They spent three months traveling south to Rivia. It was a small northern kingdom, and also the Rivia in Geralt's full name, Geralt of Rivia.
It lay in Dol Angra, close to the Mahakam Mountains, and enjoyed no small advantage in trade. Rivia had many excellent workshops and smithies, and the weapons and other goods they produced were widely praised for their fine quality and superb craftsmanship. The Rivians' accent was extremely distinctive, and they suffered heavy discrimination abroad. Even now, people still said, "Rivians are all thieves."
Geralt looked away from the flag hanging above the city gate, a white field bearing three red lozenges. He had no special feelings about this country. The reason he called himself Geralt of Rivia was that Vesemir had thought the name he had given himself at the time was too pompous and stupid, so he had drawn lots and ended up with the prefix "of Rivia." He had never been to this place before, but it was no different from the other towns he had seen.
In fact, it was far inferior to some of them. After all, it was only a small country. Still, at least it had stone-paved streets, and the people coming and going all looked healthy enough—healthy complexions meant they lived well, and that meant there were no contracts to take.
"This is the place."
The Black-Robed Mage murmured to himself. It was his first time applying a prophecy in practice, so he was a little excited.
"So?" the witcher asked. "What do we do now?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Yes. There's no need to deliberately do anything. Just let nature take its course, Geralt. Do whatever you want. Go play with those girls, go gamble in a casino, or if you've finally remembered you're the 'Drowner Slayer,' go kill