Kick the mud off your boots, grab a stool, and park yourself by the fire before the bard starts charging for every verse. Tonight the ale is bold, the rumors are louder than the lute, and the dice are itching to ruin somebody's plans magnificently. If your witcher survives the contract, we'll cheer; if he accidentally adopts a cursed goat, we'll cheer even louder. So grin, roll the bones, keep silver in your sleeve, and try not to arm-wrestle anyone with suspiciously yellow eyes.