Pushing open the creaky door of the Fox Tavern, Wayne was greeted by an unexpected emptiness. Despite Old Yueke's intel, only a small number of patrons occupied the dimly lit interior. A quick scan, however, revealed his target – a man in his 40s with short, dark brown hair and a face etched with the scars of a hard life. Unconventionally handsome, he sat at a back table, clad in simple clothes that concealed a powerful build. Were it not for the unmistakable glint of his vertical pupils and the longsword strapped to his back, Wayne might have mistaken him for a weathered farmer. Unfazed, Wayne strode across the room and plopped himself down at the opposite table, directly facing Melissa who was napping behind the counter.
"Melissa!" he boomed, startling the dozing barkeep. "A few flagons of your finest cherry mead, some beef stew, and some game for this table. And put it all on my tab, along with whatever my friend here consumes."
Melissa, her eyes snapping open at the sound of his voice, couldn't help but smile. Though she walked with a slight limp, her movements remained surprisingly nimble as she scurried to the back and retrieved Wayne's order.
The man opposite him, however, had been eyeing Wayne with a piercing gaze ever since he sat down. Only when Melissa placed a generous spread of food and drink between them did he finally break the silence. His voice, deep and rumbling, cut through the tavern's quietude. "Friend," he began, his scrutinizing gaze unwavering, "what's the meaning of this? And to which witcher school do you belong?" The lack of Witcher insignia around Wayne's neck, coupled with his fine silk shirt and ornate dagger, had clearly piqued the man's curiosity.
Apart from the glint of amber, and vertical pupils, the man opposite to him could have passed for a promising youth. Wayne, however, bypassed introductions for the moment. He grabbed two glasses, filled them with the ruby-red cherry nectar, and gestured to the man with one. Downing the entire contents in a single gulp, he flashed a smile and spoke.
"Wayne, of the Wolf School," he said. "Pleasure to meet you, friend. A fellow witcher – can't say I bump into many these days. Figured I'd come over and say hello."
George remained silent for a beat, then mimicked Wayne's action, draining his own glass of cherry wine. "Griffin School," he rumbled in a low voice. "George. Nice to meet you, Wayne of the Wolf School."
Being a witcher often meant being an outcast, and the Wolf School held a decent reputation. This, coupled with Wayne's youthful appearance – sunny demeanor, gentle smile, and the unprompted offer of a meal – put George somewhat at ease. There was another factor too. The meager meal of black bread and ale before him spoke volumes about George's circumstances. Witchers of the Griffin School were known for their meager pay, after all.
Wayne, noticing this, didn't waste time with further niceties. He nudged his plate of meat towards George, a portion of beef and wild boar replacing the humble bread. "Have some, George," he said with a grin. "Melissa's cooking is the stuff of legends. Ask any patron who's ever graced these tables."
A hint of amusement flickered across Melissa's face as she stole a glance at Wayne. Though taken aback by Wayne's enthusiasm, George wasn't one to refuse a good meal. A grateful smile played on his lips as he nodded, then dove into the meat with gusto, washing it down with gulps of cherry mead. Satiated after a few bites, he finally spoke, a furrow in his brow.
"Speaking of, Wayne," he began, a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice. "Did you stumble upon this tavern by chance, or were you looking for me specifically?"
He already had the answer in his heart. After Wayne came in, he came straight to him. It shouldn't be like a coincidence. For this question, Wayne didn't need to hide anything and answered directly;
"Indeed," Wayne admitted, dispensing with pleasantries. "I sought you out, George. It just so happened the blacksmith you visited belongs to a dwarf friend of mine. They mentioned a witcher, and my curiosity was piqued." He finished his sentence, then leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Word on the street is you're headed for Velen. Green dragon on the agenda, is it?"
George shot him a surprised look. After a contemplative pause, he conceded with a nod.
"Aye, the blacksmith spilled the beans, then." A grim expression settled on his features. "Truth is, I heard whispers of a green dragon plaguing Velen two years back. Nothing concrete, no bounty. Just whispers dismissed as tavern tales."
He sighed, swirling the kirsch in his glass thoughtfully. "Witchers, you see, generally avoid slaying intelligent creatures like dragons. But last month, passing through Velen again, I learned the local baron placed a bounty on the beast. A measly three hundred Oren, mind you, but five farmers have already fallen victim to its wrath."
Determination hardened his voice. "That's why I'll take the job." He downed a shot of the cherry liquor, a grimace twisting his face. "Unfortunately, my silver sword suffered damage in a prior fight. And Velen, that wretched excuse for a town, lacks a decent blacksmith to mend it."
"I rushed to Vizima overnight and came to the big city just to nd those highly skilled blacksmiths. It's a pity that their prices are too expensive. I spent all the money, but only enough to repair the silver sword. This is because the master blacksmith is willing to give me a discount, and I have no money to repair the armor for combat. "
Wayne couldn't help but smile at George's grumbling, though a pang of sympathy echoed within him. The repair fees were extortionate. Silverswords and witcher armor were delicate things, and nearly half a witcher's income went towards maintaining their gear. It was precisely why Wayne had always harbored a desire to learn the art of forging.
A memory flickered in Wayne's mind. According to the lore, George of the Griffin School met a tragic end in Velen. A brutal fight with the green dragon left him grievously wounded, only to be robbed by a scavenger while on the brink of death. Potions and valuable blueprints vanished, leaving players with just a handful of Griffin School schematics.
Listening to George's tale, Wayne couldn't help but admire the witcher's chivalrous spirit. The reward paled in comparison to the power of the green dragon. Yet, George, a true champion of the weak, was determined to see the job through.
Taking advantage of the camaraderie fostered by good food and drink, Wayne initiated a conversation about their respective schools, exchanging knowledge and recent happenings. The news wasn't encouraging. The once-proud Griffin School was a shadow of its former self, with only two or three confirmed survivors. Their base camp, buried under an avalanche orchestrated by warlocks, lay in ruins. Unlike the Wolf School's annual gatherings, the remnants of the Griffin School were scattered across the world, their fates unknown.
This sparked an idea in Wayne's mind. The Griffin School, he recalled, was renowned for their mastery of sigils and heavy armor, much like a knight plate armor.
It is said that in the base camp of the Griffin School, the hidden magic knowledge is coveted even by warlocks, so the spellcasters caused this avalanche when repeated attempts to borrow the knowledge were rejected, directly burying the Griffin School members. The irony was bitter – some of the school's own members were believed to be involved in it.
This nugget of information lodged itself in Wayne's mind. If the rumors were true, the Griffin School possessed magic knowledge specifically tailored for witchers. Mastering some of those spells could significantly enhance his abilities. George, the Griffin witcher right in front of him, was a valuable resource.
But a dilemma gnawed at Wayne. How could he, a Wolf School witcher, convince George to share the secrets of his own school? Witchers were notoriously possessive of their knowledge, and inter-school camaraderie wasn't exactly their strong suit.