CHAPTER I - CHARACTER DIALOGUE
CONTENTS
DANDELION: I never thought some local swill in some faraway hole could taste so good. The world looks different from atop a scaffold, lemme tell ya. But risks come with the job.
GERALT: Right, poetry's a risky business.
DANDELION: Laugh all you want, Geralt, but I'm talking about the daily dilemmas of a secret agent of His Royal Majesty.
GERALT: Did Roche recruit you?
DANDELION: I travel as a matter of course, and the crown pays me well for information from neighboring kingdoms. Let's just say I've placed my personal safety as a sacrifice on the altar of my motherland.
GERALT: Will you ever learn? You're no good at this. Are you even Temerian?
DANDELION: I put my talents to the best possible use. And money, my friend, don't stink. Besides, if I tried to back out now, they'd probably arrest and hang me.
GERALT: I know you - I can see you're dying to ask me. What is it?
DANDELION: All right, fess up. What happened to Foltest?
GERALT: The King's dead, and the Scoia'tael are in it up to the tips of their pointed ears.
DANDELION: Yada, yada. The Scoia'tael are blamed for everything in this country, from bad crops to bad marital sex.
GERALT: I was there. I saw it. The assassin escaped with the help of Scoia'tael.
DANDELION: Hm, I guess the price on Iorveth's head will rise.
GERALT: Loredo's sensed that already. If he can catch Iorveth...
DANDELION: Fertilized by the elf's rotting corpse, his career will blossom, somewhere far away from this dump.
GERALT: Want to know the version that has yet to make it to Flotsam? The King died in mysterious circumstances. The witcher Geralt, his sword covered in blood, was discovered standing over his corpse.
DANDELION: Did you kill him? This'll stay between us, I promise...
GERALT: The killer escaped before I could get him. I'm being set up.
DANDELION: So what're you gonna do? Run around, swinging your sword, hoping the killer walks into range?
GERALT: I don't have to. The killer's in the forest with the Scoia'tael, and he knows I'm here. We'll find each other.
DANDELION: Geralt, please don't do anything stupid. Don't stick your neck out. If Loredo finds out you were involved in Foltest's assassination... Ugh.
GERALT: You gave Vernon a full report on Flotsam. Seen anything unusual around here?
DANDELION: They've got some amazing women at the brothel - you should take a look. One of them...
GERALT: You know what I mean.
DANDELION: A town like any other. It's got a harbor, an inn and a stinking, muddy river. That's what an ordinary man would say. But we poets also look into people's souls. And things are not good. I saw a robbery sanctioned by law, town watchmen laughing as they "confiscated" goods, all the while talking about how they'd finally bring order to the town. I saw drunken thugs beat up an elf woman while no one even flinched.
DANDELION: I know these things happen everywhere, but here, it's not motivated by hatred or misguided attempts at meting out justice. People are driven by cold calculation. They're always looking for opportunities to get a little richer.
GERALT: I need information, anything that could help me track down the kingslayers.
DANDELION: I only know gossip - things folk have been saying since Demavend's death. People are throwing out blame left and right. One day it's the elves, another the Nilfgaardians, then it's Rivians...
GERALT: Lemme guess - the suspects also include a Zerrikanian alchemist. And a group of halflings...
DANDELION: Bold theory, that, but the mob comes up with even better ones. Know what? Frankly, the most worrying effect of these assassinations is the chaos they've unleashed in people's minds.
GERALT: What do you mean?
DANDELION: I mean chaos. People don't know what to think - who's good and who's evil. And these are tough times. Who knows what's going to happen.
GERALT: So, mister master spy, what's new in the world of politics? Bards singing about anything interesting these days?
DANDELION: Aedirn's in trouble. Henselt and his great army are nearing the Pontar and will ford it and strike any day.
GERALT: Well, we haven't had a war in a long time.
DANDELION: Like all little boys, he likes to play with his soldiers. But I don't think Kaedwen'll have an easy time of it. Aedirn's borders are guarded by Saskia the Dragonslayer.
GERALT: Who's she? Some mercenary?
DANDELION: A peasant girl and self-proclaimed commander of something called the Aedirnian Voluntary Militia.
GERALT: Fighting women and bards who play politics. These are strange times...
