Geralt headed downstairs to find Juray, expecting her to be playing Gwent with someone and taking their coin again. He frowned when he saw she wasn't at any of the tables. He glanced around, noticing the crowd around the brawlers he noticed earlier seemed bigger. He headed over there and soon saw why. Geralt rubbed the bridge of his nose, not expecting to see the scene before him. A large muscle-bound man was swinging at Juray. Juray, who had removed her chest piece and was currently in the sleeveless shirt she wore under it, danced around him, dodging his swings while landing her own punches. Juray used the momentum of one of his swings to knock him off balance. As he started to tumble, she brought her knee to his face, causing him to stagger back. She then gave him the knockout punch. He fell flat on his back, dazed.

"And the winner is Juray of Riverdell. I can see why they call you the Champion of Velen. It is a title well deserved. But we should see if you can claim the title for Novigrad as well."

Juray gave a smirk as she replaced her chest piece. "We'll see." He turned as she buckled the straps for her swords across her chest, noticing Geralt as the crowd dispersed.

"Champion of Velen?" he asked.

"I was bored. Entered a fistfight tournament right before I met up with you on the foglet Contract. What did Corinne say?"

"Ciri met up with Jaskier."

"He's in Novigrad?"

"Mhm. Apparently inherited a brothel."

"Jaskier is probably having the time of his life then."

Geralt rolled his eyes. "Come on. The place is called the Rosemary and Thyme."

"Who would name a brothel after meal ingredients?"

"Whoever left him the brothel. Come on."

They soon found the Rosemary and Thyme.

"Doesn't look too bad." Geralt said as they approached the door.

"Listen."

"All's we wanted was..." a male voice said.

"Don't give a flyin' fuck what you wanted!" another male voice with a Markam accent said. "Get!"

"Is that Zoltan?" Juray asked.

They approached the door and heard a commotion coming towards it. Both Witchers dodged the door as it burst open, three men unceremoniously falling to the muddy ground.

"Next time I'll rip your fuckin' legs off and shove 'em up your arse till you've toes for teeth!"

The door slammed shut and Juray looked over at Geralt, who had his arms crossed and an amused look on his face.

"Yep. That was Zoltan."

They went inside to see the fiery dwarf grumbling to himself about the mess. He had a short red beard and a mohawk the same color and a scar on his left brow. He turned when they walked in, a scowl on his face that melted upon seeing who had dared walk into the establishment after he threw someone out.

"Geeeralt! In the nick of time, as always!"

"Zoltan," Geralt returned the greeting. "With your boot in someone's ass, as always. Who were those men?"

"Local color. I wasn't gone more'n a moment. Long enough for them to turn our home into theirs!"

"They seem to have made a mess of the place," Juray commented.

"Aye, they have."

Geralt looked over Zoltan's head and the dwarf turned as several men came into the building, looking ready to fight.

"All right, time for some spring cleanin'. I've got to boot 'em all out. Care to join me?"

"With pleasure," Geralt answered.

"Just like old times," Juray added.

A brawl then ensued, a couple more heading to Juray, thinking she was the easier target. They soon found out that wasn't the case.

"Ah, reminds me of our days of yore, eh?" Zoltan asked as he knocked out one of the vagrants.

"Yeah, almost like we never left Vergen," Geralt agreed.

Juray flipped another vagrant over her, he landing on top of another man she's already floored.

"Need help over there, Juray?" Zoltan asked.

"No, I got this," she answered.

"I just watched her knock out a man twice her size. She can handle herself."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Geralt."

The men decided they'd had enough and fled, dragging their injured comrades with them.

"That was fun," Juray said.

"I'm pleased. That went well. Now we can greet each other like the gods ordained! Ages, pal!"

Zoltan and Geralt clasped forearms.

"Hey, Zoltan."

"And, Juray! Haven't seen you in some time, lass. Still showing the boys how things are done."

"Always," Juray answered with a grin.

"You look good, Zoltan," Geralt commented.

"Trainin' plenty lately. What with the war on, no Mahakaman mead to be found, but Redanian lager's standin' in just fine. Juray is as lovely as ever, but you, though, you've withered a bit. Somethin' worrying you?"

