#they also started half an hour late and everybody was just in the pit dying

[m0llygunn]

it was not chill at all they had to keep stopping the show bc of people collapsing, and then security was not doing their job at allllll the performance was great but honestly worst concert I’ve gone to😭😭

seeing cigarettes after sex tonight I am ready to sob and also sweat to death bc it’s all general admission and we’re in a heatwave rn

[lunarthedragon]

Bards are Knives and Arrows, Not Sunshine and Daises part 2

Hope you enjoy my word vomit!

Read on Ao3: here

Jaskier didn’t have an exact plan for travelling with Geralt of Rivia. He had kind of leapt into this thing feet first, hoping to land safely at the bottom with some new, fantastical experiences under his belt. Every other concern, every other problem or difficulty, was pushed to the side to be dealt with later.

He didn’t necessarily regret it, he had never been more excited in his life, but it certainly didn’t take him long to notice the flaws in his “plan.”

There were so many ways Jaskier was not prepared for such an adventure. His clothes, for one. Bright, colorful outfits best suited for performances and courts didn’t mix well with unbridled nature. Jaskier had already mourned one of his favorite doublets after the sleeve had been torn on a branch while Geralt had just kept moving ahead with Roach, ignoring him.

And don’t even get Jaskier started on the shoes. He kind of expected that one, since his feet had been killing him while just walking around during their first adventure, but Jaskier didn’t really have many options to change into.

It wasn’t that Bards didn’t know how to be prepared, it was that they rarely needed to travel as hard or incessantly as a Witcher. Bards were flashy to distract from their bullshit, they stuck to highly populated areas and parties. They didn’t really DO wilderness.

Not to say Jaskier didn’t have a few things. He did, at least, have a spare change of clothes that he used for stealth. A more modest, comfortable, quiet outfit dyed all black and grey, with shoes – also not fit for hiking but they were silent and didn’t hurt Jaskier’s feet when he had to crouch somewhere, unmoving, for a few hours – and a dark brown cloak.

It was the drabbest thing Jaskier owned and, judging by Geralt’s furrowed brows when Jaskier had put it on the first time, it likely didn’t really look like “him.”

“Yes, yes, make fun of me all you like,” Jaskier had waved Geralt off as the larger man set up a fire, “I despise the look, but at least I can catch food like this, yes?”

“How practical of you,” Geralt rumbles, half to himself, but Jaskier jumps at the chance to hear his new travel companion speak again.

“Contrary to general belief, I am actually capable of thinking ahead sometimes,” Jaskier smiles, hoping to earn a chuckle or snort, but Geralt just stares at him until he sighs and heads off.

Jaskier returns with a few hares for dinner, holding them at a slight distance from his body by their back legs. Geralt gives him an long, unhappy look when Jaskier hurriedly drops off the corpses, wiping off his hands frantically afterwards, but then hums in surprise as he goes about skinning the creatures.

“What? What is it?” Jaskier looks over, concerned he’d done something wrong. He’d hunted the animals like he would have any other day and, while he knew in theory how to prepare a meal after that, he really, really didn’t want to. Was that really such a problem for Geralt?

“You shot them in the eyes. All of them,” the Witcher eventually observes, looking up at Jaskier with a thoughtful and slightly suspicious tilt of his brows.

“Well… yes?” Jaskier’s own brows furrow, confused, laying out his brown cloak so he can sit on it. He didn’t have a bedroll, unfortunately. He’d need to buy one when they next went through a town. “Doesn’t damage the parts of the body we actually want.”

Geralt hums, that deep “hmm” he seems so fond of, and goes back to prepping their food. It makes Jaskier sit up a little straighter, assuming the lack of response is a negative thing.

“What? Did you think I was lying about my capabilities? I’ll have you know—”

“I don’t care,” Geralt cuts him off, focused entirely on skinning the hares, and Jaskier leans back to pout at him, rather insulted.

“Very well. Then, with this moment of peace, perhaps you’d be willing to tell me about some of your previous hunts? Any noteworthy moments? What monster was the most daunting?” Jaskier attempts to move on, but Geralt doesn’t even grunt this time, completely ignoring the Bard. “Okay… Why not tell me about Witcher life? Where do you train? For how long? What weapons can you use?”

Still no answer.

Jaskier’s forced smile drops and he’s back to pouting. Fine then. If Geralt didn’t want to talk then Jaskier could find something else to entertain himself with.

He pulls out his lute, bow and arrows stashed away once more, and begins to pluck at the strings, humming and meandering through a nameless tune.

