Chapter Text
Jaskier leans against one of the wooden support beams of the Swaying Sparrow Tavern. He bides his time, playing off his delighted grin as pride rather than anticipation. Skin still shining with sweat, he warmly acknowledges the passersby who offer him compliments on this afternoon's musical performance. They have no idea their blushing faces drift from his memory the second they stumble out of his sight, the bulk of Jaskier's mind too busy chewing on a different, enticingly aloof one. He allows himself another casual glance over his shoulder at the enigmatic traveler that sits alone at the tavern’s most secluded table. The traveler wears a set of studded leather armor, cracked and dull with years of wear. He strokes a jaw several weeks past shaven. His tired yellow eyes stare contemplatively into the foam of his beer. Jaskier swirls his own drink in his hand while he forms his plan of attack. This is a rare opportunity.
Earlier, from the window of his room at the inn upstairs, Jaskier spotted a mare being led to the stables with what appeared to be the freshly-harvested head of a small draconid hanging from her saddle. If that trophy alone hadn’t given her rider’s identity away, then his ashen hair, twin blades and gleaming medallion certainly had. There are so few witchers around these days. This isn’t any old witcher, either. This is Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf. This is a man who has stories to tell. The evidence covers his body; Scars, from countless nail-biting adventures, worthy of a thousand songs. If Jaskier can gain Geralt’s trust, he’ll be set with material for life. People love a good monster-hunting tale. In this world torn by war, with no one knowing if their side will end up the "right" one for the history books, the simplicity of killing monsters is as inviting a concept as a warm stew on a cold night. It's simple, clear-cut, good versus evil. Delicious.
Jaskier sets down his ale and approaches Geralt, decidedly already drunk enough off the adoration of others. Standing ovations and showers of praise, while always received with grace and humility, are reactions he's come to expect. Like magic, no matter the venue and no matter the songs, everything he writes and plays is a hit. Ballads, shanties, dirges... his record is perfect. Talk in Temeria is that he's favored by the gods, shielded from the shortcomings of other song-weavers. His success is what keeps him feeling, and looking, so youthful. He’s sure of it. How else could a man nearing forty escape time with nary the slightest beginnings of crow’s feet? Jaskier owns his baby face. He brandishes it with skill and style, like a witcher wields his blades. Speaking of…
“Hello there. Mind if I sit?” Jaskier doesn’t wait for an answer. He whisks into the chair across from Geralt. The witcher glances calmly, coldy upwards. Jaskier finds himself momentarily fixated on the man’s—monster's, some would say—cat-like eyes, having heard only tales of the strange mutation.
“What do you want?” Geralt's brow is furrowed and his chapped lips are curled in a sneer. Jaskier approximates his voice to that of a growling dog—vaguely threatening, sure, but perhaps it's a normal witchery thing to have? He shouldn't judge.
Jaskier straightens and presses a hand to his chest, crinkling the sky-blue satin that covers it. “Julian Pankratz. Although, you probably already knew that from my singing. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He offers a hand and smiles expectantly, ignoring the burbling young women watching them, no doubt jealously, from a table nearby. It doesn't take more than a glance from Geralt for them to stiffen and turn their eyes elsewhere. Geralt doesn't react to their repulsion, only returns his attention to the next most annoying thing in the room. Jaskier's smile wilts along with his hand. Not only does Geralt seem deeply unentranced by his attention, he doesn't even seem to recognize who he is. “Erm…Jaskier The Poet? ... Dandelion? Surely you’ve at least heard of me?" Geralt gives him nothing. Not even a twitch of the mouth. "Wh—? Truly? Especially here, in the great town of Oxenfurt, a place so dear to my heart, where I teach—eh, taught—one would think it impossible not to have caught word of the best minstrel in all of the northern kingdoms returning to perform.”
