The sun beat relentlessly upon the banks of the Sanscretour, turning the surface of the rapidly moving water to liquid gold. An insistent breeze tugged at carefully coiffed hair and feathered caps, swirling the warm scent of sunlight and fragrant blossoms into the early evening air.

The witcher emerged from inside the Cockatrice Inn, blinking hard in the bright light. He'd spent the day ridding the tunnels underneath the docks of scurvers; he hadn't had a chance to readjust to the daylight yet. That was the one thing he didn't like about this place, when he left the darkness of a cave or tunnel the light was usually so blinding that he developed a splitting headache.

Geralt's overly dilated pupils throbbed in response to the almost overwhelming brightness, and he irritably swigged a bottle of White Honey, neutralizing the effects of the Cat potion that made his eyes more reactive to light.

A tiny, silent sigh escaped out of him as the burning in his eyes stopped, and he could feel his pupils immediately contracting back down to a more comfortable size. He leaned against the wooden balcony railing, closing his eyes and listening to the birds as the sun set.

He followed up the potion with a generous helping of fresh trout, eating quickly and messily, ignoring the twittering of locals who watched him with thinly veiled disgust. He was used to it; he was too old to give a shit about what they thought of him. He supposed that he could have picked a less-fancy tavern; he would willingly admit that the company could be a little bit too stuffy for his liking.

He happened to like this one though, it had an excellent view of the river and the valley surrounding Anna Henrietta's duchy. And the goose liver pate really was excellent.

He waved his hand at the innkeeper for a drink. He'd been to this inn enough times that the innkeeper knew that his gold was good, so he barely had to ask for anything here. It was a nice change; witchers were treated differently in this part of the world. He made quick work of his first two drinks, watching as the sun slipped below the horizon.

He couldn't help rolling his eyes as he drained his third pint of ice-cold beer; one merchant seemed to have a problem with the rate at which he was going through beverages. Geralt was a damn witcher; there was almost no way that he could get drunk while drinking normal alcohol.

It had been a long, hot day and as far as he was concerned, he deserved a damn drink.

It's a shame that there's no White Gull in this place, then it really would be a party.

He made the conscious decision to ignore the gossiping man, choosing instead to concentrate on the energetic game of Gwent (that was growing more competitive by the second) currently being played two tables away.

Should have chosen the monster deck, he thought, shaking his head as the loser of the game grudgingly handed over his full purse to the winner. Only in Toussaint would people dare to walk around with that much gold on their person.

He glanced down, his brow furrowing as he turned his attention back to his meal. Without thinking, he'd traced out the shape of his medallion in the condensation that his beer had left on the table. He stared at it for a moment, his thoughts whirring along at a good clip as he stuffed his last piece of warm bread into his mouth.

Huh. Guess that's as good of an omen as I'm gonna get.

Geralt finally set down his tankard, turning his attention to the battered piece of paper that he had just pulled from his boot. He pursed his lips in thought, reading over the contract with what looked like cool indifference. Inwardly, he was about as thrilled as a witcher could be.

It looked like an easy job, and the pay promised could keep him off the Path for at least two years. He smirked slightly, slightly disappointed that he couldn't brag about it to Lambert. Before he'd stopped at the inn where he currently sat, he'd paid a visit to the executor of the contract and had accepted the job.

Absently, he scratched at his three-week old beard. Time for a bath and a shave before I leave.

He tossed several heavy gold coins on the table, nodding at the innkeeper as he stood. His armor clinked, and his twin swords rattled against one another as he strode down the wooden staircase that led to the common room. He passed inside the building for a moment as he left, ignoring the rowdy scene within.

It was just another day, and another bar fight, although this one had quite a bit more velvet, feathers, and declarations of honor than he was used to.

Toussaint was so unlike anywhere else in the world that it may as well have been in another dimension. After all that he'd seen, it wasn't the strangest notion that he'd ever heard.

He liked it.

His feet carried him towards home, leaving his mind free to wander. It had been nearly a year since he'd decided to settle down in Toussaint. His vineyard was doing quite well, all due to the tireless work of Barnabus-Basil, his overenthusiastic majordomo. He had grown used to the warmth of the sun and the good food, Toussaint had set the bar so high above Velen and even Skellige that it was laughable.

