A Desperate Winter's Eve

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, casting a dark and foreboding shadow over the small village. Geralt of Rivia, the renowned Witcher, sat at a wooden table in the local inn, his eyes scanning the room with a mixture of frustration and desperation. Beside him, his traveling companion, Jaskier, chatted amiably with the innkeeper, oblivious to Geralt's growing unease. The fire crackling in the hearth cast a warm glow over the room, but Geralt's mind was consumed by the chill of winter's approach. As they had traveled from town to town, Geralt had been unable to secure a contract, a vital source of income for Witchers like himself. The memory of his dwindling coin purse weighed heavily on his mind, and the thought of facing another winter with empty pockets filled him with a sense of dread. He couldn't recall the last time he'd received a decent offer, and the pressure was starting to mount. Jaskier, ever the optimist, seemed to think that their fortunes would soon change, but Geralt wasn't so sure. The innkeeper, a stout man with a bushy beard, set a steaming bowl of stew in front of Geralt, who mechanically began to eat. The flavors and aromas of the meal were lost on him, however, as his mind wandered to the contracts he so desperately needed. As they had ridden into the village, Geralt had asked around, but the villagers had either shaken their heads or claimed they didn't require the services of a Witcher. The lack of success was starting to take its toll, and Geralt could feel the panic rising within him. As they finished their supper, Geralt tried to push down the growing sense of unease, but it was no use. Once they retired to their room, he felt the anxiety surge to the surface. His breathing quickened, and his heart began to pound in his chest. He tried to calm himself, focusing on the familiar rhythms of his breathing, but it was too late. A full-blown panic attack was underway. Jaskier, who had been busy scribbling in his journal, looked up to see his friend's face pale and clammy. "Geralt, what's wrong?" he asked, concern etched on his features. Geralt tried to respond, but his words came out in short, gasping bursts. "Can't... breathe... need... contracts..." He stumbled over his own feet as he stood up, his eyes darting wildly around the room. Jaskier sprang into action, grabbing Geralt's arm and guiding him to the bed. "Sit down, Geralt. You're going to hyperventilate yourself into a faint." He began to speak in a soothing tone, trying to calm his friend's racing thoughts. "It's okay, Geralt. We'll get through this. We've faced worse odds before." But Geralt was beyond reason. His panic had taken on a life of its own, and he couldn't seem to shake it off. Jaskier's words of comfort were lost on him as he struggled to regain control of his breathing. The darkness outside seemed to press in on him, and Geralt felt like he was drowning in his own fears. In a desperate bid to calm his friend, Jaskier began to strum a gentle melody on his lute, the music weaving a soothing spell around them. Geralt's eyes locked onto Jaskier's, and for a moment, he felt a glimmer of calm. But it was fleeting, and the panic soon closed in around him once more. As the music filled the room, Geralt's chest heaved with exertion, and his vision began to blur. He was trapped in a nightmare of his own making, and he didn't know how to escape. The only thing he knew was that he had to find a way to calm down, and fast, or risk losing himself to the darkness that threatened to consume him.