GERALT: I'm having flashbacks, Dandelion.
DANDELION: What've you remembered?
GERALT: My own death.
DANDELION: I saw that with my own eyes, as I've told you many times. Yennefer gave her life to save yours. I thought you might've remembered what happened afterwards. I mean, how the devil can you be here now? I hear you, I see you... You're breathing, I mean, you're just alive.
GERALT: Dandelion, I've had a flashback or two. I don't know everything yet.
GERALT: The Wild Hunt's not a legend - I can prove it.
DANDELION: How so?
GERALT: I found a manuscript whose authors contend that our world is not the only one where there's life. They also believe stars are not just twinkling points.
DANDELION: You want to tell me that somewhere up there, I'd find other Geralts, other Dandelions, living, breathing and...? Shame we can't meet up.
GERALT: Exactly. The manuscript says vast distances are the main problem - a normal human would run out of lifetime before he got to any of those other worlds.
DANDELION: Besides which he'd have to have something that could fly.
GERALT: The manuscript's authors claims the Wild Hunt has found solutions to both problems. The cavalcade travels between the worlds.
DANDELION: Sounds a little like the ravings of a drunk dwarf, but who knows...
GERALT: I need to find out. The manuscript mentions someone named Morten Collis, who devoted his life to observing the Hunt. Maybe I can get my hands on his research.
GERALT: I now remember the Isle of Avallach, where Ciri took Yennefer and me... It was a joyous time... Until the Wild Hunt's riders appeared. They abducted Yennefer...
DANDELION: Sure you didn't dream this?
GERALT: I dream of the Wild Hunt every night. But these were not illusions, hallucinations.
DANDELION: I'm not sure how to help you. There must've been someone who studied the Wild Hunt, though from what I can remember, human literature is pretty much silent about it. There's always elven literature - I don't know that too well, so maybe it's worth some delving...
ROCHE: What's going on, Geralt?
GERALT: We arrived in Flotsam, we saw the killer, we've pissed everyone off. What next?
ROCHE: If the kingslayer's in Iorveth's care, we'll have to get them both.
GERALT: If we go out into that forest to look for elves, all we'll find is our own death.
ROCHE: We'll visit Loredo as invited. He may be a hick heading a bunch of imbeciles, but this is his territory and he could prove useful.
GERALT: You'll get a chance to show your mettle. If we're to capture Foltest's murderer, we'll have to clash with the Scoia'tael.
ROCHE: I sent the boys out into the woods. Tough going, too dense. My scouts got ambushed and barely escaped.
GERALT: It's no picnic hunting elves in the forest - tell me something I don't know.
ROCHE: My people saw the kingslayer again. He knows we're here but he's not even trying to escape. Seems he's waiting for something.
GERALT: I think it's our move.
GERALT: How can the commander of a Temerian garrison just piss all over the commander of Foltest's special forces?
ROCHE: The Blue Stripes aren't exactly popular among common folk, in case you hadn't noticed.
GERALT: Like anyone who does the dirty work. But Loredo's a soldier...
ROCHE: The worst scum gets posted to dumpy border towns like this. Incompetent fools who show off their authority to a bunch of grimy peasants.
GERALT: Loredo wants the Scoia'tael gone for good. He didn't say anything specific, but in his mind's eye he saw them on the prison barge already.
ROCHE: Iorveth's outsmarted bigger fish than the commandant.
GERALT: Loredo's got something going with Síle, so I'd take him seriously if I were you.
ROCHE: You never know, maybe the sorceress hunts more than monsters.
GERALT: I questioned Ciaran, Iorveth's second in command.
ROCHE: Where is the bastard?
GERALT: I get the feeling he's dead, just landed on the Isle of Avallach. I've been to that island, Vernon. I remembered something while talking to Ciaran. I was there with Yennefer. She gave her life to save mine.
ROCHE: Did you remember the crossing, how you got there?
GERALT: With Ciri's help...
ROCHE: Interesting...
GERALT: What I find interesting is how a master spook like you has no idea what happened to me over those five years. Five years, Roche. That's enough time to topple a monarchy, twice.
ROCHE: First off, my responsibilities do not include the surveillance of dead witchers. And second...
GERALT: Spit it out.
