I'm Just Howling in Tune

It took the troubadour another few minutes to get the room to stop spinning long enough for any remaining nausea to leave him and enable him to look around. The room was unfamiliar, but that itself was not particularly unusual. His days at Oxenfurt had often led to a similar discovery come morning, and there had been countless nights where he'd woken up in tavern rooms that he'd barely remembered paying for the night before. With a long, heavy sigh, Dandelion pushed the mess of flattened locks from off his face and blinked some more, trying to ascertain where the fuck he was. 

It was run down to say the least, even for a tavern or village in the middle of nowhere, and judging by the lack of bustling city noises from the world outside they were, in fact, in the middle of nowhere. There were cracks in the walls, and mildew creeping along the brick work. The windows were shattered, leaving shards sticking out precariously from the frames, and the furniture was minimal - a small chest at the end of the bed, some shelves and a singular rackety-looking chair around an old barrel that seemed to serve as a table. It was also incredibly cramped. By the looks of it there was only one room in the building - hut? He was going to call it a hut but that was quite frankly generous as far as Dandelion was concerned. 

"Hmmm," he murmured to himself, licking his lips at a desperate attempt to stave off the cracking and the itch of dehydration. "Dearest Melitele, what are we doing here?" 

That was when he noticed the note. The parchment was crumpled and stained with - he sniffed it - fuck knows what. It looked like a scrap that had been living in the owner's pocket for far too long. With a cock of his head, Dandelion flipped the paper over, absent-mindedly twisting a lock of hair between his long fingers. On the back was looked like a contract of some kind, the sort one might find on those notice boards in town. 

Don't Panic

You'll find a anti-grog potion on the shelf next to you and a waterskin in the chest. 

And sure enough, there was a familiar smelling hangover-be-gone potion on a shelf to his right which Dandelion didn't think twice about downing. Relief washed over him as the headache faded and his stomach stopped lurching and twisting. He felt like he could breathe again. Pulling the sheet around his waist more securely, he crawled to the end of the bed and quickly found the waterskin. Oh how he was tempted to pour the whole damn thing over his head, to wash away the grime and drunken sweat from the night before, but in the end, his thirst got the better of him, and he drank gleefully, spilling the last mouthful down his chin. Feeling more human and alive than he'd felt all morning, Dandelion turned back to the note. 

Where am I?

 In an old hut on the outskirts of Oxenfurt. I found you wandering along the banks of the river singing, too drunk to be left alone. There are bandits and drowners in the area, but you refused to go back into town and you couldn't remember any of your friends' names. 

Where is my -

Lute: Next to the door. I put it back in its case for you.

Jewellery: In the lute case. You had a lot of rings and they didn't look comfortable to sleep in

Clothes: Hanging up outside. You were sick. I cleaned them. It's warm out so they will be dry by the time you wake up. Probably.

What now? 

I don't care, bard. Sneak out. Get drunk again for all I care, but try not to make a fool of yourself. Again. 

Dandelion let out a peal of laughter. Gods knows who wrote this note, but the dry humour was endearing. He grinned to himself as he padded softly across the room, the sheet dropping to the floor as he hugged his lute to his chest. "Chivalry, it seems, is not completely lost. Thank you kind stranger, whoever you may be." 

All the rings were accounted for, and once they were safely back on his finger, he felt much less like a doppler and more like the famed bard of Oxenfurt that he was. 

"It truly is a wonder. They live like this, and yet not a single thing stolen. How strange?" Dandelion pondered to himself. "And my lute is probably worth more than this whole bloody building." He huffed, putting one hand on his hip and blowing his hair from his face. "Not to mention, you've absolutely done this before, kind stranger. The paper might be shit, but who leaves a list for drunken strays? and the potion! Gods, this man is a saint, and a lot better than my sorry excuse for friends" 

He idly wondered what had happened to them. If he'd been drinking in Oxenfurt, then he hadn't gotten that drunk by himself. Valdo Marx had to be involved. There was no such thing as "One more drink" with Valdo Marx, especially if Essi or Priscilla were there too. And yet. None of them had ended up dancing by the river. "Well, I suppose I should better get dressed and find the bitches." He muttered with a roll of his eyes. "I just can't believe they would leave me like this." 

Clothes. The note had said they would be outside, which made perfect sense given the size of his temporary accommodation, but they were outside and he was naked. 

"Ah fuck it." 

Anyone that saw him would really be receiving a gift! Nay! A blessing. Well, they would be if he didn't feel quite so gross, but with drowners in the river, there was no choice but to wait until he was back at his lodgings to clean up properly. So he strode, brimming with confidence that only a troubadour could manage, straight out the door. 

And straight into a wall of a person. No. A witcher. 

Golden eyes peered down at him, cat-like pupils thin in the bright sunlight. Long moonlit hair cascaded down his shoulders and dear gods he was beautiful! And Dandelion looked like a drowned rat. He whined stupidly and raced for his clothes. 

"Sorry! I'm normally. Well. I don't. Oh bollocks!" 

"It's alright, Dandelion." The witcher's voice was rough and low, turning Dandelion's heartstrings into wilting flowers as he melted inside. "We've all been there." 

"Yes. Well. I do prefer to make better first impressions. Especially on such handsome men such as yourself." He added with a wink before he could stop himself and then it clicked. "Hang on. You're Geralt of Rivia!" 

"And you're the famous troubadour, Dandelion," Geralt agreed. "Glad to see you on your feet again." 

Dandelion felt his cheeks warm, and he all but preened under the praise, as he began to pull on his mostly dry silks, pouting as he saw the state of the feather in his hat. It was truly a mess, spindly and thinning, not everything had survived the washing.  "Ah yes. Thank you, Geralt. Truly. If you're ever in town then please, it would be an honour to play for you. Perhaps, get some stories of your adventures? I'm always looking for a new muse, but I really must be off. The bathhouse awaits" 

Geralt hummed in response. "I'll keep it in mind. Stay of trouble, bard." The words were accompanied by a small smile, barely noticeable, that made Dandelion grinned brightly in return.