"A Chance Encounter in a Forgotten Tavern"

The snow-capped mountains had long since faded into the distance as Geralt of Rivia trudged through the slushy streets, his eyes fixed on the flickering torches that lined the way. It had been weeks since his falling out with Jaskier, and the Witcher's usually stoic demeanor had given way to a gnawing guilt. The thrill of the hunt, the rush of adrenaline that came with dispatching a particularly vicious beast, had lost its luster. In its place, a dull ache had settled in his chest, a constant reminder of the rift that had grown between him and his trusted friend. As he walked, Geralt's thoughts turned to the bard, and the words he had spoken in anger. He recalled the look of hurt in Jaskier's eyes, the sting of his rebuke, and the weight of his own regret. The Witcher's feet carried him on autopilot, leading him to a small, unassuming tavern that seemed to appear out of the darkness. The sign above the door creaked in the wind, bearing the image of a foamy mug and the words "The Red Griffin Inn". Geralt pushed open the door, and a warm, golden light spilled out onto the wet cobblestones. He stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room as he made his way to the bar. The patrons were a rough-looking bunch, but the fire crackled and spat, casting a cozy glow over the proceedings. Geralt ordered a room for the night, and a watered-down ale to accompany it. The barkeep, a gruff but kind-eyed man, nodded and handed him a key. As Geralt made his way to a corner table, he noticed a commotion near the fire. A figure stood on a makeshift stage, strumming a lute and singing in a voice that sent shivers down Geralt's spine. The Witcher's eyes narrowed, his focus drawn to the musician, but he didn't recognize the bard. His attention was drawn back to his ale, and he took a sip, feeling the cool liquid slide down his throat. The music washed over him, a soothing balm for his frazzled nerves, but Geralt's gaze never wavered from his drink. He was lost in his thoughts, his mind consumed by the memory of his argument with Jaskier. The words he had spoken, the hurt he had caused, and the distance that had grown between them all swirled together in a jumbled mess. As the night wore on, Geralt's ale grew weaker, and his thoughts began to blur. The music continued to play, a gentle accompaniment to his meandering thoughts. He felt his head begin to nod, his chin dipping towards his chest, and his eyelids growing heavy. The last thing he remembered was the sound of applause, and the murmur of the patrons as they began to disperse. The room was quiet now, the fire burning low in the hearth. Geralt's ale sat untouched, a reminder of the drink he had been enjoying. As he looked up, his eyes scanned the room, and for a moment, they locked onto a familiar figure. A figure that stood by the fire, a look of concern etched on his face. Geralt's eyes narrowed, his mind struggling to place the face, but it was shrouded in a haze of ale and fatigue. He blinked, and the face was gone, lost in the shadows. The Witcher's eyes drifted closed, and he let the darkness take him.