ROCHE: Unconfirmed rumors - I've never taken action based on them.
GERALT: I need something, scraps even. So you need to tell me everything you know. Even things you think might sound ridiculous.
ROCHE: Three years back, Fenn got a missing persons case. Someone was abducting young people, aged ten to twenty. Ugh, the case went cold because no one agreed to testify. Except for one woman, considered insane because she insisted the Wild Hunt had made off with her son. And she claimed she'd learned of this from an old man who was pursuing the cavalcade. He resembled a skeleton more than a man - white hair, two swords on his back.
GERALT: The Wild Hunt is a riddle. A riddle that will restore my memory - if I can just solve it.
ROCHE: As I see it, you're more likely to learn about the Hunt from the insane. Not a reasonable man out there can teach you a thing. You might visit that asylum in the woods - or what's left of it.
GERALT: Recovering my memory - that's in your interest, too.
ROCHE: I'll never fall for that - too simple.
GERALT: Before he died, Cedric told me that once I'd recovered my memory, I'd understand who was behind the royal slayings. Including that of your king, Roche.
ROCHE: The ravings of a drunken elf.
GERALT: Sorry you see it that way.
GERALT: I found a patient's chart in the ruins of the hospital.
ROCHE: You mean the burned down insane asylum?
GERALT: They committed him to the asylum because he had insisted he'd been a prisoner of the Wild Hunt. He claimed he'd been in a world without humans, where he'd seen herds of unicorns. He managed to return to our world after a year, only to find his children had died of old age... Following this, Vernon? It means he'd been to a world where time flows a lot slower...
GERALT: A little town deep in the forest, terrorized by Scoia'tael. You should be in your element, Roche.
ROCHE: Flotsam isn't just any old town, Geralt. Temeria, Redania, Kaedwen and Aedirn - the largest kingdoms in the North. Know what they all have in common?
GERALT: The Pontar Valley. A strip of land they've been battling over for generations.
ROCHE: Exactly. And here's Flotsam. On the border between Temeria and Aedirn, with Kaedwen lying in wait just the other side of the marshes.
GERALT: At the very edge of the Pontar Valley.
ROCHE: Stuck in the middle like a candle up the arse.
GERALT: The North's most important trade routes meet here. Every caravan has to come through Flotsam, and anyone who wants to place their cargo on a boat on this section of the river has to bear Loredo in mind.
ROCHE: They say Henselt of Kaedwen has gathered an army and is heading for Vergen. The Pontar Valley will be on fire soon. While we, Geralt, are sitting in Flotsam, the gateway to the valley.
GERALT: I'd like to believe it's pure coincidence and the killer just followed the Squirrels here.
ROCHE: Naïve, to say the least, witcher.
GERALT: So long, Roche.
TRISS: I'm glad you're here...
GERALT: How's it living with Roche's soldiers?
TRISS: Splendid. I know every shit joke that anyone's ever thought up, plus I've learned how to burp out the official title of the Emperor of Nilfgaard without reaching for beer.
TRISS: Shorty's told me about his sixteen children - all named after Temerian troop divisions - and I know his nickname has nothing to do with his manhood. Nice to know you that you care, though.
GERALT: Glad to see you in a good mood.
TRISS: I think I actually like them. They're good people. One of them even proposed to me.
GERALT: Who's the brave man?
TRISS: Hm, sorry, that's a secret.
GERALT: And here I thought Roche's boys had an ounce of respect for me.
GERALT: Did you go pale when you saw Síle or did I imagine that?
TRISS: I don't like her.
GERALT: It's that simple...?
TRISS: She has no human feelings, she's cold, ruthless and painfully logical. She once forced me to make a decision I regret to this day.
GERALT: I need her help to kill the kayran. Then she'll go her way, and we'll go ours.
TRISS: I hope so. Watch out for yourself in the meantime.
GERALT: Don't worry, wild beasts are my specialty.
TRISS: Not sorceresses?
GERALT: Same thing.
GERALT: If you helped me draw the kayran out of the water, I wouldn't have to ask Síle.
TRISS: I don't know the right spells. I've never dealt with monsters.
TRISS: Geralt, couldn't you just leave this one monster alone? There must be some other way to rip Dandelion and Zoltan out of Loredo's hands.