He ignores Geralt’s glares as the evening goes on.

+++

One of a Bard’s most powerful weapons is their words.

After that it is their connections.

The great thing about being part of a Bardic Society meant connections were readily shared amongst its members. In most major cities, and a few remote villages, there were a few, choice individuals or organizations that a Bard could trust and go to as needed.

Merchants. Blacksmiths. Fences. Gangs. Informants. So on and so forth.

Individual Bards also tended to build up their own connections, too, whenever they went off on their own, like Jaskier was doing. Issue with that, however, was that Jaskier wasn’t really focusing on his Bard work. There weren’t that many connections some unknown minstrel could make, after all…

That wasn’t to say Jaskier hadn’t, though. He’d been travelling for some time before he joined Geralt on his journeys. There were a few people who knew his face on friendly terms. Far more who knew his face on… less than friendly terms.

Only one of those friendly people actually knew he was a Bard, though.

Serafina Gorecki was a blacksmith. When Jaskier had met her, she was still under the tutelage and control of her father, who had regularly attempted to put her down despite her work being far superior.

Long story short, Jaskier had been fleeing from a party-turned-massacre. Technically speaking, he had been the one to set the whole chaos into motion, quietly exchanging some information about a cheating countess, an overzealous alchemist, and a cat. It was a very… strange story, but his buyer, a noble at said party, had seemed pleased by it.

Then proceeded to begin ordering killings and Jaskier had figured it was time he stepped out.

He fled and jumped through the first, dark open window he saw in the city, which just so happened to be the Gorecki Smithy, where Serafina had been up late working.

Ever since, with Serafina covering for Jaskier’s escape and Jaskier purchasing some of her exquisite knives – some of the best knives Jaskier had ever seen outside of Oxenfurt – the two of them had remained in friendly correspondence, leaning on each other when necessary.

Jaskier isn’t expecting to run into her during a pit stop in some no-name village only a month after he’d begun travelling with Geralt.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? The Laughing Fox himself!” Serafina greets Jaskier as he’s looking through a merchant’s meager offerings. He still needs a damn bedroll. Plus significantly better shoes.

Jaskier abandons his search with a smile, greeting the burly woman with a tight hug. Serafina had always been a strong woman, body built like a mountain, and she could likely bench press Jaskier if given the chance.

She could probably bench press Geralt, actually, if he didn’t pull his blades on her…

She’s all grins as they separate, her skin tan from the forge’s fires, soot smeared everywhere, and her short, red hair is messy and spiky. She looks good, finally away from her father, travelling the world to learn more about her trade.

They talk for a while. Serafina tells that she had been passing through this village of no renown and had been commissioned to help fortify some of their houses. Jaskier tells about his journey to the world’s edge and how he now travels with the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia.

“The Butcher of Blaviken?” Serafina questions and Jaskier, despite himself, feels his hackles rise.

“He’s no butcher. He’s a good man. I’ve even written a song for his marvelous deeds.”

“That poor man.”

Jaskier gives the grinning woman a bland look, knowing she was aiming to get a rise out of him and very pointedly not giving it to her.

“You’ll be safe? I can’t imagine you fighting monsters,” Serafina eventually asks as they find themselves walking into the village’s forge where she’s set up temporary shop.

“Oh, I don’t intend to. I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Jaskier smiles charmingly.

“You’re a mess is what you are. What are you even wearing? Trudging around the wilderness like a damn peacock.” Serafina is still grinning as she digs around in her things before finding a decent pair of boots that look like they might be Jaskier’s size. They’re definitely too small for Serafina.

“Where’d you get those?” Jaskier asks, but takes the offered boots anyway.

“Assistant a few towns back. Played around with my gear and got his head crushed by one of my war hammers.”

“That’s awful!” Jaskier exclaims, nearly dropping the boots.

Serafina just shrugs. “I mean… the war hammers sold really well afterwards since everybody knew that they worked.”

Jaskier gives the woman a flabbergasted stare. “You’re awful,” he eventually settles on, because as much as he loved to talk, sometimes only a few words were enough to get across his thoughts.

“Yeah, probably,” Serafina shrugs again, then jabs a thumb back at the forge. It is remarkably hot in here and Jaskier wonders how she isn’t melting. “You need some new gear?”

“Do you still give discounts to your favorite minstrel?” Jaskier smirks as he begins taking stock of his weapons and what he might need.

“Oh, is Valdo Marx in town?” Serafina smirks.

