A crowd?

Ciri's fingers, rough with calluses from years of swordplay, trembled slightly as Tommon brought them to his lips. He inhaled deeply, savoring the heady scents that clung to her skin - the earthy musk of leather, the metallic tang of steel, and beneath it all, the unmistakable aroma of her arousal.

With a sensual slowness, he swirled his tongue around her index finger, tasting the lingering sweetness of the potion she had offered him. The flavor was unlike anything he had encountered before, at once cloying and sharp, with a subtle undercurrent of something dark and primal that sent a shiver down his spine.

"Good boy," Ciri purred. Her thumb brushed across his lower lip, the casual intimacy of the gesture setting his heart aflutter. "How does it feel?"

Tommon merely hummed in response, his mouth occupied as he laved attention on her fingers. He savored each digit in turn, suckling gently, enjoying the way Ciri's breath hitched, the delicate flush that crept up the alabaster column of her neck.

But as he continued to lick and suck, he became aware of a change stirring within him. The potion, which had seemed little more than a pleasant novelty at first, now crawled against his insides. A wave of heat surged outward from his belly, permeating his entire being with a vibrant, almost feverish energy.

His spent member, which mere moments ago had lain limp and oversensitive against his thigh, sprang back to life with a vengeance. It throbbed insistently against his stomach, hard and heavy as if he hadn't just spent himself all over the unusual woman before him.

Tommon released Ciri's fingers with a gasp, pressing a hand to his aching groin as if to confirm the sudden and drastic change. His vision swam, the room spinning around him in a dizzying whirl before snapping back into sharp focus. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the building pressure behind his eyes.

Ciri chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated through him like a physical touch. “Easy, Tommon,” she murmured, her hand finding his arm, her touch surprisingly grounding. “It’s potent stuff. Not meant for humans.”

But it wasn't merely the physical effects that left Tommon reeling. As the initial rush subsided, it left in its wake a curious mental clarity, a sense of boundless confidence and wit that hummed through his veins like a siren's song. It was akin to the buzz of strong spirits but without the muddling fog of true intoxication. He felt invigorated, every nerve ending alight with possibility.

He felt… alive. Powerful.

And he wanted her.

Gone was the shy, bumbling bard who had entered the room, all awkward fumbling and averted gazes. In his place stood a man, tall and proud, filled with a primal hunger.

He turned to Ciri, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face as he drank in the sight of her. He saw the flicker of surprise in her emerald eyes, the way her gaze snagged on the hard lines of his body, no longer hunched with the bashfulness of youth.

"My turn," he murmured, his voice rough.

He caught her by the hips, his hands firm on her lush curves, and pulled her flush against him. Leaning in, he spun her in his arms, fully intending to bend her over and take her from behind, to claim her with a boldness he hadn’t known he possessed.

But Ciri placed a hand on his chest, halting his advance, her eyes wide and luminous in the flickering candlelight. She arched one delicate brow, her lips curling into a smirk that managed to be both commanding and playful. "Hold now. Yes, I like this new Tommon," she purred, "but don't forget, you owe me a song. I think I'd rather like to hear that golden voice of yours." Her posture made it abundantly clear that she would not be bending over for him until he had complied with her wish.

Tommon's wit, usually restrained by good sense and a level temperament, found itself unshackled by the arcane brew singing in his blood. "Well, I suppose it's only fair," he replied with a roguish grin. "After all, you've already delighted me so thoroughly with your throat. It's only fitting I return the favor and delight you with mine."

To his immense satisfaction, a blush stained Ciri's cheeks.

“Go ahead then, Tommon the bold,” she challenged, lifting his chin with a single, glistening finger. "Let's hear what you've got."

Tommon straightened his posture, clearing his throat as he prepared to sing. And when his voice finally filled the room, it rang out clear and strong, a rich, honeyed tenor suffused with newfound confidence and zeal:

"Oh, a witcher lass with eyes so wild,

A village boy, so sweet and mild.

A dance and twist, a turn and sway,

It was her goal for him to lay."

"She taught him art of sword and skin,

A sheath her fine throat made for him,

From her mouth, a lover's bite,

He’ll paint her chest with pure delight."