GERALT: Wait a second... What is it, Triss? She's just one more conceited sorceress.
TRISS: Sorry, I'm not sure myself... I've got a feeling I've been deceived and manipulated by sorceresses I trust.
GERALT: Is Síle one of them?
TRISS: I think so, but I can't be certain.
TRISS: It's complicated, Geralt. I need some time.
GERALT: You want to talk or not?
TRISS: No... Yes... Oh, I don't know. I need some time.
GERALT: You have a think, and I'll deal with the kayran.
GERALT: The massacre in Rivia - it came back to me, I remember. The angry mob murdering nonhumans, a young boy with a pitchfork.
TRISS: Anything else?
GERALT: Death... Or a state close to it, I'm not sure. I felt life draining out of me.
TRISS: Um, I was there. I arrived a moment later, too late...
GERALT: Don't worry, Triss. They're only memories. We have bigger problems to tackle, now. Something tells me that in recovering my memory, I'll find out a lot about what we're dealing with now.
VES: Hmm?
GERALT: How did you end up in the Blue Stripes?
VES: Why do you ask?
GERALT: Well, you're a beautiful girl and...
VES: So what? I'm not a nobleman's or merchant's daughter. All right, I may have the looks, but with my background, the best I could hope for was to be a maid in some roadside inn. Or to work at a brothel not unlike the local one, using my sweet lips to give blowjobs for a handful of coppers.
VES: So I'll stick to slitting elven throats, thank you.
GERALT: Definitely the better choice, if you look at it that way. They say you're good at it.
VES: Right you are.
VES: I'm a soldier because I do it well.
GERALT: Ever dreamed of a different life?
VES: Finch, our marksman, once tried farming. But he just didn't have the hands for it.
GERALT: Bet he'd get me right between the eyes from eighty paces off.
VES: A hundred. I've tried cooking, darning, smiling like a doll, serving beer in a tavern. None are my thing.
GERALT: You know what you want and I like that.
VES: You're quick to pounce, witcher. Except you've got the wrong girl.
GERALT: You think so?
VES: All right, Roche has decided you're sailing with us. Fine. But it wouldn't be the best time even if I fancied you, which I don't.
VES: I need your sword, not your dick. Anyway, as far as I know, you're hardly indifferent to Triss Merigold.
GERALT: Well said.
VES: She has spaniel eyes whenever you're around. It's hard not to notice.
GERALT: Does that bother you?
VES: I don't care, but I'm not about to mess with a sorceress.
GERALT: We're not as close as you think.
VES: I wonder if she feels the same.
VES: I don't care, but I'm not about to mess with a sorceress.
GERALT: Oh, forget it.
VES: I already have.
GERALT: I like naughty girls.
VES: Really? But Triss seems so sweet.
VES: All right, Roche has decided you're sailing with us. Fine. But it wouldn't be the best time even if I fancied you, which I don't.
VES: I need your sword, not your dick. Anyway, as far as I know, you're hardly indifferent to Triss Merigold.
GERALT: You misunderstood me. I'm just glad we're on the same side.
VES: Me, too. Say 'hi' to Triss for me.
GERALT: I have trust issues. I like to know who's covering my ass.
VES: No need to worry, witcher. I'm good at what I do.
GERALT: Do I see a sensitive little girl hiding behind a mask of indifference?
VES: Sorry. That little girl is not me.
VES: I was raised in a small village where people cared about two things only: if the drought was going to destroy their crops... and if the Scoia'tael would appear in the local woods...
VES: One day, a large Scoia'tael unit appeared. They burned the village to the ground and slaughtered all the inhabitants. I alone survived because their commander, the bastard, fancied me.
VES: They dragged me around with them for months. I knew they'd kill me once they tired of me. And then Vernon turned up.
GERALT: Did he draft you into service?
VES: He taught me everything I know. In time, I realized my place was with the Blue Stripes.
[Continues same as "VES: I'm a soldier because I do it well."]
GERALT: The man we're looking for is much more dangerous than any Scoia'tael.
VES: Must be, if he managed to outwit Geralt of Rivia.
GERALT: It wasn't the first time someone tried to kill Foltest. I killed an assassin before. That means there could be more assassins out there.
VES: If anyone screws up, it won't be me, I assure you.
