Jaskier stands at the front door of Oxenfurt University and stares out at the long and winding road in the distance. His usual silk and lace is replaced with a more comfortable linen doublet, his heeled boots swap for something leather and sturdy. Over his shoulder a pack containing clothing and supplies is slung leaving his hands free to hold his lute. His fingers drum nervously on the wooden neck of the instrument.

"I can't believe it's finally over," Priscilla says, coming to stand beside him.

Jaskier doesn't take his eyes off the horizon. "Neither can I."

"I'm not sure I feel ready, you know? Of course I should be, I have all the education and experience, yet somehow it doesn't feel real."

Jaskier can relate to that. His time at Oxenfurt has been a whirlwind of experiences; he learned so much about music and literature, met some of the first real friends of his life, and finally got to stand on his own two feet away from the influence of his parents' title. Part of him doesn't want to leave, to put his foot out there and surrender himself to everything that is new and different. But then again, Jaskier has never been one to remain stagnant in life. Being a bard is difficult, he knows, but he's willing to do everything it takes.

Of course, that doesn't mean he won't miss this place, especially the friends that came with it. Priscilla and Essi are like sisters to him, and while he and Valdo tended to butt heads more often than not, eventually Jaskier came to appreciate one of his oldest friends and harshest critics. Admittedly, he's been holding in the tears as each of his companions has parted ways. Valdo left immediately after walking off the stage at graduation, claiming "if he's going to be the best bard the continent has ever seen he better start now." Essi left later that evening, joining up with a troupe of other students to travel Redania and perform in court. Now it's just him and Priscilla.

"When does your carriage arrive?" Priscilla asks him.

"Hm? Oh it doesn't."

Her eyes widen. "You're not going back to Lettenhove?"

"Nope. I'm setting out on foot. I plan to tour the entire continent."

She gives him a look. "Really? You who complains about feet hurting after every performance are going to walk the whole way?"

"Sure am," he replies cheerily. He'll need to prepare himself if he's going to be traveling the path with Geralt for the next thirty years.

Priscilla lets out a sigh, shaking her head, "Only you, Jules. Only you."

"What about you then?"

"I think I'm going to head home for a while, spend some time with my parents before I decide. Who knows? Maybe I'll catch up with Essi afterwards."

"Oh?" A smirk tugs at Jaskier's lips. "Any particular reason why?" He has his suspicions already that Priscilla has a bit of a crush on their mutual friend. His smile only widens as he sees a deep blush spread across her cheeks.

"You can't tell anyone, okay?"

He raises his hands in surrender, then my mimes zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key. "My lips are sealed."

"Essi is my soulmate. She hasn't had her Swap yet, so she doesn't know, I don't want to freak her out or anything until she's ready."

"Oh! Priscilla, that's wonderful!"

"Y-yeah, I'm...really excited."

"You two will be absolutely adorable together," Jaskier tells her. "I give you my blessing."

"And what about you? You're always gushing about your soulmate. Are you off to find Mister Tall Silver And Handsome?"

"I am, as a matter of fact. Though I have to get all the way to Posada, which will take a few months at best."

"Wow, best of luck to you."

It's just then that a cherrywood carriage pulled by two black horses comes trotting around the bend.

"Oh!" Pricilla says, jumping a little. "That'll be me." She pulls him into a hug which Jaskier does his best to reciprocate despite having his arms full. "Good luck, Jules. I'll see you soon, yeah?"

"Good luck with Essi," he shoots back. "I expect to be an uncle one day."

Priscilla just laughs then presses a kiss to his cheek before stepping into the carriage.

Jaskier watches as it disappears in the distance. A small part of him sinks, but he quickly pushes it away and replaces it with excitement.

"Well, Geralt of Rivia," he says, gripping his things tightly and stepping onto the road, "I'll meet you in Posada."

----------------------------

"Get out of here, you mutant freak!"

"Yeah! We don't want your kind in our town!"

Geralt fights the urge to flinch as a rock hits him square in the back of the head. Thrown by whom he doesn't know, though luckily it didn't have any particular force behind it.

He'd been hoping this time was different, but he should have known. Things have been getting harder and harder for witchers since Blaviken a few years ago, but especially for him. At first he stayed as far south as possible, finding work in whatever towns the story hadn't spread to yet. Though it looks like even settlements that had no issues with witchers the previous year have been influenced by the incident.

Geralt takes Roach's reins and leads her in the opposite direction as more villagers begin to join the angered crowd, heading back the long and winding path that leads to the village.

