Stage Fright

The tavern was a riot of noise and motion, a cacophony of clinking glasses and the steady hum of a dozen conversations. Tommon stood in the doorway, his eyes wide as he tried to take it all in - the crowded tables, the bustling servers, the flickering light of the oil lamps that cast a warm glow over the scene.

It was a far cry from the sleepy village tavern he was used to, with its handful of regulars and its lone, surly barkeep. This place was alive, thrumming with an energy that made his heart race and his palms sweat.

Beside him, Ciri seemed perfectly at ease, her posture relaxed as she surveyed the room with a practiced eye. She glanced at Tommon, a hint of amusement playing around her lips at his awestruck expression.

"Better get used to this," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the din. "This is about as backwater as it gets, city-wise."

Tommon gaped at her, trying to imagine a bigger, busier settlement than this. "You're joking," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "There's no way..."

Ciri laughed, the sound seeming to fit this bustling place. "Oh, you're cute," she said, reaching out to ruffle his hair affectionately. "Just wait until you see Novigrad, or Oxenfurt. Those are real cities."

She led him through the crowd to a small table in the corner, flagging down a passing server as she did. The girl who approached was young and pretty, with long black hair and shy, downcast eyes. She placed two frothing mugs of ale in front of them, bobbing a quick curtsy before hurrying away.

Tommon watched her go, his gaze lingering perhaps a moment too long on the sway of her hips. When he turned back, he found Ciri watching him, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

"What's the matter, farmboy?" Ciri asked, a playful lilt to her voice as she caught Tommon's wandering gaze. "Am I not enough for you already?"

Tommon flushed, his cheeks burning as he snapped his attention back to the witcher. "No! I mean, yes, of course you're..." He trailed off, flustered, and took a hasty gulp of his ale to cover his embarrassment.

But Ciri only laughed, waving away his protests with a dismissive hand. "Relax," she said, leaning back in her chair with a grin. "I'm just messing with you. We don't own each other, remember? You're free to ogle all the barmaids you want. It's practically a requirement in places like this."

Tommon looked down into his ale, feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment. "Right," he muttered, taking a long swig to hide his confusion.

The ale was rich and smooth, with a hint of honey and spice that lingered on his tongue. It was a far cry from the watery swill he was used to back home, and he savored the taste, letting it warm him from the inside out.

"So tell me more about Novigrad," he said, eager to change the subject. "What's it like? How big is it really?"

Ciri's eyes took on a distant look, as if she were seeing the city in her mind's eye. "It's huge," she said, her voice tinged with something like reverence. "Bigger than anything you can imagine. The streets are always crowded, day and night, with people from all over the world. Merchants, nobles, scholars, thieves... you name it, Novigrad's got it."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table as she warmed to her tale. "I remember the first time I saw it," she said, a wistful smile playing around her lips. "I was just a kid, barely older than you are now. Geralt – a witcher, he…" Tommon noticed Ciri struggle to sum up what this Geralt meant to her, "... he brought me up. As a witcher. Anyways, he had brought me there on some witcher business, and I remember standing on the docks, staring up at the city walls like they were the most amazing thing I'd ever seen."

Tommon leaned in, hanging on her every word. He could almost see it himself - the towering walls, the bustling streets, the sense of endless possibility that hung in the air.

"What happened then?" he asked, his voice hushed with anticipation. "Did you explore the city? Did you meet anyone interesting?"

Ciri laughed, shaking her head at his eagerness. "Oh, I met plenty of interesting people," she said, her tone turning wry. "Most of them were trying to kill me at the time, but still. Interesting."

But there was a shadow in her eyes as she spoke, a flicker of something darker, more painful. Tommon hesitated, sensing that there was more to the story than she was letting on.

"It must have been hard," he said softly, choosing his words with care. "Growing up like that, always on the move, never knowing what the next day would bring."

Ciri looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a moment Tommon felt pinned beneath the intensity of her gaze. "It was," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But it was also... wonderful, in its way. The freedom of it, the adventure, the sense that anything was possible. I wouldn't trade those years for anything."

There was a long moment of silence, the air between them heavy with unspoken emotion. Tommon felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to reach out, to take her hand in his, to offer some sort of comfort or understanding.

But before he could act on the impulse, Ciri blinked, the spell broken. She leaned back in her chair, a mischievous smile playing around her lips.

"Of course," she said, her voice light and teasing once more, "there were other perks to the witcher life as well. Like the baths, for instance. Have I mentioned how much I'm looking forward to a proper bath? With you?"

Tommon felt a flicker of disappointment at the change in topic, a strange sense of loss that he couldn't quite explain. But he forced a smile, nodding along as Ciri launched into a light-hearted tale of a particularly memorable bathhouse in Novigrad.

By the time she finished, Tommon was near the bottom of his cup. As he drained the last of his ale, Ciri leaned forward, a glint of mischief in her eye. "Well, Tommon the bard," she said, nodding towards the corner of the tavern, "now that you've got some liquid courage in you, why don't you show us what you're made of?"