GERALT: You don't end up in a unit fighting nonhumans by accident. You must have an interesting story to tell.
VES: Why should I tell it to you, of all people?
GERALT: Do I have this right? Your father was called up but he was old, so you stole his armor and took his place?
VES: I wish I had. But I never knew my father.
GERALT: Nice area, isn't it?
VES: I prefer these little towns, forgotten by gods and people alike, to palaces and castles. It's survival of the fittest here. At least you know what to expect.
VES: So, yes, I like it here.
GERALT: Is your hatred towards the Scoia'tael some sort of revenge?
VES: You don't know me, Geralt. Human or nonhuman - it makes no difference to me. We were chosen to fight the Scoia'tael, and that's the mission we pursue. To me, the Scoia'tael are but bandits hiding out in the woods. If there were humans among them, I'd kill them in a flash just the same.
GERALT: Good to see you, Zoltan. What are you doing so far from home?
ZOLTAN: It's a dog's life, Geralt, I'll tell you that much. You work your fingers to the bone for six years, you listen to the tirades of that old tyrant Breckenrigg, you buy jewels...
ZOLTAN: Then she breaks off the engagement. And there I was, learning the gavotte.
ZOLTAN: Fuck it. Out of sight, out of mind. Farewell to Eudora, the forge in Novigrad and all the world's Breckenriggs. I'm a plain merchant and I've made my peace with that.
GERALT: How're you killing time in this hellhole?
ZOLTAN: At present? Polishing gems for Síle de Tansarville. Requires precision, but it's well-paid work.
GERALT: Jewelry?
ZOLTAN: Not quite. The sorceress is building a magical contraption. Spends her days staring at it - a regular magpie eyeing a copper. But I don't think she's gettin' anywhere with it. Got so enraged one time she dashed a vase against the wall. Some temperament, those sorceresses, I'm telling you.
GERALT: Is there a good sword smith or blacksmith here?
ZOLTAN: There's a small smithy by the wall. Quite basic. The tools probably remember the Conjunction of the Spheres, but it'll do for weapon repairs. They also enhance swords with runes and add ornamentation to armor. Just don't do anything that'll make you look like Dandelion at the opening of a new brothel. You could also look in on some merchants. I don't think Loredo's robbed them of everything yet.
GERALT: Do you know someone named Cedric?
ZOLTAN: Know him? We drank each other under the table last Saturday. I barely made it home.
GERALT: Where do I find him?
ZOLTAN: Ah, most times, gazing at the forest from a tower near Lobinden. Strange bird, that one, but a heavyweight when it comes to drink.
GERALT: Thanks...
GERALT: I spoke to the Commandant. The future hardly looks bright for the nonhumans in Flotsam.
ZOLTAN: That fucker's only waiting for an excuse. One small provocation by Iorveth and he'll attack us.
GERALT: How do you know?
ZOLTAN: Heard it by chance. Saw him walking through the port one night, talking to himself, the batty bastard. He mentioned a new order and a world for humans only. He laughed and shouted curses at the prison barge. The scum is up to something. Iorveth must sense it. He's doing everything not to provoke Loredo, but his Scoia'tael might have a different opinion. And less restraint.
GERALT: Any news?
ZOLTAN: Triss has sniffed something out. Apparently, there are prisoners on the barge in the port. Squirrels, no less.
GASPAR: Here comes the witcher. Think he'll agree?
FARID: No, I... I don't know. Should we just walk up and ask him, like that?
GASPAR: Take a good look at him. He'd be ideal.
GASPAR: Ha!
FARID: Greetings. A word, if you will?
GASPAR: You see, we've created an alchemical substance and we wish to test it in Vizima, in a laboratory...
FARID: Seeing as you're a witcher, we wondered if you'd be willing to test it in practice?
GASPAR: In a year or two, given the occasion, you could visit us in Vizima. We'd examine you and reward you generously.
FARID: We need to study its long-term effects. We can't say more.
GASPAR: Are you in?
GERALT: Why not.
GASPAR: Splendid!
FARID: Excellent!
GASPAR: Now, if you could also keep a journal of the experiment...
FARID: Don't overdo it.
GERALT: No way.
GASPAR: That's... not helpful.
FARID: We'll try someone else.
