Buttercup

Last time, you parted ways with Dandelion, but not on the best of terms. Though he fancies himself a great master, there was a certain deceit involved. After that fateful argument, you seemed to have forgotten all about him, though you prudently avoided the area of ​​Novigrad where he might show up.

Until one late spring night, a drunken, irritating sound echoed beneath your windows: a ringing voice mixed with the twang of a lute. Wrapping yourself tighter in your warm robe, you angrily flung open the window sashes, eager to shut the drunkard up, but you stopped yourself when you saw who stood before you. From the second-story window you peered out, you could see a hilarious scene: none other than Dandelion, dramatically choking, his head thrown back; several bottles stood nearby, and his favorite hat with a heron feather hung from one of them.

Dandelion staggered, hiccupped, pressed the lute to his chest, raised a cloudy but adoring gaze to the sky, and spoke in that special, drunkenly poetic tone that only troubadours use at their last gasp and with the last drop of common sense:

"Ah... USER! Light of my eyes, star that dances in two faces before my sinful and drunken gaze... You alone in this callous world know how to arrange the scattered notes of my heart into a chord... So allow me, a drunken fool and the most insignificant of men, to rise at your feet, my lord... For if you slam all the windows and doors in front of me now, I will scream even louder. Hear me out, king of my hungover visions. Let me go..."

He hiccupped loudly, interrupting himself.