At Jaskier’s insulted shriek and his gobsmacked expression, the woman begins to cackle loudly, throwing her head back as Jaskier fumbles for the right words. “That is… LOW! Even for you, Serafina Gorecki! How could you even insinuate—The gall, woman—I mean really!”

Jaskier does get a discount in the end. He gets a few more throwing knives – it never hurts to have spares – his bow is checked, and while Jaskier is perfectly capable of making wooden arrows in a pinch, it is nice to get ahold of some proper, weighted, metal tipped arrows again. His quiver is nearly full with them, and it makes him stop to think.

“’Fina, my dear,” Jaskier hums and Serafina snorts.

“Yes, Jask, my darling?” she replies with an eye roll.

“Have you ever worked with silver before?”

Serafina arches a curious brow as Jaskier rolls one of his new arrows between his fingers, thoughtful. When the two look at each other once more, however, there is an excited spark in both of their eyes and Serafina hardly hesitates to get to work.

When even more arrows sit in Jaskier’s quiver, with silver heads and red fletching instead of Jaskier’s usual blue, and a few, new silver knives sit hidden on his person, the Bard grins at the woman.

“I could write such a ballad about your magnificence, dear Serafina.”

“You could,” the woman nods, “And I could punch you in your face.”

“Well, we shouldn’t always do what we can JUST because we can,” Jaskier hums, not missing a beat, and the two share a few more laughs before Jaskier is slipping away, in search of his travel companion, a skip in his step.

+++

Geralt does not like the minstrel. “Jaskier” is his name and he doesn’t know the meaning of “silence.” Except, clearly he must, if he’s so successful with his hunting, so it’s really an active choice of the musician to talk Geralt’s ear off every chance they get.

It only makes the Witcher dislike him more.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. Jaskier unceremoniously inserted himself into Geralt’s life in the most obnoxious of ways, he fills the silence Geralt once found comfort in, and he gives the Witcher one more thing he has to worry about everywhere he goes.

Humans are fragile and demanding, they shouldn’t be travelling with a Witcher. Geralt attempts to prove that to the minstrel – he pushes them faster than usual, wakes them at ungodly hours, and refuses to allow Jaskier to tag along for any of his contracts – but none of it deters the man. He complains, sure, but he sticks through it stubbornly.

It’s respectable, if remarkably stupid.

Eventually, though, even the minstrel’s stubborn streak will fade and he will leave. He will get over this starry-eyed excitement, see the situation for what it is, and flee as quickly as possible.

It always happens. Jaskier’s response is just more delayed than most.

So, Geralt will wait him out. He won’t be happy about it, having to be so aware of the human and his limitations, even when he’s pushing them, but he has suffered through worse.

“You smell like soot,” the Witcher says when the minstrel rejoins him after returning from his shopping. He doesn’t have a new bedroll, but he’s wearing new boots, Geralt notes. Hopefully that means he’ll stop whining about his feet.

“Ran into an old friend,” Jaskier replies brightly. That seemed to be a theme for the human. He was always bright. “She’s a blacksmith, best on the Continent, and she was kind enough to fashion me with proper arrows and knives. I think I’ll stick with my wooden arrows for hunting, save the metal ones, but it is nice to have them again.”

That was another thing about the minstrel. He wasn’t what Geralt would have expected from a sheltered entertainer. He wasn’t rough or strong – far from it – but he had skill of some sort.

Geralt thinks the bow and arrows might not have raised any questions had it just been them. He didn’t know Jaskier’s past, didn’t care to learn, but there were plenty of humans of many walks of life that used the weapon for hunting or fending off wild animals. And, honestly, the minstrel was clearly a good shot. Every animal he brought back for Geralt to prep was shot in such a way it hardly damaged the meat.

But the KNIVES.

Worrying mothers aside, why would a minstrel need SO MANY knives? All hidden away on his extravagant outfits, tucked away in places that not even Geralt could easily spot unless he was really looking. That wasn’t a normal thing for any human to do, let alone some random, obnoxious performer.

“Oh! She was also kind enough to give me her old assistant’s boots! How nice of her, don’t you think? Yes? Of course,” Jaskier is still talking. He’s begun asking Geralt questions and answering for him, carrying on full conversations with himself now that he’s realizes Geralt has no intention to offer any input. “Poor sod met a fairly untimely end. Crushed by a falling war hammer. Tragic.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, looking skyward and wondering if he could just gag the minstrel. This information vomit was asinine and exhausting.

