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Geralt and Ciri had found Yennefer by accident. Not far from the battlefield she had disappeared on, they found a small home, abandoned for years by the looks of it. Looking for some shelter for the night, they entered, and found Yenn. Another one of Destiny’s tricks, one might say. Yennefer took to Ciri immediately, and the feeling was mutual. Unable to deny the sorceress had a role to play in his and Ciri’s destiny, Geralt let her accompany them to Kaer Morhen for the winter.
Finding Jaskier was more purposeful. He had apparently been present at several events in Cintra since Pavetta’s disastrous engagement, and Ciri knew him as both a bard and Geralt’s companion. As much as Geralt tried to hide it, he regretted leaving him that day on the mountain. Ciri asking about him just brought up those regrets Jaskier was found in a tavern in Redania, singing sad songs about a certain Witcher. After an apology where Geralt did admit he was not, in fact, emotionless, he joined them in their journey to Kaer Morhen.
Jaskier and Yennefer’s animosity had died out in the year or so since they had last seen each other. They agreed that both cared for Geralt, and there was no point hating each other over petty things. Jaskier could admit Yennefer was clever and well-spoken, traits generally appreciated by a bard, and Yennefer found that Jaskier was loyal and had an ambition that rivaled her own.
The Witchers of Kaer Morhen were no strangers to training children. Vesemir had trained hundreds of children, more if including those who didn’t survive the process. Eskel, Lambert, and Geralt lacked the practical experience of teaching, but remembered their own training well enough to contribute. There had never been a recruit quite like Ciri, however. For one, she was a girl. When a Child of Surprise turned out to be a girl, the common practice was to send them to the School of the Cat. This was not for some perceived inferiority, but the simple practicality of keeping girls and boys in close proximity during adolescence. Ciri was not the first girl to train at the School of the Wolf, but it was enough of a rarity to be notable. The witcher fighting style had to be modified to account for a slighter frame.
The major difference between Ciri and the average initiate was her magical potential. There had been students who, in a different life, would probably have been taken to Aretuza. Instead, their moment of tapping into chaos was regarded as mildly interesting. The mutations would destroy that connection, replacing it with Witcher senses and Signs. Ciri was an entirely different situation. The magic in her was wild, uncontrolled, pure. Even if the ability to do the mutations hadn’t been lost, they would most likely not affect Ciri’s powers. A potential for chaos and Ciri’s elder blood were about as alike as a kitten and a tiger. The Witcher’s could teach her to fight, but controlling her abilities was beyond them.
“We’re taking Ciri to Aretuza.” Yennefer announced one day, after the snow had melted.
“For what?” Geralt raised an eyebrow.
“You and your brothers have taught her a lot, and I’ve done my best regarding her abilities, but there’s only so much I know about them.”
“Yennefer of Vengerberg is admitting she doesn’t know something? I should compose a song marking this rare event! Celebrate it as a holiday!” Jaskier teased. Yennefer frowned, but it was half-serious.
“I’m out of my depth here, bard. I am a lot of things, but an expert on Elder Blood is not one of them.”
“Then who is? Who would we be taking Ciri to see?” Geralt said.
“Tissaia might know someone. Failing that, I’m sure there’s someone. So long as we keep her away from Stregobor, I believe we won’t have any problems.”
“Definitely keep her away from Stregobor. I’ll get Roach ready, we’re not portaling.” Geralt sighed. “From here to Temeria is going to be several months. Are we sure it’s safe for Ciri?”
“It’s not. I thought that was the point of training her as a Witcher, so she can handle herself when it isn’t.” Yennefer said.
“She has a point. Our little wolf cub can defend herself if she needs to.” Jaskier said. “The journey is bound to give me new material as well, so I’m coming too. Also, I don’t think Lambert likes me, and you’re not leaving me alone with him.”
“Lambert doesn’t like anyone.”
“Exactly!”
A few nights into their journey, when Ciri was asleep, Jaskier remembered something about the conversation.
“Yennefer, I know you mentioned Tissaia was your teacher, but you mentioned keeping Ciri away from Stregobor. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“You don’t know? I’m sure you’ve heard the stories about the Butcher of Blaviken.” She said the title mockingly, but not towards Geralt or Jaskier.
“Stories change over time. I’m sure what I have isn’t the correct version, especially knowing what kind of person Geralt is.”
“And what kind of person am I, Jaskier? What story did you hear?” Geralt’s face had an odd mixture of amusement and sadness in response to Jaskier’s words.
“You’re a good man, Geralt. You’re rough around the edges, emotionally constipated, and can be an absolute idiot at times, but you are good. The story I heard is that you slaughtered people in the Blaviken square when they wouldn’t pay you for a kikimora. Hence, the Butcher of Blaviken.”