Ciri leaned back, listening with rapt attention as Tommon's voice filled the room. As the final note faded, a laugh escaped her lips, the sound one of genuine surprise and admiration. She stared at Tommon, her emerald eyes wide with wonder.

"Tommon, you're actually good!" she exclaimed, shaking her head in disbelief. "By the gods, I had no idea."

Tommon flushed with pride. The potion's effects still surged through his veins, heightening every sensation, every emotion. His arousal, which had hardly abated during his performance, throbbed insistently, demanding attention.

Emboldened, he reached out, taking hold of one of Ciri's breasts, his thumb brushing over the rosy peak of her nipple. "Good enough to warrant a reward?" he asked, his voice low and suggestive.

Ciri swatted his hand away, her focus still wholly on his unexpected talent. “Tommon, I’m serious. I’ve known many a bard and you actually have the wit and skill to claim the title. That’s truly a rare thing.”

He reached for her pert nipples again. Ciri deflected his advance, her expression one of intense curiosity rather than wanton desire.

"Seriously, Tommon, how did you do it?" she pressed, tilting her head to the side. "Every village has its share of horny farmboys who fancy themselves singers, but so few can truly carry a tune."

Tommon grunted in frustration. But beneath the haze of lust, he preened under her praise, a warmth that had nothing to do with the potion heavy in his belly.

"I've always had a passion for the ancient songs of Valrin," he admitted, a touch of shyness creeping into his voice despite his drugged confidence. "I learned them from a lyric book that belonged to my father. I had to pester him for months to teach me how to read the damned thing."

"Strapping, silver-tongued, and literate too," Ciri murmured, her gaze dropping meaningfully to where Tommon's arousal protruded towards her, hard and insistent. A slow, feline smile spread across her face, heat sparking in her eyes. "A peasant who reads is a rare gem indeed."

Her hand reached out, fingers wrapping around his length. Tommon hissed through his teeth, his hands groping greedily at her breasts again.

"But we can explore that mystery later," Ciri purred, her voice silk. "Right now, I need you to fuck the curiosity right out of me."

With those words, she turned her back to him, bending over the bed in a blatant offering that made Tommon's blood roar in his ears. He stepped forward, his hands finding the lush curve of her hips, his fingers digging into her supple flesh as he positioned himself at her slick entrance.

Leaning in, he nuzzled the delicate shell of her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "You just wait," he whispered, rubbing his aching length along her folds, coating himself in her arousal. "I'll have you singing a whole new kind of song before the night is through."

But before he could make good on his promise, the attic door flew open with a bang. The candles guttered in the sudden draft, shadows dancing wildly across the walls.

In the doorway stood a priestess, her face a mask of shock and disgust as she took in the scene before her. Her eyes, wide with fury, swept over the naked tangle of limbs, finally landing on Tommon's unabashed arousal. She let out a scandalized gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. Behind her, an elderly priest peered over her shoulder, his eyes widening at the sight of Tommon and Ciri's naked forms.

Tommon, still flush with the potion's heady influence, felt a surge of reckless courage. He straightened to his full height, a defiant smirk playing about his lips. "Ah, good evening, Sister," he drawled, his voice a study in nonchalance. "I don't suppose you'd care to join us?"

"Tommon!" Ciri and the priestess cried out in unison, their voices a discordant blend of shock and admonishment.

Ciri, her face flushing crimson, hastily pushed Tommon away, raising her hands in a placating gesture towards the fuming holy woman. "Please, Sister, we meant no disrespect," she began, her tone conciliatory.

She shrieked, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "What depravity is this? Young Tommon, Have you fallen so far as to consort with this... this Witcher? How has she beguiled you to defile this sacred space with her foul, mutant magic!"

Tommon felt a surge of protectiveness towards Ciri at her words. It mingled with a spark of devilish amusement, urging him to fan the flames of the priestess's outrage.

He puffed out his chest, his still-prominent arousal standing out in stark relief. "Clearly," he drawled, gesturing towards his erection with a cocky grin, "I'm the one enjoying her company."

Behind the priestess, the elderly priest hastily averted his gaze, his shoulders shaking with what might have been suppressed laughter. The priestess herself blanched, her face turning a mottled shade of purple.