Tommon followed her gaze to the small raised platform tucked away in the shadows. It was little more than a wooden box with a step, its surface scuffed and stained with years of spilled drinks and scuffling feet. But to Tommon's eyes, it seemed to loom larger than life, a grand stage upon which his fate would be decided.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry despite the ale. "I don't know," he said, his voice thin and uncertain. "Maybe I should wait until I've had a bit more practice..."

But Ciri was already shaking her head, a wry smile playing around her lips. "Trust me," she said, "this is as small an audience as you're ever going to get. If you can't face them, you'll never make it as a bard."

She stood, pulling him to his feet with a firm hand. "Go on," she said, giving him a playful shove towards the stage. "Show them what you've got."

Tommon made his way across the room, taking a deep breath before stepping onto the makeshift stage, the rough wood creaking beneath his boots. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as a bone. As he took his position, nobody paused to pay him any mind. With trembling hands, he cleared his throat and began to sing, his voice barely a whisper at first.

"In far Toussaint, where sun doth shine…"

The words felt clumsy on his tongue, his pitch wavering.

"She sampled fruit and golden wine…"

A snicker cut through the air, sharp as a knife. Then another. And another. Tommon survey the room to find a sea of sneering faces.

"Get off the stage, ya tone-deaf piglet!" a burly man guffawed, his jowls quivering.

"Aye, spare us yer caterwaulin'!" another joined in, to a chorus of laughter.

Tommon's voice cracked, the lyrics turning to ash on his tongue. Heat rushed to his cheeks as he stammered through a few more lines. But it was no use.

Cheeks burning with humiliation, he slunk off the stage, making a beeline for the table where Ciri sat. She looked up at him with a sympathetic grimace, patting the seat beside her in invitation.

"Don't worry about it," she said, giving his shoulder a commiserating pat. "Making it as a bard is harder than it looks. Trust me, I've known a few in my time."

Tommon slumped into the chair, his shoulders hunched in defeat. "What do you know about it?" he muttered, his pride smarting.

Ciri shrugged, her eyes distant with memory. "I’ve never known a bard that wasn’t more confident than he had any right to be. Maybe you just have to be witless."

The barmaid arrived with their ales, setting them down on the table with a shy smile. "I thought you had a nice voice," she said to Tommon, her dark eyes wide and earnest. "Even if these idiots can't tell good singing from a donkey's bray."

Ciri nodded in agreement, raising her mug in a toast. "She's right," she said, taking a long swig of ale. "You've got talent, Tommon. You just need more confidence. And maybe a few more drinks to loosen you up. In fact, you’ve got enough talent in you to carry you through a little drunkenness."

Tommon took a sip of his ale, but it did little to soothe his wounded ego. As he drank, his gaze fell on Ciri's pack, propped up against the leg of the table. There, tucked away in a side pocket, was an emerald potion. Tommon felt a flush of heat rise to his cheeks as he remembered the way his body had responded to the elixir. The… firmness of it. The confidence –

An idea came to him then.

Tommon's eyes darted back to Ciri, a sudden determination taking hold. "Ciri," he said, leaning in close. "That potion from yesterday. The one that made me..." He trailed off, glancing down at his lap with a meaningful raise of his eyebrows.

Ciri followed his gaze, a slow, wicked grin spreading across her face. "What, farmboy?" she purred, her voice low and teasing. "Already in need of a little help rising to the occasion?"

Tommon flushed, shaking his head vehemently. "No!" he hissed, glaring at her. "It's not that. It's just... the way it made me feel. The way it made me feel like I could take on the world. I think... I think it might help me up there."

He nodded towards the stage. Ciri considered him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face. Then, with a shrug, she reached into her pack and withdrew the small vial of emerald liquid.

"You handled it well enough before," she said, unstopping the vial and holding it out to him. "But be careful, Tommon. This stuff is powerful. A little goes a long way."

Tommon nodded, his heart pounding with anticipation as he leaned forward, sticking out his tongue. Ciri tipped the vial, a single drop of the elixir falling onto his waiting tongue.

The effect was immediate. A surge of energy raced through Tommon's veins, his skin tingling with electric heat. He felt the pressure building behind his eyes, the world around him sharpening into crystal clarity. And, just as before, he felt a sudden, insistent firmness between his legs.

Under the table, hidden from view, he slid a hand along Ciri's bare thigh, his fingers trailing over her smooth skin. Ciri grinned, swatting his hand away with a playful smack.

"Save it for the stage, bard boy," she said, nodding towards the platform. "Show them what you're made of."

Tommon stood, his shoulders squared, his chest puffed out. He strode towards the stage, his steps sure and steady.

"Oy!" a voice called out from the crowd, a boorish heckler with a face like a pickled beet. "Back with yer pathetic mewling, are ye? Get down from there 'fore ye embarrass yerself again!"

Tommon wheeled to face the man, a sharp retort springing to his lips with preternatural speed. "Good sir," he said, his voice ringing out clear and strong over the din of the tavern. "Those words came so quick to your tongue. Is it because you hear them so often from your wife's lips?"

