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"Shit!" Cahir mutters, aghast. A wanted poster, of him. Again. Only that this one is actually a good likeness, in contrast to the one in Gors Velen where the picture had nothing to do with what he looked like. The bounty promised dead or alive is much higher, too. Emhyr var Emreis must be furious about his erstwhile commander general's betrayal and more than eager to get his hands on him, or on his severed head. Quickly, Cahir pulls his hood up to not be quite as easily recognisable. However, riding through the town hooded like this on a sunny day with not a cloud in the blue sky must look highly suspicious. He gazes around uneasily, half expecting a guard with drawn sword to come and arrest him and his companions.
After a moment of puzzlement, maybe even shock, Geralt spurs his horse and rides toward the huge linden tree in the center of the market square. Several official proclamations have been nailed to its enormous trunk, even a notice asking for a Witcher to deal with a monster problem. Yet, he is not a Witcher anymore and ignores it. The most prominent and latest placard is the copperplate print of the Nilfgaardian's mug, long hair, facial scar and everything, which might get all of them into serious trouble. He had known from the start that it was not a good idea to let Cahir come along with them, but never did he take into consideration the possibility that the Emperor might be looking for him, even put a prize on his head. How stupid.
Luckily, not many townspeople are around, which seems a bit off in the middle of the day. Either they are all having lunch at home, or they are too scared of the occasional Nilfgaardian soldier prowling the streets. The Witcher glances around warily. At the moment, no Nilfgaardian uniform can be seen in the vicinity. He plucks the poster off the tree.
"Murder, desertion, rape, theft, forging of documents," Geralt reads out darkly. "That's quite an impressive list, Nilfgaardian. And a generous bounty. Perhaps we ought to deliver you to the authorities and earn that coin?"
Under his hood, Cahir goes ashen-pale in the face. The Witcher would not do that, would he? He hates his guts, yes, and, wanted to kill him at least thrice so far. Still, betraying someone to the enemy Emperor's officials to be arrested and executed is different, right? Or is it? A cold chill runs down his spine. On several occasions he has seen how gruesomely traitors are tortured and put to death in Nilfgaard. The execution on Thanedd would have been a walk in the park in comparison, and it is still giving him the most horrible nightmares.
"If you do that, Witcher—" Milva bristles, narrowing her eyes. Cahir saved her life and, somehow, she likes the Nilfgaardian. Not for a single second does she believe that even half of what the placard says is true, and if Geralt intends to snitch on Cahir, she will not only be royally pissed at him, but who knows, she might even draw her bow on the Witcher.
Regis puts a calming hand on the archer's shoulder.
"Don't you worry, my friends, Geralt's only joking. However," he adds, addressing Cahir, "we should do something about that mop of yours, lad, and about the scar. It would be very unfortunate for all of us, were you to be recognised. Therefore, I propose that you, Geralt, Jaskier and Milva, do the shopping for provisions while I take care of this hairy problem." Regis smiles through pursed lips. "I am a barber-surgeon, after all."
And, as his is - as always - a most reasonable proposition, this is what they do. Within the next half hour or so, bread, eggs, vegetables and fodder for the horses are bought. At the same time, outside the town, long hair is made short work of by Regis who is a true master of his trade. It is a bit eerie when, following Regis's instructions, Cahir gazes at his mirror image in the nearby pond and only sees short-haired himself, not the barber-surgeon who is standing right next to him. But he does look quite different with the new haircut, and that is what matters. Regis even has a creme that effectively camouflages the distinctive scar across his right temple and cheek, the souvenir from Sodden Hill.
"Ah, Melitele's tits, Regis, who's that guy?" Jaskier asks with a wink when, not much later, the other three join them, their saddle bags filled with provisions. "I've seen you with wild hair and beard - smelling of sewers -, and with long hair, but, to be honest, the short cut suits you best, Nilfgaardian," he adds. "Maybe I should get a new haircut myself? Something bold and dashing that goes well with my adventurous personality perhaps? Any ideas, Regis?"
"Sorry, Jask, we don't have time for such nonsense," Geralt interrupts. "We need to cross the Yaruga before nightfall. It's still a few hours' ride to the ferry."
"Right, the Yaruga. But as soon as we're on the other side—"
"Get on your mounts and let's go," the Witcher cuts him short, not much interested in Jaskier's hairstyle. Bard is bard, short hair, long hair, he does not mind at all, as long as Jaskier is there with him, safe and sound.
Regis mounts his mule with the peculiar name of Draakul, and Cahir jumps on his chestnut colt. Then they ride off towards the Yaruga, and the ferry.
"Witcher, what do you think?" Regis asks after a while of riding side by side with Geralt in silence. He motions at Cahir, who is bringing up the rear with Milva. Actually, he is not a little proud of his handiwork.
"Hhm," Geralt grunts, throwing the Nilfgaardian the gloomiest of glances.
Regis rolls his eyes. Well, come to think of it, it is not the worst possible reaction, though. The Witcher could have said 'fuck'.