"It's about Ciri." Geralt trusted Zoltan with his life and the dwarf's loyalty knew no bounds. "I know she came to Novigrad. Might still be here."

Zoltan's brows shot up his forehead. "You mean, she's come back? I'll be damned. I wonder if I'd recognize her... How many years is it now? Six? Seven? But what'd she be doin' here?"

"Hiding, probably. She might be in danger."

"That's an understatement with her right now," Juray said.

"See her in your dreams?" Zoltan asked, knowing how Geralt always seemed to know when Ciri was in trouble due to his dreams.

Geralt nodded. "Couple times. Her, and the Wild Hunt."

"Ooh... not good."

"Come to that conclusion on your own, Zoltan?"

Zoltan just gave her a look.

"Not at all. But I know she came here and contacted Jaskier."

"We've a wee problem, then..."

"I don't like the sound of that," Juray sighed, knowing how frequently Jaskier would find himself in trouble and have to rely on Geralt to drag him out of it.

"Where's Jaskier?" Geralt asked.

"Hah! Like to know that meself! Maybe he could explain what the hell's goin' on! I just barely returned, as you saw. Expectin' to come home to a hot leg o' boar and some cold ale. What do I find instead?" Zoltan waved his arms around. "A shitestorm. Jaskier gone, the tavern chock full of bums. Haven't a clue what happened."

"Hmm... Let's look around. Might find something that'll put us on his trail."

"Prime idea. I say we start on the ground floor. It's where he sat and wrote."

The three split up and they looked for anything to give them a clue as to what happened.

"Ahah!" Zoltan suddenly said. "A note from a grateful muse!"

"Reading someone else's letters?" Geralt asked before tsking.

"...my visage red and hot," Zoltan read aloud. "...I plunged into purest ecstasy, imbibing its nectar... your dexterous digits on my soul's yearning chords."

Juray snorted a laugh as Zoltan snickered. She, in turn, found a framed document on the wall.

"The Faculty of Oxenfurt University is honored to grant Julian Alfred Pankratz," she read aloud. "Viscount de Lettenhove, the title of Master of the Seven Liberal Arts."

"Keep forgettin' he's got that damn fool name," Zoltan commented.

"No wonder he goes by Jaskier and chose Dandelion as a stage name."

"Hmm... Ten barrels of Toussaint dry," Geralt had a book open in his hands. "Five cases of Sodden triple mead... Hmm... nothing here." He started to close the book and Zoltan spun around.

"No, no, no! That's exactly what we're lookin' for! It's his planner."

"Does Jaskier and planner even go in the same sentence?" Juray asked.

"Seems Jaskier's taking the tavern business seriously," Geralt said.

"If ye only knew. Gives it everythin'. Not seen him this obsessed ever."

Geralt kept looking over the planner when Zoltan reached up and snatched it out of his hands. Geralt gave him a dirty look, which the dwarf ignored.

"Seems when he inherited this fine establishment, it came with some fine responsibilities. Bookkeeping among 'em. He's also made a habit of notin' down the times of his meetings, official and private. So, who'd he been seein' of late...?" He ran his finger down the page. "Ah! Here it is! Hm, seems he's only been meetin' women of late, the dog."

"That's not a bad idea," Juray said. "Jaskier's pretty loose-lipped, might've blabbed something to one of his girlfriends that'll put us on his trail..."

"That's what I'm countin' on," Zoltan agreed, looking back down at the list of names. "Hm... We should divide these somehow... Perhaps... Ah, fuck it." He ripped the page out and handed it to Geralt. "I'll ask the lasses on my half, you interrogate the ones on yours. Suit you?" He looked at Juray. "I think you should stay here in case he shows."

Juray started to open her mouth to protest then stopped, realizing what Zoltan was doing. "Yeah, me asking about Jaskier would send the wrong message. Don't want them to think I'm one of his girlfriends."

The first time Juray met Jaskier, the man had ended up on the ground after trying to overbearingly lay his charm on her. During a dragon hunt he'd followed Geralt on for inspiration for a ballad

"Zoltan, wait. This is in verse," Geralt noted.

"And you figure that's unnatural because...?"

"Wonderful. Meet me back here when you're done. Share our findings..."