"Tommon!" Ciri hissed again, shooting him a withering glare as she scrambled for her discarded clothing. "Put your fucking dick away!" She turned back to the sputtering priestess, her expression one of strained apology. "We'll be out of your hair directly, Sister. Again, we meant no offense."

Tommon, though he maintained his facade of playful defiance, allowed Ciri to shove his trousers into his hands. He hopped on one foot as he struggled into them, his eyes never leaving the seething priestess, a smirk still playing about his lips.

Ciri, meanwhile, shrugged into her clothes with the practiced efficiency of one used to quick departures. She began gathering her scattered gear, her movements brisk and purposeful.

"You are not welcome here, Witcher," the priestess spat, finding her voice at last. It dripped with venom, her eyes hard as flint. "Leave this town, and don't return."

"We will," Ciri assured her, her tone clipped. She slung her pack over her shoulder, her swords hanging at her hips. She gripped Tommon's arm, her fingers digging into his bicep with urgency. "Come on, bard. We’ve overstayed our welcome."

Once dressed, Ciri strode purposefully towards the door, her hand firmly gripping Tommon's arm. Tommon, for his part, allowed himself to be led, though he couldn't resist throwing one last cheeky wink over his shoulder at the apoplectic holy woman.

As they stepped out into the cool night air, the door slamming shut behind them with a definitive bang, Ciri rounded on Tommon, her eyes flashing.

"Tommon, pull yourself together," she demanded, her voice a harsh whisper. "I know the potion lowers inhibitions, but I need you to sober up before you get run out of town along with me."

But Tommon merely grinned down at her. "Oh, come on," he cajoled, his tone playful. "You have to admit, the look on her face was priceless. Sister Treff has been a killjoy for as long as I can remember. Besides, I bet she’ll savor the memory of that view for the rest of her long, chaste life."

Ciri opened her mouth, looking for all the world like she was ready to deliver a scathing retort. But then, to Tommon's surprise and delight, a reluctant laugh bubbled up from her throat. She shook her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite her best efforts.

"You're a problem, Tommon," she informed him, but there was a fondness in her voice that made his heart skip a beat.

He shrugged, unrepentant. "What can I say? You bring out the worst in me."

Ciri snorted, rolling her eyes. But her hand, Tommon noticed, remained firmly twined with his as she tugged him down the dimly lit street. "Come on, bard," she said, her pace brisk and purposeful. "We'd best make ourselves scarce before Sister Treff decides to rally a mob."

≋ ≋ ≋

Ciri turned to Tommon as they walked, through the village, her expression growing serious. The playful glint in her eyes faded, replaced by a look of genuine concern. She slowed her pace, drawing Tommon to a stop beside her.

"Tommon," she said quietly, her voice gentle but firm. "You should go home. I'll find somewhere else to stay. You've had plenty of trouble to deal with on my account already."

But Tommon, still buzzing with the potion's heady effects, shook his head vehemently. The thought of parting from Ciri, of returning to his mundane existence after the exhilaration of the night, was unbearable.

"No way," he declared, his voice ringing with a conviction he scarcely recognized. "I'm coming with you, Ciri. I want to. There's nothing for me here."

Ciri fixed him with a penetrating look, her emerald eyes searching his face. "I won't coddle you," she warned, her words sharp and uncompromising. "The Path is no place for a sheltered farm boy, no matter how well he sings. It's dangerous, Tommon. Deadly. You... you have a life here. Family, friends. You shouldn't throw that away on a whim."

But Tommon merely grinned. "I've nobody here worth keeping. My mum's a drunk, my dad dead. My only 'friends' are the same idiots who bullied me relentlessly growing up. I'll make my own way," he assured her, his voice brimming with self-assurance. "I can sing for coin, earn my keep. You've seen what I can do."

For a long moment, Ciri merely stared at him, a flicker of something like sadness passing over her features. She opened her mouth, looking as though she wanted to argue further.

“Well, well, would you look who it fakken is…"

Tommon's stomach dropped as he recognized the slurred, mocking voices. He turned slowly to see his 'friends', Edmund and Hedley, stumbling towards them. They were clearly deep in their cups from the celebration, their eyes glassy and their movements unsteady. There was no mistaking the cruel gleam in their eyes as they approached, their faces twisted into sneers of disgust.

