Through the mediation of Olivier, the innkeeper, Victor and Angoulême were invited backstage to speak with the star performer of the Kingfisher Inn.
As the old saying went, without a generous bosom, how could one gather generous hearts!
And after observing Priscilla up close, Angoulême reached her conclusion: Priscilla's ability to win hearts was every bit the equal of Saskia, the Virgin of Aedirn!
"Priscilla Callonetta, from Kovir. It's a pleasure to meet you, Victor of Kaer Trolde. I won't lie, when I saw a brilliantly blond witcher listening to my song from the stage, my first instinct was that it had to be you."
"Really? Then what do you think now that you've seen me in person?"
"Hmm... hard to say! You're a little different from what I imagined. Of course, I can understand why someone performing The Dragonborn Comes would need to be as masculine as you are, but I originally imagined you'd be more handsome..."
The bard's opening words were surprisingly familiar and somewhat teasing, yet somehow not irritating at all.
Beautiful people really could get away with anything!
Especially when her slender waist made her ample chest appear even more pronounced. Those dramatic curves were enough to make most men forgive a minor offense, and Victor was naturally no exception.
"And Madam Angoulême, the Golden Eagle of Temeria, you're exactly as I imagined, perhaps even better. Heroic, agile, and with those magnificent thick eyebrows. You truly are a credit to womankind."
Delightedly accepting both the compliment and Priscilla's offered handshake, Angoulême behaved like a celebrity graciously greeting a fan.
She had completely forgotten that less than twenty minutes earlier, she had implied that a woman with breasts that large had to be incredibly horny.
"So, Mr. Victor, what brings you to me? I'd like to ask you about music afterward, so I'll help however I can."
Victor smiled.
"Well, Madam Priscilla, we came because we're looking for a mutual friend of ours, the bard Dandelion."
She blinked in confusion.
"I do know Dandelion, but I have no idea where he is. We met at a poetry competition in Kovir two years ago. My performance was slightly better than his, so after the contest ended, he came over and struck up a conversation with me. But I haven't seen him since."
Her casual tone contained no trace of deception.
Victor immediately realized the minor mistake he had made.
He had come too early.
Dandelion hadn't reached Novigrad yet.
God only knew where the bastard was currently fooling around.
The situation was a little awkward, but no matter.
"My apologies! Looks like I made a mistake. When we chatted in the past, he mentioned you several times and said you were an exceptional singer. For certain reasons, I assumed he was currently active in this city. Naturally, I concluded that he would come looking for you."
Priscilla twirled a lock of hair around her right index finger. Her laughter rang like silver bells, her tone overflowing with teasing amusement.
"Oh! So that's how it is... is it? My apologies, then. It seems I misunderstood too. I thought you had come looking for me. I certainly didn't expect that the person you wanted was another man."
Angoulême burst out laughing.
"In any case, I really haven't heard anything about him recently. Absolutely nothing within the last six months," the bard concluded with a smile.
Victor spread his hands.
"Purely a misunderstanding, but a beautiful one, since it allowed me to meet the beautiful you. Please forgive my recklessness."
"Ah, a beautiful misunderstanding. I like that description, and I'm starting to like you a little too. If you truly want to apologize, perhaps you'd be willing to perform The Dragonborn Comes for me and tonight's audience.
"I really want to hear just how good you are, considering everyone who has heard both of us insists my version isn't as good as yours.
"My pride as a bard refuses to accept that until I've heard you perform it myself.
"And you could use the opportunity to announce the return of the Dovahkiin to Novigrad's salons."
Having just listened to Priscilla perform The Wolven Storm, Victor was certain she was genuinely gifted. Her voice carried sincere emotion, seamlessly blending feeling and melody. Her interpretation was every bit as good as Dandelion's, merely different.
Accounting for the natural appeal of a female voice and the extra weight of nostalgia, Victor even felt her version was better than the original.
Priscilla certainly had every reason to be proud.
However, some songs simply suited certain singers better than others.
Her nightingale voice could make The Wolven Storm gentle, graceful, and haunting.
But challenging him with The Dragonborn Comes?
Whoever had suggested that idea to her clearly wanted to watch her embarrass herself.
Therefore, out of friendly concern for the lady's pride, Victor raised an eyebrow.
"Angoulême can testify that I haven't performed in a very long time. My actual profession is witcher, after all..."
"I want to hear it too!"
Angoulême abruptly interrupted, her eyes shining with a clear desire to stir up trouble.
"It's been ages since I heard you sing. I miss your voice! Besides, if Priscilla wants to hear it, just perform it for her once. We're all friends!"
Victor nearly kicked Angoulême on the spot.
Friends!?
You've known each other for less than twenty minutes!
Could your skin possibly get any thicker?
Unfortunately, Priscilla was nodding repeatedly beside her, clearly in complete agreement with Angoulême's reasoning.
"But I didn't bring an instrument..." The witcher rubbed his forehead.