"Right y'are. Need to do a wee bit o' tidyin' 'fore I go, can't stomach the idea of comin' back to this mess. And you'd be wise to read your bit 'fore you scurry off."

"I'll help you clean up," Juray said. "Since I'm hanging around for a while."

After the two conversed a bit before heading out to talk to Jaskier's girlfriends, Juray stayed at the inn for a while, finishing picking up the mess left behind by the squatters, before exploring the place. It was a heftily sized place and Juray wondered if Jaskier was going to continue using it as a brothel or if he would turn it into an actual inn. The very thought of Jaskier being an innkeeper amused her. After exhausting her exploration options, Juray decided she wasn't going to stay in the Rosemary and wait for someone to return. There was a tournament and a title with her name on it.

After defeating the other two contenders, one being the Captain of the Temple Guard who was not happy at being defeated by a woman, twice, Juray headed to Farcorners, the nonhuman district, to face Novigrad's champion, a man called Durden the Tailor. Turned out the man really was a tailor. A crowd had already gathered around the area and Durden looked Juray up and down, a hard look on his face.

The bookie overseeing this fight greeted her. "Ah, we've been expecting you. We're already taking bets."

"I'm supposed to fight a woman?" Durden asked.

"Scared?"

Durden snorted. "Hardly. You've been weighed, you've been measured, and you've been found scrawny." The elven tailor looked Juray over again. "In what world could you possibly defeat me?"

"This one in about five minutes from now."

"The newcomer may be a woman," the bookie said. "But remember, she defeated the sergeant of the Bloody Baron of Velen!"

"By dumb luck perhaps."

"Put your money where your mouth is then and see how lucky I truly am."

The two parted to prepare for the fight, Durden removing his shirt, Juray removing her swords and chest piece, wearing only the sleeveless shirt she wore under it.

"Novigraders!" the bookie shouted. "One and all! A momentous occurrence! Before us, in just minutes, Juray of Riverdell will face the Tailor!"

"Come here, bitch! Uncle Durden wants to sew you a new face!"

"I'll show you a bitch."

"Fight!"

Durden charged at Juray, who spun around him and slammed her fist into his back. Durden recovered quickly and swung. Juray blocked his blow, landing one of her own to his nose. Durden staggered back a moment before going at her again. Juray dodged his blows, letting him tire himself out, landing a blow here and there to keep the crowd interested. Once she saw Durden was tiring from his furious swings, Juray landed a flurry of her own. Durden couldn't keep up and soon had a black eye and a swollen lip to go with his bloody nose. One well-placed punch to the side of his head dazed Durden and he went down. Juray backed up, waiting to see if he would stand up. When he didn't, the bookie called the fight.

"Who's the bitch now?" Juray asked.

"Durden is champion no more! Henceforth the title belongs to the drifter!"

Durden finally sat up, holding his head.

"If you've not had your fill of slap abouts, I suggest heading to Skellige next. I'm sure you'll find a challenge there."

Juray returned to see Zoltan was there with a masked white owl.

"How're you keepin', Poppy?" he asked. "Miss your Zoltan, you old bird? What's this? Haven't even drunk our water? Naughty bird! Now repeat: Savorrrry crrrrrackerrrrs."

"You know that's an owl, not a parrot."

"Mark my words, she'll be playin' Gwent with us in no time."

"Sure."

"Where did ye run off to? You were supposed to stay here and wait to see if Jaskier showed."

"I got bored. Decided to try my hand at being a street fighter."

Before Zoltan could respond, Geralt returned.

"Geralt! How'd you do? Learn much?"

"Tell me what you've got first."

"A few bruises and a torn doublet... Otherwise, no' much of note. He wasn't stayin' with any of 'em, they'd seen neither hide nor hair of 'im in ages... All I learned was a few of Jaskier's pick-up lines, of dubious worth."

"Oh, I wanna hear this," Juray said with a smirk.

"Ah, know how he wooed a lass studyin' natural history? Asked her about the habits of trolls. Hmph. And know where he went with the cook from the Passiflora? The Oxenfurt-Novigrad road, which is just now bein' repaired. Made her stare for hours as laborers crushed boulders into cobblestones, and tried to pass it off as a romantic outing! Don't know about human women, but that would bore a dwarven lass to tears. He's growin' old, that poet of ours..."

