swear themselves into some ridiculous, lifelong brotherhood.
And to think—no long ago at all, she'd been pretty sure Victor had the urge to draw his sword and cut Dandelion down on sight.
…
Angoulême began to suspect she had the soul of a prophet.
She already knew Dandelion—nearly forty—was unreliable, but she hadn't expected Victor, barely fifteen, to be just as hopeless in the exact same way. After Victor played "With You," Dandelion belted out a section of "The Lion Cub of Cintra," and the two of them truly did end up hugging like long-lost twins. By the time the drinking reached its finale, the way they were carrying on was too painful to watch.
Worse, Angoulême had a strong feeling this "too painful to watch" was only a rehearsal for something even wilder next time.
They drank themselves asleep, woke up and drank again. Thankfully, on the second night, the one woman capable of subduing both of them showed up.
To everyone's surprise—Angoulême and Victor included—Shani was actually Dandelion's junior. They were both graduates of Oxenfurt Academy.
"Dandelion, you idiot—why are you getting Victor this drunk? How old is he?" Doctor Shani scolded her nominal "senior" without the slightest mercy.
Unfortunately, the bard was completely drowned in alcohol. He slumped in a lounge chair with dead eyes, basking in the fading buzz. Shani glared at him hard—because that was her favorite chair. She swore that if Dandelion dared to vomit on it, she would make him regret being born.
Victor pulled the cork on a sobering potion and downed the whole thing. His blurry gaze cleared a little. He reached out and lightly tugged Shani's sleeve. "It's fine, Shani. Don't be mad. We were talking about music, we got carried away, and I had a few extra cups."
Shani's glare swung onto Victor instead.
The moment he saw that look, Victor sucked in a cold breath and shut his mouth at once, listening obediently as she laid down the law.
"Listen, Vic. You're still a kid. A little now and then, I won't lecture you—but your body isn't finished growing. You shouldn't be drinking that much, even if you're a witcher apprentice. If you want to grow any taller, stop wasting a healthy body."
Faced with that caring, stern scolding, Victor's inner pride wanted to puff up and declare that he didn't owe anyone an explanation.
But he didn't. He simply lowered his head and admitted fault—because a truly grown mind didn't pick petty battles just to save face.
Seeing how cooperative he was, Shani's expression finally softened into a satisfied smile. Then she took command of the scene, directing Victor and Angoulême to work together and haul Dandelion—deadweight like a pig—to a third-floor bedroom, laying him on his side.
No back-sleeping, no face-down sleeping. It was to keep him from choking on his own vomit. And falling asleep sitting up while drunk wasn't good for the body either.
Once Dandelion was settled, they went downstairs. Victor, ready out of habit to walk Shani home, realized she had no intention of leaving.
"Uh… you don't need to go back tonight?"
"I'm off duty at the clinic. I'll just sleep with Angoulême. When I wake up, I need to have a proper talk with my senior. It's been ages, and the first thing he does when he shows up is try to drown a kid in booze." Shani was clearly still furious.
Victor blinked. He wasn't sure what Shani's real reason for being so angry was—but he knew how to keep his head down when a storm hit.
So he stretched, declared himself exhausted, and retreated to his room to sleep.
//Check out my P@tre0n for 20 extra chapters //[email protected]/Razeil0810.