Jaskier waits, his nimble fingers fiddling with a knot they found in the wood of the table as he watches the witcher take a long swig of beer. Geralt takes his time wiping the foam from his whiskers, mulls a little over a hairline crack in the lip of his mug, yawns widely—Oh, he's got sharp incisors—and then, finally, he drawls, “Do I look like a patron of the arts?”
“W-Well, you’re here, aren’t you? I noticed you attended the tail end of my performance—not that I was watching you or anything. You stick out like a fox in a goose hutch among these village folk—Oh, I mean no offense by that. Just an observation. I’m quite observant, you know. You have to be, if your writing’s gonna be any, um, any good...” Jaskier’s mouth continues to move pointlessly and seemingly of its own accord, each utterance digging a deeper trench in his gut, “Uh, but I know those last couple tunes were slow and kind of sad. Perhaps you’d prefer something more cheery? If you’d like, I can do—”
“I came here for a drink, not for...” Geralt waves dismissively towards the clearing in the center of the room where a small troupe continues to play, "whatever that was."
Jaskier licks his lips as he works to calm the insulted pang stabbing at his chest. His eyes scan the room, searching for some sort of means of connection before he loses the witcher altogether. He recalls the notice board by the entryway. “Say, did you happen to glance at the contracts on your way in? Griffin’s been terrorizing the farms outside the city.”
“That’s why I’m in town. Waiting for sunset."
“Right… Have you spoken with the person who posted the bounty?”
“Yes.”
Something about the way the word is shaped makes Jaskier’s hair stand on end. His nerves cry for him to pardon himself before he pushes Geralt past his point of tolerance. But he ignores the warnings, determined to start some sort of professional relationship with this walking goldmine, even if it costs him a bruise for daring to be a flea on the wolf’s side. He swallows his fear and says, "You may not know who I am, but I know who you are. My ears are always perked for gossip. I’ve heard all the bloody stories about you and your kind. They say you’re unholy aberrations, bred to kill without emotion. Nothing but monsters killing other monsters for coin. Is that it?” Geralt lets out a soft, low growl. Jaskier reads it as less of a threat and more of a “What of it?” He leans over the table and lowers his voice, “I have a feeling that much of what they say isn’t true. After all, why would you be turning to alcohol if you had no feelings to soothe? Hm?” Geralt's reaction is barely perceptible, a mere twitch of the eye, but Jaskier latches on to it. “Must not be fun to be heckled at wherever you roam.”
Geralt suddenly appears mesmerized by the last amber drops that swirl around the bottom of his stein. “I’m used to it.”
“Sounds to me like you've given up hope. Things don’t have to be this way. I could clear your name. Music is powerful, you know? It reaches deep into people’s hearts and opens them to new ways of seeing things." Geralt doesn’t respond, still staring down at his drink. Watching the liquid slide back and forth, gathering orphaned patches of foam. “Would you allow me to accompany you on your griffin hunt? I promise I'll write you a heroic ballad, heralding you as a selfless protector of the weak. Ah? I'll polish you up and make you shine. Your reputation will be immaculate.”
"No, thank you.”
"What?”
"Folks wouldn't see me. They'd see a song."
"Isn't that what you want?"
"Throwing gold in griffin dung doesn't make it stop smelling."
“Y-You’re not… griffin dung…” None of this is going as planned. Not that Jaskier had much of a plan to begin with. He’s been struck mute, wholly disarmed by the man’s casual self flagellation and flat refusal. Most people would kill for the chance to have a song written for them by a celebrity. Jaskier wrings his fingers. It’s been ages since he’s run into someone this interesting. He needs this. "Fine, I'll tone down the accolades. Okay? Just… please let me come along."
"It's too dangerous. You're a twig. A stiff breeze could snap you in half."
"I won't get in your way, I promise."
“The answer is no.”
Damn. If he keeps pushing, the witcher might just snap him in half himself. Jaskier stands with a huff, his chair grating obnoxiously against the floor. “Alright. Well, it was a pleasure conversing with you, Geralt of Rivia. I’ll leave you and your terrible reputation to brood.”