But Geralt was bored.

His expression settled into a frown as he thought, moving quickly through the countryside. It was beautiful, and warm, (and the Duchess Annarietta wasn't mad at him anymore for admitting to her Dandelion had once again taken on many a lover since he'd last been to visit) and people weren't so hell-bent on swindling him out of an honest day's work.

That was the problem, it was too beautiful. Geralt had spent so long living on the Path that he somehow felt like he was betraying who he was by staying in this gilded paradise. He would have left long ago if Triss hadn't been so happy to spend time with him here.

But she'd been in Kovir for several months and he was literally and figuratively itching to do something exciting. Sure, he'd had plenty of bruxae and alps to hunt, but there was only so much hissing and Black Blood that he could take before he wanted something novel to liven up his everyday routine.

A contract was a perfect choice. He trudged up the winding pathway to his grand house, breathing in the scent of freshly cut grass and sun-ripened vines. Corvo Bianco was finally starting to feel like a home, but he was still loath to admit it.

He snagged a handful of fruit as he passed by a conveniently hanging vine, chuckling softly as he imagined the scolding he'd have received if Barnabus had been there to see him pilfer from his own wine grapes.

Munching contentedly, he eased the front door open, immediately shrugging off his swords and placing them on the foyer table with a clatter.

As if he'd been summoned by some sort of silent bell, his estate manager appeared so suddenly that even Geralt was impressed. "Master Geralt, you've returned at last!"

"I've only be gone since this morning," the witcher replied drily, already unbuckling his armor as he made for his spacious room. "I'll need a bath and a razor."

"Immediately, sir. Shall I pour you a glass of last year's vintage?" The steward replied primly, already ringing a small bell and bowing graciously.

"You have to ask?" Geralt replied mockingly, the corner of his mouth ticking up at Barnabus' predictability. "Do we have any of the White Wolf left?"

"Yes, two bottles, I believe. Is the master celebrating anything in particular?"

Geralt stopped at the top of the stairwell, looking down at the bespectacled man with a look that could have meant any number of things: derision, mockery, amusement. "Nah, I'm just in a good mood today."

"Excellent. I'll bring it right up."

Geralt didn't wait to hear his response; he'd already closed his bedroom door and shrugged out of his chest plate and gauntlets. He made quick work of his doublet and boots, pausing only to inspect a long, shallow cut that marked his arm from his wrist to his elbow.

Ignoring it completely (it would be mostly healed by the morning), he distractedly formed a sign and directed it towards the chandelier. The candle wicks immediately burst into flame, bathing the room in cheery, flickering light. He certainly didn't need the light to see by, but he liked the ambiance. Plus, lighting the candles that way was kind of fun.

He quietly wished that Triss was home, the house felt empty without her. He missed her laugh and her somewhat acerbic humor. He missed her fiery hair, and the way that her bright eyes would flash when she was annoyed. He missed the way that she would sigh his name when she was happy, and the way that she would shout it when she was upset.

He wouldn't have minded it if she was in the bath with him too, if he was being honest.

Geralt wouldn't admit it, but he was secretly a romantic; it both amused and befuddled him daily. Something about Toussaint made him want to shower Triss with flowers and gifts. It's the damn knights, they set the bar too high. The other half of the problem was that they made each other deliriously happy, he couldn't help wanting to make sure that it stayed that way.

A flicker of warmth bloomed in his chest as he thought about his sorceress. He settled into his copper bathtub and turned on the tap, sighing with contentment as hot water began to stream out of the spout.

Plumbing, now that's the best part about this place, he thought, settling into the hot water and closing his eyes.

He was alone for two blissful moments before the door flew open and Barnabus marched in with a plate of grapes, cheese, and bread. He also held the promised bottle of wine; Geralt decided that he could forgive the interruption.

"Thanks, B.B.," he murmured, lazily opening one golden eye. "What's that?"