He's been on the road for over a month straight and was really banking on restocking his supplies today, but it looks like he'll have to make do with foraging and hunting yet again, with no contracts to replenish his coin. The situation is becoming concerning, however. While Geralt is more than capable of acquiring his own food and water, eventually he'll require things that he can only get in a town, like new shoes for Roach. What he will do then, he doesn't know. He'll need to find a town willing to grant him entry, somewhere remote, with enough dangers nearby to make hiring a witcher a necessity.

Posada, his mind supplies. The town at the edge of the world.

It's been three years now since that horrible storm and the dream Geralt has after hitting his head. That's where he last heard that name. He's never been to Posada, of course, but he's seen it on a map and his mind must have incorporated that information into the dream.

Yes, Posada is a perfect choice.

There may not be a soulmate waiting for him there, but at least the witcher can find work and a place to rest and restock from a hard and grueling year.

As he heads back out onto the road, something akin to hope flickers in the witcher's chest. He tries to extinguish it as best he can, yet still the tiniest bit remains, a dull golden flame at the edge of a candle.

-------------------------

Calling it a village is almost too generous, Geralt observes as he takes in the small collection of buildings at the base of the mountain. Posada is, for lack of a better word, a shithole. But it's a shithole with work, and that's enough for him.

There's been rumours about a creature living in the mountains and killing livestock. A devil, the townspeople call it. Geralt is highly skeptical; it's probably just a chort or a griffin, but he'll get paid either way. But first, he's taking the opportunity to restock his supplies, get some half decent food and drink, and sleep in a real bed for a night before he negotiates a contract.

It's nearly evening by the time he makes it to the inn. A few of the townspeople give him looks as he passes, but no rocks or insults are hurled in his direction. The inn, if you could call it that, seems to be the only place in town that serves food and ale, and is nearly packed when Geralt steps inside.

The Innkeeper seems to quake in his boots a bit as Geralt approaches the counter.

"Yer a witcher," the man says, as if that wasn't already obvious. "We don't get witchers much 'round these parts."

"Yes," Geralt replies carefully. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the other patrons closely monitoring the conversation. Luckily, none of them grab for the torches and pitchforks.

"You here for that devil? Some of the farmers have pulled together quite the sum for whoever kills the beast, though so far no one has lived to claim it. You'll be wanting to talk to Rohan; you can find his homestead north of town."

"Good to know. Do you have any rooms available?"

The man nods. "Five orens if you want it. It ain't much, but it's warm and dry."

"I'll take it then," Geralt replies, sliding some coins across the counter. "And an ale too, if you have it."

The man passes him an iron key, then places a large tankard in front of him. Geralt collects both, then locates the darkest, most remote corner table to sit down at. He has just enough money left to order a bowl of stew and some bread, so he does-- it's passable, as tavern food goes, but the witcher couldn't care less, because it's hot and it has salt and that's all that matters. As he eats, he can see other people sneaking glances at him, here their hushed whispers and lowered voices as they gawk at the rare sight of a witcher.

Geralt tries not to let it bother him. He's used to it by now anyway. And so he eats in silence until the tavern door opening catches his attention.

He hears him before he sees him.

A warm and chipper voice makes its way through the crowded room. "Excuse me, good sir-- er, pardon me,-- If I could just-- thank you--"

And then a familiar-looking figure rounds the corner and the witcher's heart stops in his chest.

Suddenly it's as if the world has disappeared from around him, and each and every one of Geralt's senses is honing in on the man in front of him.

Jaskier.

A younger version of him, anyway, dressed in a turquoise blue doublet and brown leather boots, a lute strung over his shoulder. His cheeks are round and youthful, chestnut coloured hair well-trimmed and soft looking, and his eyes-- bright blue and staring at Geralt as if he is all that matters in the world.

No, there's no way.

Jaskier can't possibly be real. Geralt doesn't have a soulmate, it was all a dream.

And yet there he is, staring back at the witcher with the same awestruck expression that the witcher is giving to him.

For one, terrifying moment, both of them remain frozen in time. Then, as if magnetized, Jaskier approaches him.

Geralt can't move, he can't breathe. He can do nothing but watch as the other man walks up and places both hands on the table. He's smiling so wide the witcher wonders how his face doesn't hurt.

"There you are," Jaskier says. And then in one motion, he grabs Geralt by the front of the shirt and kisses him over the table. "I missed you."