Jaskier trudges toward the woodline on the edge of the fields outside of Oxenfurt. A sack filled to the brim with lamb meat weighs against his chest. It has to be as much; Big monsters have big appetites. If Geralt isn’t going to let him follow, then Jaskier is just going to bring the monster to himself. The plan is flawless, just like the jewels on his many rings. He is, in fact, so confident in his clever machinations that he hauled his fleshy cargo for miles, by foot, and only started whispering complaints to himself after the meat drippings seeped through the burlap and onto his expensive clothing. It’s going to take a specialist to get those stains out.
Jaskier’s breaths wheeze and his arms shake with strain by the time the canopy of the region’s largest forest looms above him. This is old growth territory; Ancient and moss-draped. Some of those sprawling boughs are thicker than he could wrap his arms around. He’s little more than a sapling by comparison. He eyes the trees suspiciously, part of him expecting them to come to life, wrap their woody, creaking joints around his ankles and drag him into their depths. They sway in the wind, their foliage rustling, whispering to him, beckoning him further in. He turns away, ignoring it like he always does, ever since he was little. He may be willingly putting himself in the path of a griffin, but it doesn't mean he's foolish enough to fall for the obvious trap laid by the mischievous forest spirits his father had always warned him about.
He settles himself where he is, allowing the sack to drop heavily to the ground. He digs the contract out of his pocket and reads it again:The beast frequents the field of the Welkfur family farm, emerging from the woods at dusk to prey on sheep. He looks around. This has to be the place. He dumps the slick contents of the sack onto the plowed dirt on the corner of the field. Then, he sits and waits, and waits some more, until the sun caresses the mountaintops and his offering is covered in flies. What’s taking so long?
Well, birds aren’t exactly known for their sophisticated sense of smell, now that he thinks about it. They use their eyes to find their food. His bait may simply not be visible enough. Too bad. There's no universe in which he's touching that meat with his bare hands. Luckily, birds have sharp hearing, too. How else could they find each other in this vast world, if not by their songs? All he's got to do is announce his presence.
Jaskier swings his old lute from his back, strums a few chords and adjusts the pegs to his liking. Then, he belts out a song he learned in Tretogor about a farmer whose livelihood is all but lost to a particularly clever pack of wolves. Halfway through, he hears noise from the forest and stops, goosebumps running over his skin, leaps to his feet and stiffly backs away. He peers warily into the leafy shadows as a shape emerges from them, humanoid and hulking. When the sunset’s golden light reveals the creature’s face, he sighs.
Geralt’s expression lies somewhere between vexed and furious. “The hell are you doing here?”
"Observing."
“Weren't you listening to a word I said? Go home before you get yourself maimed.” With a huff, Geralt unsheathes his silver sword and then takes a knee. This close, Jaskier notices the blade is not fully silver, as rumors would have him believe. Rather, it's steel-cored with silver plating. See? This is paying off already! "I won't be responsible for your death," Geralt adds. "If you're as famous as you claim to be, people will be after my head should anything happen to you. I deal with enough unsolicited disdain as it is.”
He's applying some sort of oil to his blade. The sharp scent burns Jaskier's nostrils. Sniffing, he crosses his arms and shifts his weight to the other hip. “I’m a grown man. I’m fully capable of making life or death decisions, and in this moment I happen to choose death!—Oh, no, wait, I didn't mean—” Geralt cuts him off with a shush. Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, but the witcher, still shushing, grabs him by the hem of his shirt and drags him down to his level. Jaskier flails unhappily. “Geralt, you’re going to rip my satin!”
“Quiet!”
“What? Do you hear something? I don’t hear anything.”
“That’s—!" Geralt abruptly lowers his voice, "That's because your senses aren't like mine.”