"Tom Tom, the witcher's whore," Edmund slurred, his words dripping with vicious amusement. "Figures you’d ‘av to get it from a freak. Couldn’t get it any other way, yeh?" He gestured crudely at Ciri, his meaning unmistakable.

Tommon felt a hot flush of shame and anger rise in his cheeks. How many times had he endured their taunts, their cruelty? How many times had he bitten his tongue, swallowed his pride, told himself it didn't matter?

Ciri stepped forward. "Leave him be," she warned, her voice low and dangerous. "Walk away, now, and this ends here."

Edmund let out a bark of harsh laughter, his ugly eyes narrowing. "Shut it!" he snarled, his words slurring together. "This ‘ere’s between us."

“Yeah, ‘is tween us!” Hedley echoed.

Ciri's jaw tightened, but she said nothing, ignoring them. She turned to Tommon.

"Stay safe, Tommon." And with a last warning look at the drunken pair, she turned to walk away.

“Mutant bitch.” Edmund's voice rang out, harsh and ugly.

Rage, hot and sudden, surged through Tommon’s veins. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he was lunging forward, his fist connecting with Edmund's jaw with a sickening crack.

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of Edmund's pained grunt. Slowly, disbelievingly, he reached up to touch his split lip, his fingers coming away stained with blood.

Then his eyes hardened, a vicious smile spreading across his face.

"Yer dead, Tommon," he said softly, his voice trembling with rage. "Fucking dead. You and yer whore. My da's the alderman, remember? You'll both hang!" Edmund rubbed his jaw and squared his shoulders. “But hey now, hey Hedley, ‘member when we was lads? Old times?”

Hedley gave Edmund a blank stare.

“C’mon Hedley, you remember giving Tommon a right bashin’ when we would catch ‘im singing, yeah? Little fairy boy?”

Dim recognition lit on Hedley’s features. “Oh yeah! Was a great time, that.”

A dangerous glimmer made its way into Edmunds' eye. “Whaddaya say, ‘fer old times sake?”

Tommon squared his shoulders, scarcely believing the words that tumbled from his lips. "Try me," he dared, his voice ringing with challenge.

But for all the alchemical bravado in the world, it didn’t turn Tommon into a better fighter. In moments, Hedley had grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms. Tommon struggled, but Edmund's fist slammed into his gut, driving the air from his lungs in a painful whoosh. Pain exploded through his midsection, stars dancing before his eyes.

But then, a sound cut through the night, a whisper of steel that froze them all in place. Ciri stood, her sword drawn, her eyes glinting with a dangerous light.

"Do you know why witchers carry two swords?" she asked, her voice eerily calm. She raised the blade, the steel glinting coldly in the moonlight. "The silver one is for monsters," she said softly. Then her eyes met Edmund's, hard and unyielding. "But the other one – the steel one – is for rowdy farmboys."

Tommon saw Edmund and Hedley's faces pale, the threat cutting through their drunken state. Tommon watched as it sunk in that they had threatened a witcher, drunken bravado wilting under the promise in Ciri's eyes.

Slowly, they backed away, their hands raised in surrender.

"This isn't over witcher-fucker," Edmund snarled, his voice shaking. "You're both dead. You'll see."

Then they were gone, their unsteady footsteps fading into the night.

In their wake, a heavy silence fell. Tommon turned to Ciri, his heart still racing, a mix of adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins.

"Ciri," he began, his voice rough. "Those idiots, I–"

But Ciri cut him off with a shake of her head. "It doesn’t matter," she said softly. She sheathed her sword, her hand coming to rest on Tommon's shoulder. "But they’re right. You can't stay here, not after this."

Tommon swallowed hard. It was one thing to imagine running away with the witcher. Another entirely to be pressed into it. The realization sank in like a stone. His life here, everything he'd ever known... it was over.

But beneath the fear, beneath the shock, a small, traitorous part of him felt a thrill of excitement.

"Then I'll come with you," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Like I said, I'll make my own way."

Ciri studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his. Then, slowly, she nodded.

"All right then," she said, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "After all, every witcher needs a bard."