The bard clasped her hands together.
"You can use mine. And the entire ensemble here is at your disposal."
"Mr. Victor, if you're willing to perform The Dragonborn Comes at the Kingfisher, it'll definitely cause a sensation. I'll even treat you to a bottle of Lafite."
The speaker was Olivier.
At some point, the innkeeper had entered backstage from the main hall and happened to hear the latter half of their conversation.
Having attended one of Alonso Wiley's salons in the past, he had complete confidence in the Dragonborn Bard.
Victor rubbed his chin.
Unable to find any reason to refuse, he finally said, "Then I want to perform the final song of the night."
...
The Kingfisher Inn remained as lively as ever that evening, filled with conversation, laughter, and clinking cups.
The ensemble gradually quieted.
Priscilla stepped onto the stage, one hand resting on her hip as she temporarily took on the role of host.
"Dear friends, normally this would be the time for my second song. But tonight we have the great honor of welcoming a special guest, the Dragonborn Bard, who has been absent from Novigrad's salons for more than a year. Tonight, he will perform his classic song, The Dragonborn Comes."
"What!? You can't be serious! I traveled all this way specifically to hear Priscilla sing!"
"How can you suddenly change performers? That's disrespectful to paying customers!"
"Shut your mouths! Do you have any idea what kind of song The Dragonborn Comes is? Do you understand how moving it is to hear the Dragonborn Bard perform it himself!?"
The last speaker was a knight.
His noble attire and imperious demeanor immediately silenced the first two complainers.
Quite a few among the audience who had originally come expecting Priscilla began murmuring in dissatisfaction, but those ignorant of the significance were quickly enlightened by the people around them and fell silent.
After all, this particular rendition had previously existed almost entirely in whispered legend.
Before today, Victor had performed it only three times in Novigrad, all at salons hosted while Alonso Wiley was still alive.
Then the Dragonborn Bard departed, and his voice vanished with him.
The scattered murmurs quickly disappeared.
...
Victor stepped onto the stage.
The opulent Kingfisher's performance hall was rectangular, extending outward toward the tables occupied by the customers.
He sent the musicians backstage to rest and placed four music boxes beside the stage.
Since he had decided to perform, he would perform at his absolute best.
And since he intended to defeat Priscilla, he would defeat her so thoroughly that she accepted the result wholeheartedly.
The four music boxes would soon play vocal accompaniment recorded with great passion by the mighty men of Skellige.
Combined with the melody from his lute, they would present the audience with the full vocal version of The Dragonborn Comes.
The sheer power of this arrangement was incomparable to the thin solo performances he had once given in private salons.
And compared with back then, Victor himself had experienced far, far too much.
Memory after memory passed through his heart.
"Aard!"
He used the Sign to activate the music boxes, then plucked the strings of the lute.
...
Leaving the stage to Victor, Priscilla leaned against one of the supporting pillars, compressing her already mountainous curves into peaks fit to scrape the heavens.
She had immense confidence in both her singing technique and emotional expression, and considered herself thoroughly familiar with almost every form of performance.
Yet she had never heard of anyone dismissing the entire ensemble and arranging strange music boxes across the stage like this witcher had done.
She only hoped the famous Dragonborn Bard would not disappoint her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Angoulême, the Golden Eagle of Temeria who had arrived with him, sit beside the bar and raise a mug of beer with an expression of absolute confidence.
The sight amused Priscilla.
"Hoh! Hah! Hoh! Hah! Hoh! Hah!"
"Hoh! Hah! Hoh! Hah! Hoh! Hah!"
Without warning, rhythmic roars from powerful male voices exploded from the music boxes.
Combined with the simple melody of the lute, the sound instantly made Priscilla's entire body tense.
She knew The Dragonborn Comes intimately.
She had experimented with countless methods of interpreting this climactic passage.
But she had never imagined replacing instruments with human voices.
Even less had she imagined that voices alone could sound so overwhelmingly heroic and majestic.
Victor had also moved the climax directly to the opening, replacing the original gradual storytelling structure.
Compared with conventional medieval songcraft, it was almost unfair.
Then came the rolling vocal chant.
"Ohhh, oh-oh-oh-ohhh!"
It added another massive layer of epic weight to the song.
Victor hadn't even begun singing yet, and Priscilla already felt unsteady on her feet.
She hurriedly reached for the wall and started moving toward a chair.
Unfortunately, she realized it too late.
"Dovahkiin! Dovahkiin! By his honor is sworn!"
Victor's voice thundered through the hall.
In an instant, a peerless hero seemed to materialize before them, chest bared to the world, carrying courage enough for ten thousand men!
Priscilla's legs gave way, and she dropped onto the floor.
Her eyes could no longer leave the man onstage.
And since she was already sitting there, she simply abandoned all concern for appearances and listened with complete concentration.
"Forever shall evil be banished!"
Even a seasoned bard like Priscilla had been overwhelmed.