“Did you want to go and speak to her? I get a discount on account of being her very favorite minstrel and friend – she doesn’t have very many friends, you see – and I’m sure you could get something new and shiny for yourself? A new sword, perhaps? Weapons in general? Anything?”

“I doubt she works in silver,” Geralt grunts, beginning to turn away, prepared to go find out if the inn has any free rooms. Silver was a far more delicate metal than steel, which meant not all blacksmiths worked in it. Geralt doubted some random blacksmith out in ass-knows-where, and apparently a friend of a minstrel, knew the craft—

“Oh, she does,” Jaskier says brightly, and when Geralt looks back he’s slipped out a knife from somewhere around his hip. It has a ring at the end of the handle and he twirls it around on one of his fingers a few times, before catching it and showing it to Geralt.

It is definitely made of silver, Geralt can tell, but he can’t help but find himself momentarily distracted by the ease the minstrel twirls the knife around.

The human was a clutz, tripping over his own feet on the road, yet somehow wielded knives and bows like they were a dancer’s ribbons.

It was… respectable, Geralt supposes.

“I do not need her help,” the Witcher eventually grunts, once again turning towards the inn, and Jaskier scrambles to catch up, grace lost in the blink of an eye.

+++

Geralt doesn’t bring Jaskier on his hunts, no matter how much the minstrel begs, pleads, or whines. Their first “adventure” was a fluke and ended far better than he would have expected. Most hunts were no place for a human and Geralt had put his foot down.

“And how do you expect me to write epic ballads about your accomplishments, then?” Jaskier pouts as he sits, cross-legged, atop a bed in the tiny room they managed to secure in this town’s inn.

“I don’t,” Geralt growls, not looking up from where he was going over his potions. They’d been on the road longer than usual and were both pleased to have a bed to look forward to, even though Jaskier was far more vocal about it.

The town also, apparently, had a kikimora problem. They were near to swampy territory, so Geralt isn’t overly surprised, and he takes the job immediately. He’d been low on coin for some time now and needed the work.

With the contract decided and the room rented, Geralt had informed the minstrel he would, once again, be waiting behind. As usual, Jaskier wasn’t happy.

“Geralt, come on! I promise not to get in the way! I won’t be something else for you to worry about, I swear.”

Except Jaskier would be, no matter how much he promised he wouldn’t be.

“I may even be of help!” Jaskier continues, pulling his pack around into his lap as he begins to dig around in it, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he searches.

“Help…” Geralt repeats slowly, disbelievingly. He looks back at the minstrel with a raised brow, clearly not impressed. It makes Jaskier puff up defensively.

“Yes! Why do you think I had all of these made?” Jaskier snaps, scrambling to pull out his quiver. He pulls out two of his arrows, one with red fletching and the other with blue. “Silver arrows!” Jaskier exclaims, not waiting to allow Geralt to look properly at the metal tips of the arrows. “Steel and silver, just like your swords. Which meeeeeeans…”

Jasskier pauses, looking to Geralt expectantly, like he actually thinks the Witcher has any intention of filling in the blank. When the silence stretches on Jaskier sags, pouting and continuing on his own. “Which means… I can help!”

“You can’t.”

The minstrel splutters at the bluntness of it, eyes widening comically, before waving the two arrows still in his fingers at Geralt. “Yes, I can. I—”

“Majority of monsters I face have skin or fur or scales too thick for arrows to do any kind of damage,” Geralt finally snaps, eyes narrowing as his stare shifts into a proper glare. “You’ll only get in the way.”

Jaskier straightens up in response and Geralt waits to smell the familiar tang of fear in the air, but it never comes and a moment later Jaskier’s face is setting stubbornly.

“Everything has weak spots. Places an arrow can stick. Spots between plating or soft underbellies or, oh I don’t know, the eyes?” Jaskier argues right back. He doesn’t seem like he’s going to be backing down from this one. Not without a fight.

“These aren’t your rabbits or ducks, minstrel. You can’t wait for them to stop moving to possibly catch them where you want,” Geralt growls. Why couldn’t Jaskier just see how ridiculous he was being? Geralt didn’t invite him along and thus didn’t owe him. It was safer and easier on everyone if Jaskier just stayed behind.

“I’m fully aware they will be a moving target, thank you,” Jaskier huffs, insulted and defensive, his chest puffing out. He looked like a child throwing a tantrum. “I am still confident in my abilities to offer assistance. And I need to be able to see your hunts and adventures if I ever want to write any more ballads in your honor! Your recounting abilities leave a lot to be desired… And by ‘a lot’ I mean ‘you don’t tell me anything at all’.”