He motioned to the piece of paper that was clutched in his butler's white-knuckled hand. "Master Geralt, I must tell you that I disapprove heartily of this quest-"

He cut off, sputtering and turning red as he struggled to find a diplomatic way to get his point across. Unused to this strange behaviour, Geralt's eyes widened slightly.

"Master Geralt, this cock-and-bull-"

"Hang on," Geralt interrupted him, opening both eyes and surveying the small man with no small measure of confusion. "What's the problem?"

"This contract, sir, it's suicide!"

Geralt settled back into his tub, taking a long drink of wine. He felt a small rush of satisfaction; he was in the mood for a little danger. "Not for a witcher. I thought we'd established that I'm not some idiot errant knight, I'm a professional."

His tone grew steely, and B.B. wilted slightly before he drew himself up to his full height (which wasn't saying much) and brandished the contract in his hand.

"I'm afraid that I must insist! This-this falsehood of a quest has brought nothing but destruction and death to-"

"Whoa-whoa-whoa, hold on," Geralt gave up on relaxing and sat bolt upright. "What the hell are you talking about? What's wrong with it?"

"You have been bamboozled, I'm afraid," the small man wrung his hands and began to pace. "The family who has offered the reward is destitute; they don't have a single crown left to their name."

Geralt raised one eyebrow, nonplussed. "What's the story there?"

"Tragic, very tragic," the steward replied cryptically, blotting at his forehead with a very frilly handkerchief. "It says here that you're being asked to find the daughter of the Baron of Pont-Montmartre, but I'm afraid-"

"Happens all the time. She probably fell in love with a Dandelion type, ran off to marry him. She'll most likely be in one of the coastal villages," Geralt said calmly, settling back in the water. "Her family wants the closure, and an assurance that she's married to the idiot."

"Master Geralt, more than two score knights-errant have attempted to bring her home, but not one of them survived," he said firmly, adjusting his spectacles and surveying Geralt like a grumpy schoolteacher.

"I have long suspected that the story was some kind of rumor, started by someone who wished to do harm to the family! It bereaves me to tell you that the girl you've been tasked to find was killed by sickness fifteen years ago!"

Finally intrigued, Geralt cracked one eye open and held out his hand for the contract. "Give it here. It says that she was last spotted in Fleurdelyse last month. You're sure that she's supposed to be dead?"

"Positive, sir. The Lady Sophie-Marguerite Lajolie des Champs-de-Reglisse, patroness of Les Chanteuses-Saingantes and the LaCroix Finishing School has been dead for years."

"She got a nickname?" Geralt asked drily, skimming over the contract again, a faint frown line appearing between his brows as he pored over the details.

"Sophie-Marie was her preferred address," B.B. responded stiffly, determinedly rearranging Geralt's razor and mirror on a small side table. "I am very familiar with that look, and while it seems that I cannot dissuade you, I will continue to entreat you to leave it be."

"Is there any proof?" Geralt asked quietly, shaking the water off of his hand before palming the offered document. "Faking a noblewoman's death is dramatic, but not unheard of."

"I have a close friend who was in charge of her funeral affairs. Open-casket, lovely service. She was a beauty and a credit to the nobility," B.B. answered stiffly, his foot tapping as he waited for Geralt to respond to what he considered to be a critical revelation.

"I already took the contract, it wouldn't be right to abandon it."

"Very good, sir." Barnabus's curt reply was uncharacteristic; clearly this contract had struck a nerve with him.

"Thanks," Geralt replied, although there was nothing in his tone that implied gratitude. "I'll be gone for a while. If Triss comes home, tell her that I'm heading to the west."

He effectively ended the conversation. He wasn't in the mood to talk Barnabus-Basil down and he had already made up his mind. He'd wished for excitement, and it looked like his wish had been granted.

"Naturally, sir."

Geralt splashed out of the tub, irritated by the conversation. He didn't direct his annoyance towards Barnabus however, simply nodded and dismissed him instead. He began to shave with a casual hand, making quick work of his short beard and shearing his hair an inch shorter. His mind spun, thinking over what this contract could possibly have in store for him.

Whatever it was, it was sure to be entertaining. A satisfied smirk turned up the corner of his mouth. That explains the pay. It's a little hard to find a dead girl.