“So they left her and Stregobor out, did they? Figures.”
“Her?”
“Her name was Renfri.”
And so Jaskier listened to Geralt tell the story of Stregobor and the girls he slaughtered, all for the sake of a prophecy that didn’t even rhyme. Geralt was no storyteller, that was obvious, but his description was enough that Jaskier decided something had to be done.
By the time they had reached a fairly large town, Jaskier had composed a song that he prayed would finally surpass “Toss a Coin” in popularity. He had put his heart and soul into making it, and he believed it might be the most important thing he had ever done.He had done what he was expecting to do when he first met Geralt. Jaskier had written a song about the Butcher of Blaviken.
It started slow, a maudlin tune that lamented Renfri and her fellow victims. It was a loving tribute, especially for women and girls Jaskier had never met. Geralt, when Jaskier announced his intentions, was for once generous with details, about both Renfri and Stregobor. Yennefer added additional details, victims she had heard discussed by her fellow sorcerers, and her own personal experiences with Stregobor. Once the audience was properly heartbroken over these girls, Jaskier started in on the butcher himself. The speed picked up Jaskier detailed his cruelty, his blind reliance on a prophecy, his manipulation of the heroic White Wolf. Jaskier may have also made some veiled references to Stregobor fucking a pig, but every great song had artistic license. By the end, he made sure his audience hated Stregobor. The song didn’t outright call for a slow and painful death, but the audience usually got there on their own.
By the time they reached Aretuza, most taverns had heard of the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, killer of so many innocent girls. Word from Blaviken was that Stregobor had been run out after decades of him residing there.
“It’s so big in here. How do you not get lost?” Ciri questioned.
“I was here for a long time, little one. I know this place better than anyone else.” Yennefer ruffled her hair. “I sent a message ahead, Tissaia should be waiting for us.”
“The less time we spend here, the better. Don’t wander off, either of you.” Geralt gestured to both Ciri and Jaskier.
“Me, dear Witcher? I would never.” Jaskier said, mock-offended. Ciri giggled.
As the group reached the rectoress’s office, a large sorcerer with a grey beard caught Yennefer by the arm.
“Stregobor.” Yennefer spit. He looked almost as unpleasant as Jaskier had imagined.
“Yennefer of Vengerberg. Running around with a child and a Witcher. How far the court sorceress of Aedirn has fallen. Tell me, are you still proud you let Fringilla take Nilfgaard?”
Geralt moved his hand to his sword, Ciri looking at him in confusion. “Leave her alone. We didn’t come here to answer questions for arrogant old bastards.”
“And oh, the Butcher of Blaviken, come to slay more innocents. So many years and you’re still more beast than man.” Stregobor dropped his grip on Yennefer’s arm, spreading his arms wide.
“Actually, I think that’s your title now, if I’m not mistaken? Stregobor, Butcher of Blaviken, who killed those girls because he was too stupid to comprehend an eclipse?” Stregobor hadn’t seemed to notice Jaskier, or at least didn’t register that he was part of the group.
“My good man, I assure you, those rumors are fabricated. Lies from some petty bard.”
Jaskier started humming his song, and Stregobor deflated.
“You’ve heard the damn song. If it’s attached to a good enough melody, idiots will believe anything. I can’t leave here because of it. I was a genius, doing what had to be done to save the world from those creatures. And just because they took pretty forms people call me a monster. I did what had to be done. It was the lesser evil.”
“Evil is evil. I believe Geralt told you that once. Did cutting into those girls make you feel powerful, Stregobor? Make you feel important? Were you lamenting the loss when you slaughtered them like pigs, or did you only think of the glory it would bring you? Men like you will always have an excuse for any atrocity.”
“What right do you have to speak to me that way? All you know is a song full of lies!”
“I know more than that.” Jaskier smiled. “I wrote it. And if- no, when. When the people who hear it come for you, I hope you feel every pain you inflicted on those girls.”
Stregobor turned the color of old milk. He was sputtering, grasping for syllables that wouldn’t come.
“Enjoy what’s left of your life, sir, if you can.”
Geralt looked shocked, or at least what passed for shock by Witcher standards, Yennefer had a pleased look on her face, and Ciri was suppressing a laugh at Stregobor’s expression.
“You’re very good with your words, Jaskier.” Yennefer smiled.
“Careful, Yenna. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“After that show, I think you deserve one.”
“Did you see his face? It was hilarious!” Ciri was still giggling. Stregobor had looked like someone had just kicked him in the stomach.
“Jaskier, thank you.” Geralt finally spoke.
“Happy to be of service. I’m a bard, words are what we’re good at.”
No matter what, Jaskier would protect this newfound family he had made, in whatever way he could.