"The Leshen is a formidable foe, a very dangerous monster. Triss, will you take the job?" Wayne inquired, though his heart already had an answer. The invitation to her home, the delicious meal – it wasn't just about the food, nor was it a mere physical attraction. Triss, he suspected, was drawn to his skills as a witcher, seeking a formidable ally. Compared to impersonal contracts posted on notice boards, rife with deception and falsehoods, this was a far more genuine offer. Wayne's policy of working only with acquaintances had its benefits, filtering out a lot of potential headaches.
As expected, a hint of self-consciousness colored Triss's beautiful face when she responded. "It's difficult to refuse," she admitted with a touch of vulnerability. "The Duke of Maribor mentioned sending soldiers to assist me, but how reliable are those barely-trained farmhands?
"Now," Triss said, her voice soft yet firm, "I require a powerful warrior, a true master of the blade, to stand beside me. Only then can we be certain of victory against such a formidable foe." Her gaze met his. "Wayne, would you consider joining me on this mission?"
A system chime echoed within Wayne's mind:
Ding! New Quest: Taming Trouble in the Mine (Master Level)
Accept/Decline
The notification tightened his grip. A Master-level quest? The omission of the Leshen's name from the title hinted at a potential escalation in threats. Perhaps the situation at the mine was even graver than anticipated. Yet, the allure of a Master-level challenge was undeniable. The sheer amount of experience points dwarfed the combined total of over a hundred ordinary contracts. Licking his lips, he met Triss's hopeful gaze.
"Leshens are indeed fearsome," he acknowledged, "and witcher history is filled with tragedies involving them. However, Triss, if you're willing to collaborate with me and respect my expertise during the operation, I accept. After all, dealing with such threats falls within the sworn duty of a witcher."
A flicker of relief crossed Triss's features. Wayne's seriousness softened with a gentle smile. "Besides," he added playfully, "what witcher could resist the opportunity to escort a beautiful lady like yourself?"
Triss's smile blossomed at Wayne's acceptance. Though their collaboration was untested, as a witcher, he inspired far more confidence than any untried soldier. And let's face it, Wayne possessed the undeniable appeal of a skilled and handsome hunter. Beauty wasn't a one-way street, after all.
Triss stifled a laugh, her gaze lingering on him with a hint of amusement. "The compliment is appreciated, Wayne," she said. "But I'm familiar with the witcher's code. Now, about the reward..."
The next morning, Wayne awoke in his own bed. Apparently, the beautiful sorceress wasn't one for late-night guests. Perhaps it was genuine modesty on her part, or perhaps Keira's influence lingered, preventing any transgression of their newfound friendship.
Following their discussion on compensation, the evening flowed with rounds of Gwent and candid conversation. Previously, their interactions revolved around Keira, leaving them with a superficial understanding of each other. This free-flowing dialogue offered a deeper glimpse into their respective lives.
Initially, Triss proposed a thousand orens as a reward – a princely sum by most standards. Even the famed Geralt of Rivia might struggle to amass such a bounty in a year. Yet, the financially secure Wayne politely declined. His true aim was a favor from Triss, a bargaining chip he could leverage in the future. He didn't want to squander its potential by settling their debt with this single mission. Instead, he negotiated a simple agreement: a promise from Triss to lend a hand should he encounter future difficulties requiring a sorceress's touch.
The extent of Triss's future favor remained to be seen, but Wayne wasn't overly concerned.
After rising, Wayne prepared a simple breakfast for himself and Berengar. He was pleasantly surprised to discover Berengar's initiative. Perhaps due to his accustomed hardship, Berengar had quietly begun tilling the backyard wasteland for a future herb garden. Wayne found himself warming to the young man. Most people weren't born evil; they arrived in the world like blank slates. It was only through hardship and misfortune that some were twisted into villains.
After breakfast, Wayne headed to Master O'Henry's blacksmith shop, laden with good food and wine to appease the old dwarf. Currently, the master craftsman was engrossed in designing a new set of light armor for Wayne. The materials were a unique blend: special dragon scales from the Elder Scrolls world and components salvaged from the slain green dragon. Their rarity, coupled with their otherworldly origins, rendered existing Witcher armor blueprints useless. Master O'Henry was forced to rely on his own ingenuity.
Wayne's current Wolf School gear, while well-crafted, lacked the necessary power for future battles. A new, more formidable set of armor had become a pressing need. Master O'Henry, ever dedicated, threw himself into the design process after their meal. Progress, however, was slow. The armor remained in the conceptual phase, and a completion date was anyone's guess.
Leaving the blacksmith's shop, a wave of idleness washed over Wayne. His rendezvous with Triss wasn't until the day after tomorrow, and neither of them were pressed for time. The sorceress planned to use a portal to teleport him directly to Maribor. All he had to do was pack his essentials.
Contemplating a visit to a pub to earn some coin and hone his Gwent skills, Wayne's gaze snagged on a small boy, his face marred by bruises, sprinting past him in a desperate dash. Three rough-looking men, clad in tattered clothes and sporting a mix of tattoos, were hot on his heels. The leader, a portly, bald man, wheezed heavily as he bellowed, "You little rascal! Don't think you can outrun me! You dared report me to the guards and cost me a fortune! Today, I'll teach you a lesson – break your scrawny legs for meddling in my affairs!" The other two men guffawed, clearly relishing the anticipated beatdown.
As expected, the injured boy, clearly outmatched, couldn't outrun his pursuers for long. They quickly surrounded him, the leader – a corpulent man with oversized ears – wasting no time. With a brutal yank, he grabbed the boy's hair and slammed his fist into the child's face several times. The force of the blows split the boy's lip, sending blood trickling down his chin. Tears welled up in his eyes, his whimpers drowned out by the jeering laughter of the thugs.
The scene unfolded in the slums of Vizima's Old Town, a notorious haven for the downtrodden and desperate. Most inhabitants were simply trying to survive another day, lacking the means or courage to intervene in the affairs of others
After slapping the boy a few times, the fat bald man seemed to feel quite happy. He pushed the boy down and said cursingly: "You bitch, you are a poor guy, an orphan without a father and a mother, but you still dare to meddle in my business. Even if I steal money, I am stealing money from rich people. Do you have anything to do with you, a bitch"?
He glanced at the two brothers beside him, motioned them to do it together, and said viciously: "Today, I will break one of your legs and teach you a good lesson. I will let you know that as a poor ghost, no one cares about your life".
After saying this, he and his two companions were about to make a move when they suddenly saw a tall, young man approaching not far away. Before they could ask, they saw that the young man raised his foot and kicked them hard in the chest with a speed and force that ordinary people could not avoid. It was like being hit head-on by an angry bull. He and the other two brothers had no power to resist at all and were kicked several meters away by the young man and slammed into the mud pit of the slum.
With indifferent eyes, Wayne looked at the three men who struggled to get up, didn't dare to resist at all, turned around and ran away immediately, and snorted disdainfully. They are just thieves who bully others and fear others. He turned to look at the injured boy sitting on the ground, watching the boy covering his bruised face and sobbing silently. After thinking about it, he asked in a daze: "No wonder you look familiar. Your name seems to be Alex, isn't it?
"Do you remember me? You were the one who reminded me last year at the Fox Tavern that my horse was stolen".
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