[If Geralt agrees, players who import a Witcher 2 save into Witcher 3 can find a letter from Farid to Gaspar about the intended effects of the potion.]
[Geralt encounters a trio of bandits in Flotsam.]
BOUNTY HUNTER: Well, well. Had a inkling and it didn't disappoint me. It was a long voyage to this cesspit, but it's about to make sense. Foltest's killer, live and in person. How are you? Happy and healthy?
GERALT: Can't complain.
BOUNTY HUNTER: I am delighted, really, but you see, it's a long way back to Vizima and I'd rather not dawdle. I lost a load of time looking for you.
GERALT: No reason to waste anymore talking, then. Bon voyage.
BOUNTY HUNTER: Listen, jester, you're worth more to me alive, but if need be, I will take you back as a corpse. You choose.
GERALT: All right. Give it a shot.
BOUNTY HUNTER: Drop your sword and put your hands together, or I'll not vouch for what...
GERALT: Shut up. Go ahead, try to kill me.
[Geralt kills the three bounty hunters. Afterwards, he discovers they had a warrant for his arrest on them.]
[Geralt meets the dwarven bookseller for the first time.]
EINAR: Greetings, what brings you here, White Wolf? Make yourself at home, please.
GERALT: Do we know each other?
EINAR: I've heard, or rather read, much about you - in the letters of the Rivian diaspora.
GERALT: Well, nice to meet you...
EINAR: Einar Gausel. Fundamentally a trader in old curios, although I also concern myself with the nonhuman community.
GERALT: Books in Flotsam? I wouldn't have thought it a profitable enterprise.
EINAR: Heh, many foreigners come through here. Sometimes they buy books, sometimes they have tomes to sell. Yesterday, for example, Lady Síle de Tansarville purchased items for a sum equal to my yearly dealings.
GERALT: Did she buy anything interesting?
EINAR: "De Vermis Mysteriis," "The Exeter Treaties," complete and unabridged, plus a very expensive volume I'd rather not mention. I should add - as generosity must be praised - that she made a donation to the community. Specifically to the fund for widows and orphans.
GERALT: The nonhumans in Flotsam are organized?
EINAR: We aren't. But we aid each other as best we can. I mainly collect taxes and announce the Commandant's dispositions.
GERALT: That'd make you a prime target for Iorveth.
EINAR: Heh, heh, you're correct on that account. He's warned me many times, and I've explained the need for my function to him just as many. Both in vain - it seems we've agreed to disagree. Well, the sword is his calling, the pen is mine, hence no meeting of the minds.
EINAR: It wasn't always this hard. Turned sour when several elven lasses disappeared. We lost our trust in the humans, and the Scoia'tael ceased trusting us.
GERALT: Did they turn up? The women?
EINAR: No. I believe nekkers killed them... I remember Moril of the white hands... She and her lover made a beautiful pair...
EINAR: Godspeed.
[In Lobinden, before Geralt meets Cedric, he can overhear a guard talking to a townswoman.]
GUARD: I seek the elf named Cedric. Any of you know where he is?
TOWNSWOMAN: What's your business?
GUARD: I need to know if the forest's safe.
TOWNSWOMAN: How am I to know if that's truly what you seek? It's common knowledge that you're racists.
GERALT: I heard the village is home to someone who knows monsters.
TOWNSWOMAN: That'll be Cedric. Talk to him.
GERALT: Where can I find him?
TOWNSWOMAN: Wait a moment... Are you the white-haired lout who whopped my husband in the port?
GERALT: Sorry about that.
TOWNSWOMAN: He's sorry! Just look at him! Aren't I owed compensation of some sort?
GERALT: Here's a few orens. Be sure to spend them on food.
TOWNSWOMAN: We've seven children to feed!
GERALT: There's a river full of fish out there. Farewell.
TOWNSWOMAN: A moment... Fine. I'd hardly call you generous, but all right...
GERALT: So, where's Cedric?
GERALT: Take this. Now, where's this Cedric?
GERALT: I'm not the man you're looking for.
TOWNSWOMAN: You harmed my man, you rogue. Who'll go fishing tomorrow? Who'll feed the children? Out of my sight!
GERALT: Fine, I'll find him myself.