A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd, the heckler's face darkening with anger. "Oh, ye've got a clever tongue, have ye, boy?" he growled, rising from his seat with clenched fists.

But Tommon was ready, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Ah, more words from your wife," he said, winking at the man with a salacious raise of his eyebrows. "Though it’s my ears that heard them."

The tavern erupted in guffaws, the heckler's friends pulling him back down into his seat with good-natured shoves and jeers. Tommon basked in the moment, feeling the crowd's energy shifting, turning in his favor.

"Good people of the Brass Lantern," he called out, his voice rising above the laughter and chatter. "Will you lend me your ears for a song? A real song, this time?"

Enough of a chorus of "ayes" and "yeahs" rang out from the crowd for Tommon to continue. He grinned, taking a deep breath as he launched into song.

From her seat in the corner, Ciri watched with wide eyes, her mouth hanging open in astonishment as Tommon started to sing. His voice rang out strong, and in what felt like mere moments, patrons were clapping and stomping in time with the rhythm of Tommon’s voice.

The potion coursed through Tommon’s veins as he sang, keeping his voice steady in front of all these unfamiliar faces. But there was something more happening, something that went beyond the simple thrill of performance. Tommon felt a strange tingling sensation spreading through his body, a prickling of energy that seemed to emanate from somewhere deep within him.

For now, though, he pushed the sensation to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the joy of the moment. He lost himself in the music, letting the words and melody carry him away to a place where nothing else mattered but the song, simply bawdy tune though it may be.

All too soon, the final notes were fading away, the last echoes of his voice swallowed up by the stops and claps of approval from the crowd.

"Sing us another, bard!" The voice rang out from the back of the tavern.

Tommon grinned, basking in the glow of their approval. He paused for a long moment, letting the tension build, savoring the feeling that came from holding an audience in his thrall.

A yelp rang out in the silence, drawing Tommon’s attention. Across the room, he saw a grubby patron, a fat hand grabbing the backside of the kind, dark-haired barmaid. She nearly dropped her tray of drinks as she swatted at the man's hand.

Tommon's eyes flashed with anger, and he pointed an accusing finger at the groping patron. "You there!" he called out,"Perhaps if you spent more time groping yourself, you wouldn't feel the need to grope the fine ladies who keep us in our drink!"

The patron sputtered, his face reddening as he released her.

The barmaid shot Tommon a grateful smile, her cheeks flushed. Tommon winked at her, then turned back to his audience, riding the wave of their amusement.

"Now then," he said, rubbing his hands together with a mischievous grin, "who's ready for another song?"

≋ ≋ ≋

Tommon and Ciri stumbled into their room at the inn, giddy with triumph and more than a few ales. Tommon clutched a small pouch in his hand, the coins inside clinking merrily with each step.

"I can't believe it," he said, shaking his head in wonder as he upended the pouch onto the bed. A small pile of coins spilled out, glinting in the candlelight. "I've never seen so much money in my life."

Ciri laughed, already tugging at the laces of her shirt. "Don't get too excited, farmboy," she said, her voice muffled as she pulled the garment over her head. "That's barely enough to keep us in room and board for a night in a city like Novigrad."

But Tommon barely heard her, his attention caught by the sight of her bare skin in the flickering light. Ciri caught his gaze and grinned, nodding towards the large wooden tub that dominated the center of the room. Steam rose from the water in lazy curls, filling the air with the scent of lavender and chamomile.

"Well?" she said, arching an eyebrow at him as she unlaced her breeches. "Are you going to join me, or just stand there gawking all night?"

Tommon began to undress as well. He shucked off his shirt and trousers, his cock already half-hard and growing harder by the second as Ciri began to bathe, rivulets of water running over her curves.

"You were incredible tonight," she said, leaning back against the edge of the tub and closing her eyes. "I have to admit, I had my doubts at first. But you proved me wrong. You've got a real gift, Tommon."

A sudden knock at the door froze Tommon in place, his heart leaping into his throat. He stood there, paralyzed, acutely aware of his throbbing erection jutting out from his hips. But Ciri just grinned.

"Come in," she called out, her voice casual and unconcerned.

The door creaked open, the loose shock of the barmaid’s dark hair poking through the entrance. "I'm so sorry to bother you," she started, "I just wanted to say how much I - oh!"

Her eyes went wide as she caught sight of Tommon, naked and very much aroused. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her cheeks flushing scarlet. "I'm so sorry," she stammered, averting her gaze, but not after taking in a look that lasted quite a bit longer than appropriate. "I didn't know - I'll just -"

But Ciri cut her off with a wave of her hand. "No, no, it's fine," she said gently, leaning back in the tub with a languid stretch. "Why don't you come in? You came to meet the bard, after all, well, here he is."

The barmaid hesitated, her eyes darting between Tommon and Ciri, her cheeks still flaming. But after a long moment, she stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Tommon gaped at Ciri, his mind reeling.

But Ciri just grinned, sinking lower into the steaming water with a contented sigh. "Relax, farmboy," she murmured, her eyes glinting with mischief in the candlelight. "Looks like you’ve got your first fan."