“Oh, interesting." Jaskier fumbles for the notebook in his bag. He should be writing this down. "Right, so, when they say witchers have—”
Geralt's hand once again flies upward, this time balling the fabric of Jaskier's collar in his fist. He gives it a sharp tug, bringing their faces inches apart, and whispers, “Quit chattering like a drunk crow before you get us killed.”
“Crow?” Jaskier pushes off of him. “Never in my life has anyone had the audacity to compare my voice to such a—" A sharp cry from above overwhelms his words. Jaskier looks, going white. “Oh, bloody hell.”
The griffin is twice the size of a horse and three times as ugly. White feathers blanket its chest and shoulders, which end abruptly, erupting into the arse-end of a cat. It circles overhead before landing nearby, kicking up a cloud of dirt with its beating wings. It paces, tail lashing, eyeing the witcher’s sword and the lamb meat behind him.
Geralt positions himself between Jaskier and the monster. “Must’ve heard your crooning and mistook it for a dying animal."
“Rude.”
“Take cover in the woods. Go!”
Jaskier reshuffles his priorities and scrambles behind a bush at the very edge of the forest. Enough to shield himself from the griffin's gaze, but not far enough in that he risks being whisked away by whatever creatures might lurk in the shadows. He peers through the branches, strategically positioning himself so he has a clear view of the action. Moments later, something warm nudges the small of his back. Jaskier startles and whirls, coming face-to-face with the peach-fuzz snout of Geralt’s mare. Her nostrils flare and Jaskier gets a face full of horse breath. He scoffs and pushes her away, muttering, "Don't sneak up on people like that! You're lucky my first instinct isn't to lash out."
Geralt brandishes his sword and shouts, “Come get your meal, you sack of filth!” The griffin fluffs its feathers and extends its wings in an attempt at intimidation. Geralt appears undeterred. He steps forward. The griffin lets out a screech that sounds unnervingly like a screaming woman.
The sound sends a shiver up Jaskier’s spine. Engrossed as he is in the spectacle, he doesn't notice the tugging on his sleeve right away. He turns halfheartedly toward the sensation and finds the mare nibbling on his clothing. He tuts and bats the animal away. “Can't you see this is a serious situation? Your owner is risking his life out there! Would you just—ugh—stop that!”
You’re strange, for a human, the mare’s voice echoes inside Jaskier's head.
He rolls his eyes and continues to shove her curious mouth away, straining to pay attention to Geralt. How is his ballad going to be accurate if he misses half the action? Geralt has since unlatched his crossbow and loaded a nasty-looking bolt. He aims and fires expertly at the griffin. The bolt lands in its side. The beast shrieks and bucks and then charges at Geralt. He tries to side-step the attack, but mistimes it, getting pummeled by the bony wrist of the monster's wing. The two land clumsily, Geralt onto his back and the griffin beak-first into the plowed earth. Face smothered with feathers, Geralt blindly stabs at the beast with a dagger from his belt, piercing it twice in its chest. The griffin reels back, shrieking again. It gives Geralt an opening to roll back to a stand, but the beast takes a swipe at him before he’s fully on his feet. Claws like meathooks catch his thigh. He roars with pain and stumbles a few yards away. The griffin, shaking and bleeding, doesn't pursue. Geralt retrieves his sword. He and the griffin slowly circle one another. Jaskier looks on wide-eyed, holding his breath.
Don’t ignore me! The mare's playful nibbles turn into a bite.
"Yowch!" Jaskier springs away, trips on a fallen branch and blunders backwards out of the bush and into Geralt. The witcher grunts in surprise as he's rammed forward. Jaskier, stiff with embarrassment, doesn't have time to apologize. The griffin lunges at the weaker of the two. Geralt throws himself in the way, shoving Jaskier aside and getting another scratch from a claw. Jaskier lands on his arse. Geralt pivots with a roar and swings his blade with mantis-like precision, slashing clean through the griffin’s bicep. Its arm goes limp and it screams furiously, taking to the sky and stirring up another cloud of dust. Through the wind and debris, Jaskier plugs his ears and squints up at the witcher's backside mere feet away. Geralt is standing crookedly, breathing heavily and holding a hand against his side. Jaskier’s stomach drops, weighed down by a sloppy, growing mound of guilt. He promised he wouldn’t get in the way, and now look what happened. "Geralt..." he begins apologetically. But as he speaks, the griffin drops into the center of the field in the distance, faltering from blood loss.