GERALT: Here's a few orens."]
GERALT: So where's this Cedric?
TOWNSWOMAN: Top of the tower, near the way out of the village.
GERALT: Thanks.
GERALT: Greetings.
MARGOT: What can I get you, fine lad?
GERALT: What do you think of the commandant?
MARGOT: Mister Loredo is a great man. A great man! He looks after us, helping like. Taxes are just as they should be, we're all pleased he governs the trading post, and we're all perfectly happy here.
GERALT: Excellent. You're a model citizen. I'll be sure to inform the commandant.
MARGOT: Bah, do I need publicity? I'm a humble woman, I know what's good for me. Loredo's our leader here, and everything's all right.
GERALT: What are you talking about, woman?! Feeling all right? The town's a dump, Loredo's robbing you, and his men intimidate everyone.
MARGOT: That's foolishness, master witcher! Shouldn't say that, shouldn't badmouth the Commandant. He's a holy man. Period.
GERALT: You fear him that much?
MARGOT: Don't you provoke me. Beat it!
GERALT: Ever seen the river monster, the kayran?
PIRATE: I have, but I'm not the talkative kind.
GERALT: Are you the kind that scares easily?
PIRATE: Huge beast, stirs the water with its tentacles like a water-wheel. Dead fish all around it, must be venomous.
GERALT: You don't know a thing.
PIRATE: Leave me alone, will you?
GERALT: Speak up.
PIRATE: The monster's as big as a barn, with giant tentacles. Snatches men from boat decks and cattle off the shore. It's slimy like a snail, but fast as a thirsty vampire.
GERALT: You don't know a thing.
PIRATE: Leave me alone, will you?
PIRATE: I don't know anything else!
[Geralt meets a man outside of the Blue Stripes' headquarters (before finishing Troll Trouble).]
MESSENGER: Witcher Geralt? Known also as the White Wolf?
GERALT: Am I that hard to distinguish from the locals?
MESSENGER: Thaler warned me you'd be catty.
GERALT: Thaler sent you?
MESSENGER: Indeed. I'm on business here, so he insisted I give you a message and a package.
GERALT: What's the message?
MESSENGER: I quote him faithfully: "Listen to Roche in every ploughing thing, because though he's a prick, he's also a patriot."
MESSENGER: "Vultures already circle Foltest's corpse, but I'll manage. Get the sons of bitches and keep your head cool."
MESSENGER: P.S. "You really fucked up at the castle."
GERALT: Give me the package.
MESSENGER: Take it. It's a weight off my mind, I tell you...
MESSENGER: Ah, I wouldn't make much of an agent. All that secrecy and nerves and cursing. Not my style. Good luck to you, I'm off to tend to my matters.
GERALT: Godspeed. Give my best to Thaler.
MESSENGER: Oh, I will.
MESSENGER: I've conveyed what I was to convey. Now leave me be, please.
[If Geralt has attacked the guards at any point, going by the southern gate of Flotsam results in this conversation with the corporal.]
GUARD: Look at 'im, Corporal, sir. Got remorse on his face, he does. Seems eager to make amends for his crime and become a law-abiding citizen.
GERALT: Yeah, uh, that's true. My hand must've slipped…
CORPORAL: Listen well, you lout. I don't believe you for a minute, But you'll escape the reaper, this one last time, provided you pay a fine here and now - to be remitted promptly to the fund for widows and orphans, of course. Pay or die, your choice.
GERALT: Nothing doing.
CORPORAL: Kill the bastard.
[The guards shoot Geralt full of arrows.]
CORPORAL: And don't dare raise your hand at a soldier again!
GUARD: Corporal, sir, it's the witcher that done exterminated all the beasts in the wood.
GUARD: Corporal, sir, it's the witcher. Why he's the one slew the river beast.
CORPORAL: What's true cannot be denied.
CORPORAL: Now, listen here, whatever your witcher's name is. Justice must be done, but on account of services you've rendered unto society, I'll show lenience. Pay a fine - right here, right now - to be used to equip my watchmen with new clubs, or die - that's the offer.
GERALT: Nothing doing.
CORPORAL: Kill the bastard.
[The guards shoot Geralt full of arrows.]
CORPORAL: And don't dare raise your hand at a soldier again!