Geralt glares just a bit harder at the minstrel, his arms moving to cross over his chest. Still, there is no spike of fear from Jaskier, just a matching, annoying glare in return. Geralt might have taken a moment to think about that – that Jaskier was the first human in a very, very long time who wasn’t initially frightened by him, even if it would surely be short-lived – but he is too agitated at the moment to care.

“You’re not coming,” the Witcher eventually rumbles, voice final, and he sees Jaskier’s shoulders droop. The minstrel’s expression is still stubborn and upset, but his body language finally tells Geralt that he’s won.

“Fine, fine. I’ll do what I can to stay safe,” Jaskier grumbles, his head hanging and not looking at Geralt, clearly upset. Geralt doesn’t much care. He’d rather the human upset than in the way or dead.

He finishes prepping his weapons and gear, not taking much longer, before slipping out the inn door without a word. The sun has set and the kikimora will be active now. The moon isn’t full but it is fat enough to light Geralt’s view as he makes his way towards the swamp, ready to finish the contract, get paid, and move on.

+++

It isn’t always normal for the people hiring a Witcher to know exactly what kind of creature is troubling their towns or fields or families. Rumors and old wives’ tales tend to distort what people know about the monsters that roam their world.

The more beastly monsters, however, are usually quite easy to identify, even for a common man, and it’s a nice addition to Geralt’s hunts when he knows more about what he’s walking into ahead of time.

That doesn’t mean he has everything. Which is made abundantly clear the more he trudges through the swamp. He’s weaving carefully through the thin, scraggly trees, potions thrumming through his veins, and tracking kikimora marking along the environment. They seem excessive, but the monster has been an issue for a while now, so he jots it down as extended residence.

Except, the markings and trails are fresh. Gash marks in trees just recently left, all over the place. Hardly an abundance to assume nest activity, but more than there should be.

When it fully sets in that something is very, very wrong the kikimora is already on him. The spidery, ugly thing springs from a deeper section of the waters, flailing its limbs, and Geralt wastes no time getting to work. He hacks away at the limbs, getting rid of them so he can get in closer, when he hears loud, sudden movement behind him.

A second kikimora flings itself at him and he only has a split second to leap to the side, the two monsters crashing into each other and tumbling for a moment. All three of them – Witcher and beasts – right themselves at once, eying each other up, and Geralt realizes just how much of a hassle this is going to be.

Fuck.

He better get paid extra when he brings back two, fucking kikimora heads.

Or, well, if he does come back. He doesn’t get very many hits in after that, having to dance out of every swipe of scythe-tipped limbs. He can’t overwhelm one of them without the other coming in and returning the favor. It’s setting his whole body on edge, the Cat and Tawny Owl potions in his system making his adrenaline spike more than usual and constant dodging around hardly helps him working it out.

If anything, it just makes him more and more frustrated, teeth gritting both in fury and pain as one of the claws manage to swipe a gash across his shoulder. It does, at the very least, put one of the spindly legs close enough for him to slash it nearly clean to the bone. The kikimora makes a high-pitched, screeching call of pain, lurching back, and it gives Geralt an opening to strike its friend, but now the monsters are REALLY angry.

Angry and injured. The only way the monsters could be any more dangerous was if it were mating season.

A poorly timed roll has Geralt just barely ducking under a swinging leg, but unable to dodge when a glob of venomous spit crashes into his back. Geralt bites his tongue to keep from crying out at the burning, almost acidic feel as the venom drips into the wound at his shoulder and touches the back of his neck where armor doesn’t cover.

The venom would kill a human, easily, but for a Witcher it burns like fire and causes his body to react far more violently against his potions. He can almost feel his immune system trying to work overtime, believing the potions to be a disease in need of eradicating. Perhaps not exactly accurate, but it is what it feels like.

He grits his teeth through it, though, and lashes out behind him, lodging his silver blade deep into the approaching kikimora’s shoulder. Close to the neck, but not close enough to kill, and the kikimora screeches far too close to Geralt’s face for comfort. It snaps at him with large teeth, but Geralt manages to keep it far enough at bay.

He’s more worried about the second one, circling behind him, looking to attack him while he’s preoccupied.

Geralt allows it to believe it has the upperhand.

When the second kikimora finally charges, Geralt gives a vicious twist of his sword and, in one motion, tears it free and swings it in a deadly arc, cleaving the charging kikimora’s face in half. It gives an agonizing screech, rearing back, before collapsing to the ground, dead.