"Losing his touch, too, apparently."

"Maybe...or maybe he did all that for a reason," Geralt said.

"Sounds like you've found somethin' out..."

"Women on my list hadn't seen Jaskier in a while. All claimed he'd been acting strange. Also mentioned he'd been seeing someone else. Thing is, mystery woman wasn't on my list."

"What's she supposedly like, this lass?"

"Blonde, from Kovir. A trobairitz, apparently. Named Callonetta or something like that."

"Ach, that makes it clear as crystal! It's Priscilla, aye, must be her."

"So you know who this Priscilla is?" Juray asked. "Another girlfriend of his that he swept off her feet with his wit and overbearing charm."

Zoltan grinned, remembering the tale of the poet's first meeting with Juray. "She's a trobairitz. Quite popular of late. Picture Jaskier with a pair o' tits and you've got the general idea."

"Great. Now I have that image in my head. Thanks, Zoltan."

"Interesting image," Geralt agreed. "So how'd Jaskier handle meeting his female double?"

"I think he fell in love."

"He lusts after every other woman he meets."

"How can I explain...? Who does Jaskier love most?"

"Himself," Juray answered.

"Exactly. And she's his mirror image."

"Okay, I guess that makes sense."

"Could be he finally met his match," Geralt suggested.

"She's his match, all right. Maybe more."

"Where can we find her?" Juray asked. "I wanna meet this Jaskier with tits."

"You had to say that, didn't you?"

"Yep."

"Priscilla works with a mummers' troupe Renarde and the Foxen. Whenever they're in town, she performs nightly at the Kingfisher."

"Meaning we've been sentenced to an evening of poetry?" Geralt complained.

"Come on," Juray said. "It probably won't be that bad."

"This'll be true poetry, Geralt. You'll see. Meet me there tonight."

"Fine."

"You want to find Jaskier, don't you?" Juray asked as they walked the streets towards the tavern Zoltan directed them to.

"But listening to poetry? You've heard Jaskier's."

"Well, Jaskier's always basically talks about himself. I really doubt Pricilla has songs about her prowess in bed."

Geralt snorted. "I hope not."

As they spoke they passed by one of the many priests of the Eternal Fire preaching to a small amount of people.

"Like dung that flows to the sewers, so the worst scum flows into Novigrad. Sorceresses, their debauchery putting whores to shame. Alchemists violating divine commandments."

The two were content with ignoring him, now semi-arguing about poetry.

"And worst of all, Witchers!"

The two stopped their argument upon hearing those words.

"Mutants stripped of all emotions, bloodthirsty as vampires."

"Now that's an insult to vampires," Juray said. "Not all of them are bloodthirsty."

Geralt shook his head, knowing she was referencing his late friend Regis, who had been killed helping him many years ago during his last search for Ciri, giving his life to save Yennefer's.

"Ah, here crawls a pair of them now." He pointed at them, "Look! The corpse-like visage!"

The people gathered around him turned towards them.

"The beastly eyes! This is magic that's made a mongrel of a man!" His eyes settled on Juray. "And a whore!"

Juray all but growled and started to go towards them.

Geralt grabbed her arm. "He's not worth it, Juray," he said.

"What's more," a man in the crowd said. "The whoresons steal young 'uns!"

"When did we get that reputation?" Juray asked.

"Yes, steal them! And subject them to torture till the babes transform into beasts wretched as themselves."

"Okay, that's it!" Juray jerked out of Geralt's grasp and strode over to the priest, "Mind repeating that slander directly to my face?" she said.

"Readily," he answered. "You are mutants. Freaks!" The priest stepped right up to Juray, mere inches from her face. "Useless relics of a bygone age that should be burned like a withered branch."

"Tell me, priest. How many lives have you saved? From bruxae? From leshens?"

"That has no bearing..."

"Just answer the question," Geralt said. "How many?"

The priest didn't answer.

"Exactly how many I thought," Juray said. She then turned and looked at the gathered crowd. "There's something to think about as you're turning your backs against us."

"Preacher's fierce in the mouth," a man said. "But holler at 'im and his tail slinks between his legs! Come on, people."

The crowd dispersed and the priest glared at the Witchers before he turned and walked away.

"Let's go meet Zoltan."