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“Wait for the warmth of spring to come, then you will find him,” Upper Posada’s older residents always advised. It had been many years— and quite a few town elders ago— that this bit of wisdom had first graced the ears of Posada’s people, and those of Oxenfurt University’s bardlings. Subsequent generations had learned that when the spring blossoms arrived, all their monster-problems would be solved. For, without fail, that was when the strange, white-haired witcher would return.
The town tavern, whose original name had long since been forgotten, knew to expect him, and generations of barkeeps had been instructed on how to treat him, and what he would desire. The current barkeep, Jakub Zielinski, had learned of the witcher as a boy, and first seen him while still a youth, when the bar was run under his father’s watchful eye. It had been five years since he’d inherited the business, and the witcher had never failed to come back in all that time. He sat at the same corner table, ordered the same ale, the same meal, and invariably scowled at any bard who was unfortunate enough to be performing; though he did not scowl at those who asked him questions.
No one had ever inquired outright as to why he returned season after season, but some assumptions were made. It was said that Julian Alfred Pankratz, the renowned bard whose ballads and composings were now studied at his alma mater, had traveled with the witcher. The famous bard was long dead now, though his songs still lived on in others’ mouths and hearts. Local lore, and Jakub’s own familial stories, claimed that Dandelion had once passed through here. Most folk assumed that Upper Posada was where the witcher— if he were truly the same White Wolf as in the ballads— and his bard had met.
Though the town was small and isolated, these tales roamed far. And even immediately after the bard’s passing, a few travelers had sought the place out, wanting to see the great artist’s humble origin-place for themselves. Now, many years later, Jakub’s tavern had become a sort of shrine for young artists and music-lovers of all sorts, who wished to pay their respects. Evidently, it had a similar significance for the witcher.
News of Posada’s annually-visiting monster-hunter had spread throughout the region. As a result, the town was yearly flooded by those who sought him out. Therefore Jakub’s tavern (which had since added ‘& Inn’ to its long-forgotten title) was frequented as well, for that was where the witcher could be found. It was certainly odd for the small backwater to be so busy, but neither Jakub Zielinski, nor the town’s other business-owners, were complaining.
Of course, the influx of visitors had created tension inside the Zielinski Tavern in those early years, as the witcher had appeared to want nothing more than to be served and left alone in his corner. But this had changed after one brave bardling— a boy with barely a wisp of facial hair— had approached him, and asked if he had really known the Dandelion, master of bards. The witcher had glared for a moment, then nodded affirmatively. “I knew him well.”
That conversation had occurred long before Jakub’s time, but he had heard the story— as familiar and worn as a pair of old leather boots— all his life. Over the years, an unspoken code of conduct had been developed: leave the witcher in peace for the first few days of his visit, then, with a bribe of a meal or drink, someone could approach him with their problems. And so they did.
This code, like everything else, spread, and more and more travelers adapted it. The bards had their own version, and theirs traveled even faster— and more poetically— than the townsfolks.’ Soon enough, any bardling worth their lutestrings knew to pay a visit to Upper Posada come springtime. If they carried an empty notebook, a head full of dreams, a bouquet of wild dandelions, and a few coins, they were sure to hear an interesting story at the Zielinski Tavern & Inn.
The small bell above the door tinkled, and Jakub set down his rag, the glass he’d been polishing, and looked up, nodding at the person who entered. “Witcher.”
As usual, the monster-hunter said nothing, though he returned Jakub’s greeting gesture.
“Will you be having your regular?”
“Yes.”
“Alright then. Table’s ready for ya.”
“Thank you.” The man moved swiftly, and silently, away from the main bar. He was soon partially obscured by the corner’s shadows. Only his ghostly hair, and the gleam of his swords and cat-eyes revealed him. As a child, this very sight had scared Jakub, but now it was familiar. He sometimes even enjoyed seeing the witcher glowering in his corner. The tavern-owner waved over one of his serving girls, and got the man’s order going.
And so it begins anew, Jakub thought. He could smell the dandelion blooms already.