Chapter 12: Today, I Treat You All to… Pah, to Cards

"Right then. Today, I invite you all to eat hot pot. Pah! Cards." Zeilin declared, spreading his hands. "Gwent's the only proper way to pass the time in a hole like this. Future of the world, our next hunt… all that shite can wait. We'll talk it over while we play."

The five Witchers settled cross-legged in a rough circle on the dusty courtyard stones, each pulling out their worn Gwent decks. Zeilin, true to form, laid out his Northern Realms deck – his bread and butter. Geralt, surprisingly, mirrored him. Letho, ever the contrarian, produced a Nilfgaardian Empire set. George’s leader card, Eredin, King of the Wild Hunt, marked him as a Monster deck player. Gerd’s choice, however, raised Zeilin’s eyebrow: the big Northerner was playing Scoia'tael, a faction most Northlanders would sooner spit on than play.

"Gods, I'd love to fleece the lot of you, take every decent card you own," George, from Zeilin’s own Griffin school, said, smacking his lips as he drew his initial ten. His frown suggested the draw wasn't kind. "Speaking of coin, got a tale for you. Friend of mine in Novigrad, see? Got himself deep in debt with some local kingpin. Business went sour. So, he hired me…"

"To slit the gang leader’s throat, I presume? How… quaint," Letho of Gulet interjected, his voice flat as a week-old corpse. He played an Imperial Brigade card without looking up. The man was pure Viper School: coiled muscle, a bald head dominated by a scar that snaked from his left eye to the back of his skull, and cold, watchful eyes always probing for weakness. No one with sense underestimated him. "The Griffin School taking assassination contracts now? Or am I just out of touch with the latest fashions?"

"Pah! Those Cats. Bunch of bloody psychos," George muttered, spitting on the ground. The Cat School, as Letho well knew, had long since abandoned any pretense of the Witcher’s Code, becoming little more than assassins for hire. Ironically, they were probably richer for it, pandering to the whims of nobles. "Nah, nothing like that. My mate just needed a bodyguard. Auction house. Decided Gwent was his way out of debt. Says a rare card can fetch a king's ransom. Poured all his coin into a few Scoia'tael cards, the fool."

"Gambling his life away, more like," Gerd of the Bear School rumbled, playing an Elven Scrapper. He sorted his cards, his big, calloused hands surprisingly deft. "Heard a tale down south. Count Vicq de Vrier. Bankrupt. Daughter had to lock him in the bloody dungeons to keep him away from his Gwent deck – apparently, it was legendarily shite, even for a Nilfgaardian noble. Still hear him howling, they say, swearing he’ll win it all back. More like to lose his breeches. And his wife’s and daughter’s too, if he gets the chance."

"Best keep Yennefer away from the Gwent table, then. Haven't got many shirts left to lose," Geralt grunted, the corner of his mouth twitching – a veritable earthquake of emotion for him. "If Dandelion would just lend me the coin from one of his godawful ballads, maybe I could afford to lose a few more rounds." He played a Redanian Footman. "As it is, I'm stuck with this sorry lot."

"Sorceress lover. More trouble than they're worth, if you ask me," Zeilin said, casually dropping a Spy into Geralt’s ranks. "Waste of good Gwent talent, you are. With your head for cards, you could rebuild Kaer Morhen from the winnings alone. Isn't that where you Wolf School lads hole up?"

"Long as old Vesemir draws breath, Kaer Morhen stands," Geralt said, his voice firm. He played a Decoy, snatching Zeilin's spy back.

"Redanian dogs, you say?" George mused, tapping Geralt’s card. "Saw a mess of 'em myself, down in Temeria a few days back. Any of you heard whispers? Old King Vizimir getting ambitious in his dotage? Thinking of planting his Red Eagle south of the Pontar before he kicks it? Heh. Old bastard's still got some fire in his belly, you've got to give him that." Witchers didn't play politics, but you had to know which way the wind was blowing. Never knew who your next contract might come from. Or who might be looking to put a bounty on your head.

Hearing George, Zeilin remembered the Redanian troops he’d seen back in the forest. A good five hundred, well-armed, and likely more he hadn't seen. If other Northern kings were making similar moves… This wasn't just some military exercise. Feeding that many men for even a day cost a fortune, especially before the harvest. Kings didn't throw coin away like that for no reason.

"The Empire…" Zeilin said, his gaze shifting to Letho. If Foltest of Temeria wasn't kicking up a fuss, then those Redanians weren't looking to pick a fight with him. "Means they're bracing for something from the south. From Nilfgaard." He looked directly at the Viper. "You've been down in their territory, Letho. What's the word? Emhyr var Emreis finally decided to march on the North again?" The history of Nilfgaard's expansion was a bloody one. New emperor, new conquests. It was how they kept their greedy nobles in line and their armies sharp. Emhyr had run out of lands to swallow in the south. The North was the next logical meal.

The other Witchers also turned to Letho. War was bad for business, even for Witchers. Letho didn't look up from his cards. "Nauzicaa Brigade. All over the place, south of the Yaruga. Their tracks are plain enough." He played a card. "That's all I know. The Black Ones don't pay me to be their eyes and ears. And last I checked, we were supposed to be saving the world, not gossiping like washerwomen."

"Right. Saving the world." Zeilin snorted. "Whose play is it? Get on with it. I'd like to win a few more hands before the apocalypse, if it's all the same to you." 

"Aye, world-saving heroes, that's us," George said, with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "My turn, is it? Oh, for crying out loud… another shite card. Wouldn't use this to wipe my arse."

"Or maybe just five fools pissing in the wind. Still, Dandelion will get a song out of it, I suppose. Another epic ballad for the ages." Geralt shook his head, a barely perceptible movement, and played a Veteran.

"Epics don't usually mention the heroes sitting around gambling their last crowns away," Gerd grumbled. "Gods, hope I don't lose my ale money. This is tougher than wrestling a bloody royal wyvern."

"Gentlemen. If I may interrupt your… high-stakes strategizing?" Francesca’s voice, sharp as a shard of ice, cut through their banter. She stood in the courtyard entrance, one hand on her hip, her expression a mixture of disdain and fury. "It is getting late. And we did not summon you here, and pay you handsomely, I might add, to fund your Gwent addictions! Perhaps you should rebrand yourselves. 'The Gwent Hunters.' Has a certain ring to it, does it not?"