Geralt calmly limps toward the weak, moaning beast. The griffin tries to defend itself, but the exertion causes it to faint. Geralt positions himself above it and centers the blade over the base of its skull. In a practiced movement, he wedges the metal deep into the flesh and pulls the blade violently to the side. The head dislocates and a fountain of red sprays from an artery. Geralt seems unfazed as he sits heavily beside the body and leans back on his hands, breathless and glistening with blood and sweat.
Jaskier brings himself to a shaky stand, working up the courage to speak as he meekly approaches. “Are you alright? I'm sorry for running into you. It was an accident. See, your horse, in the bushes there, she bit me and I—”
“Bit you? That doesn’t sound like Roach at all.” The witcher stands slowly, achingly, and whistles. The mare trots out of the woods to stand obediently at his side. Geralt takes something from her mouth. A strip of blue satin. He looks back at Jaskier, appearing perplexed, but doesn't say anything more. Instead, he begins gathering the griffin’s wing feathers—some longer than his legs—presumably to sell. He grunts in pain the entire time. Jaskier can't tell where the griffin's blood ends and the witcher’s begins.
"Can I help with anything?" Jaskier asks.
"No."
Jaskier clears his throat and twiddles his thumbs. He edges closer to Geralt, who is securing the feathers within the bedroll on the horse's saddle. “So, um, your mare's name is Roach? Like the fish?”
“Like the fish,” Geralt gruffs, tightening the belts around his loot. Jaskier watches him make his way back over to the griffin and messily cut off its head. Disgusting... A trophy doesn’t have to be pretty, he supposes. Geralt ties the dripping skull to Roach’s side. The horse lazily adjusts her weight against it, wholly unbothered by the scent of blood.
Jaskier gives Roach a pat on the neck. "Nips aside, she's well trained.”
I follow orders better than you, says the mare.
You're equally to blame for this mess. Jaskier's pets turn into a little shove. Roach whinnies and swings her head around to bite at him. He jumps out of the way and sticks out his tongue. Nice try, donkeyface!
You little... Roach's ears pin back. She begins to step toward Jaskier, but Geralt grabs hold of her reins.
"Settle down, Roach," he rumbles.
Jaskier, smugly out of reach of the horse's teeth, turns his attention back to the witcher. “Griffin got you pretty bad.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Had worse? I'm pretty sure you’ve lost more blood in the past five minutes than I’ve lost in a lifetime!”
“That's not saying much. Bards lead comfortable lives." Geralt hefts himself into the saddle, his face contorted into a pained grimace.
"Hey, take it easy.” Jaskier flanks Geralt, poised to catch him if he should slip or faint.
Geralt gives Jaskier a sidelong glance. "Why do you care so much?"
“You wouldn’t have been hurt as badly if it weren’t for me. Your wounds need to be tended to. I can help.”
“Witchers heal quickly. I'll be fine. I'll just find a creek to wash in.”
“Creek? Surely you realize it'll be miles before you find one that isn't filled with runoff from animal dung.” Geralt doesn’t respond. He takes up the reins and clicks his tongue at Roach, who begins walking towards the hut of the farmer that posted the contract. Jaskier follows close behind. “Let me make it up to you."
"Unnecessary."
"Please. I hate feeling like I'm in debt. Come back to the inn with me and stay the night. We’ll get you cleaned up and draw you a warm bath.” The witcher, swaying lazily along with his horse’s hips, looks back at him skeptically. Jaskier sighs and throws out his arms—the amount of work he has to put into this conversation—“For free, Geralt.”