The ordinary audience fared far worse.
In a single instant, every one of them was swept into the explosive power of Victor's voice.
Yes.
All of them were inside his song.
"When they hear his triumphant roar, even the fiercest enemies shall flee!"
As Victor sang those words, memories flooded through him.
The forge on Undvik, facing a sky filled with sirens and the nearly invincible Ice Giant!
Beneath Vizima, killing the experimental monster before charging without hesitation toward Azar Javed!
Surrounded in Flotsam, carrying righteousness in his heart as he broke through the formation and cut down Loredo!
And finally, within the amphitheater of Loc Muinne, raising his steel sword and fighting a legendary dragon in a battle drenched with blood!
Every one of those enemies had been terrifyingly powerful.
Yet every last one of them had fallen.
Before Victor, no enemy remained standing!
Yes.
When they heard my triumphant roar, even the fiercest enemies would flee!
Poetry could stir the soul, hold up a mirror to the world, unite people, and give voice to grievance.
Song had always existed to express what lay within the heart.
And so there was a supreme state a singer could reach.
Singing oneself.
At this moment, The Dragonborn Comes was the Dragonborn telling his own story!
A legendary journey of righteousness that reached the heavens and courage that could break an army...
How could it possibly fail to move people?
How could it possibly sound anything but magnificent?
"Dragonborn! We pray for your blessing!"
Roof tiles trembled beneath his roar.
The listeners trembled with them!
Illuminated by the glory of countless legendary deeds, that otherwise unremarkable face seemed to shine.
Every inch of Victor, from head to toe, radiated the explosive masculinity of a raging storm, enough to leave men speechless and women in tears!
Priscilla was one of them.
Two streams of hot tears ran down her cheeks.
She knew perfectly well that the contest had already been decided.
Everyone else had been right.
She could never sing this song better than this man.
Yet even that conclusion wasn't entirely accurate.
Without facing so many powerful enemies and tempering his convictions through battle, the Victor of years past could never have sung with such overwhelming authority.
Belief had to be tempered through action!
After spending several minutes using the climax to establish an overwhelming victory, Victor gradually calmed himself and returned to the song's original beginning.
"Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart..."
His voice dropped into a low chant.
Beginning with the hero's origins, he slowly unfolded the legend of the Dragonborn.
The passage sounded comparatively subdued.
Yet after the overwhelming shock of what had come before, that calm storytelling only made the audience more deeply moved.
...
Some time later.
Angoulême Corion, vice leader of the Phantom Troupe, left the Kingfisher Inn alone.
She staggered drunkenly along with a bottle of Lafite in one hand, intending to take it home and share it with Yoana and Fergus.
As for the leader of the Phantom Troupe, the bard Priscilla Callonetta had invited Victor to stay behind, drink a little wine, and discuss poetry.
Apparently, she had many works she wanted to share with him.
Priscilla had originally invited Angoulême too.
But how could Angoulême possibly interfere when things were going so well for Victor?
She immediately announced that she wanted to go home and sleep because the bed at Fergus's smithy was huge and comfortable!
And so now she walked alone through Novigrad's streets at night.
Yet the girl wasn't particularly lonely, nor was she in much danger.
For one thing, Novigrad was already beginning to resemble a city that never slept.
For another, altars of the Eternal Fire were scattered throughout the city. So long as people stayed near the illuminated streets, even ordinary citizens generally dared venture outside at night.
But perhaps the bottle of Lafite in her hand was too eye-catching.
Or perhaps her bulging coin purse looked too tempting.
Either way, Angoulême's Eagle Eye vision soon detected three malicious red silhouettes following her.
As the Phantom Troupe's chief enforcer, she had killed more than enough people and possessed nerves of steel.
Naturally, she had no intention of leading trouble back home.
She immediately changed course and entered a dark alley.
Sure enough, the three figures soon blocked the alley entrance, letting out filthy laughs.
"Hehehe! You can scream your lungs out and nobody's coming to save you!"
"Hehehe! Come on, sweetheart. Play with us for a little while. We'll be gentle."
They weren't after her money.
They weren't even after the wine.
They wanted to rape her!?
Shocked by their sheer audacity, Angoulême didn't attack immediately.
Instead, using the faint light, she examined their open-fronted clothing and the clownish patterns painted across their faces.
Her caterpillar-like eyebrows twitched.
These three thugs with such excellent taste were all Whoreson's men.
And, unsurprisingly, they were thoroughly drunk.
She remembered that Alonso Wiley, the old Whoreson, had utterly despised this sort of harassment against ordinary citizens.
Yet as soon as that disgusting Whoreson Junior took over, the gang had immediately degenerated this far.
Angoulême slowly retreated deeper into the darkness, allowing the three bastards to approach.
She had no intention of leaving any of them alive.
But at that exact moment, Eagle Eye vision suddenly screamed a warning inside her mind.
Danger was approaching.
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