Now for the other one, except it has recovered far quicker than planned and one, massive foreleg is swinging out and catching Geralt’s side, sending him flying and landing painfully in the mud. He attempts to roll away from his injured shoulder, but he can only do so much while airborne.

He snarls, furious and hurt and adrenaline still roaring in his ears, but when he reaches for his sword it isn’t in reach.

“Fuck!” Geralt curses aloud, not seeing where his silver blade has been thrown to, but he has little time to fret. The remaining kikimora is already charging, screeching furiously, and Geralt hurries to pull out his steel sword. It’s better than nothing, and while far less effective, he has had to resort to killing some beasts with his steel before.

He readies himself, prepared to dodge or parry, but just as the kikimora is getting closer, a sharp, whistling “fwip” flies by Geralt’s ear and the monster is suddenly skidding to a halt and rearing back, screeching in agony.

Geralt stills, black eyes widening in surprise as he very quickly tries to catalogue what has happened. The kikimora is swiping at its face and screeching, trying to rid itself of something, and then Geralt sees it.

An arrow. An arrow with red fletching. Sticking straight out of where one of the kikimora’s beady little eyes had once been.

Then, as the monster is shaking violently back and forth, another swift “fwip” and suddenly a second arrow is lodging itself in the kikimora’s other eye, blinding it completely.

The sound of something heavy spinning through the air is the only warning Geralt gets just before, with a wet splat, his silver sword lands in the mud in front of him, thrown from somewhere back in the trees.

“Told you I could hit a moving target!” a familiar voice calls and Geralt doesn’t have time to be upset or frustrated. He rushes forward, snatching up his silver blade as he moves, and, using both his own momentum and the monster’s flailing, lobs off the kikimora’s head.

He breathes heavily as, as abruptly as it started, the fight comes to an end and Geralt is left to wait out his potions and battle high. He should wait to allow his adrenaline to die down before he does anything else, he wants to be in control of his responses after all, but he can only wait so long.

“I told you to stay behind!” he finally snaps, chest still heaving as he swings around to glare at the trees where the arrows came from. Except… Geralt pauses, straightening up and tilting his head back and forth. He can see perfectly in the dark, yet somehow…

He can’t see Jaskier. He knows he’s there. He knows where he attacked from. So, how can he not see the annoying minstrel? He can faintly smell him, and even hear a human heartbeat out there, but he can’t pinpoint where.

“I agreed to do everything in my power to stay safe! Not to stay behind!” Jaskier calls back, but Geralt still can’t find his form.

“Staying behind WAS the safest option,” Geralt growls, taking a few steps forward, but still no luck.

“But, how could I be safe of mind, knowing you were out here, without me?” Jaskier singsongs and Geralt can almost hear his smug little smirk. “Besides! I remained out of the way, not for you to worry about, and I was even of assistance, shooting that ugly thing and tossing your sword back.”

There’s a rustle, a swift one, and then very suddenly Geralt has a face full of upside-down Jaskier. The Witcher doesn’t startle, but there is a definite twitch at the very abrupt entrance.

When he looks up he sees one of the low hanging branches on these trees, bent lower with how Jaskier dangles by one knee. The minstrel grins brightly and doesn’t stop, even when Geralt reaches out to grab him, flip him over, and set him on the ground, his branch flying back up once it is free of Jaskier’s weight.

“So!” Jaskier says brightly, not seemingly bothered that he’d just been so easily manhandled by the Witcher as he goes around towards the fallen kikimora. “I will, of course, be coming along on more of your hunts now, correct? I’ve proven my worth?”

Jaskier hesitates, scowling at the kikimora, then gagging at the stench. Still, he reaches down to yank out both of his silver arrows, examining them. One is beyond use, but the second could be recycled, so Jaskier returns it to his quiver.

He’s wearing the only sensible outfit he owns – the one Geralt sees him wear when he goes off to hunt for food – and he has his quiver hung at his hip and bow in hand.

“You’re not coming along,” Geralt says, nearly on instinct, still trying to wrap his head around what just happened.

“Ah, well, you see, the thing is… I am,” Jaskier waves his bow around as he speaks, much like how he flails his hands, using the weapon to articulate his words. “I think you have seen that I am perfectly capable of offering minor backup as needed, staying out of the way, and getting everything I need for my next ballad.”

“No.” Geralt growls, voice rougher and meaner than usual, the potions still coursing through his system, burning more than usual thanks to the kikimora venom.

Jaskier seems unaffected, head swaying back and forth as he walks forward. “Mmmm… yes.”

“No.”

“Yep.”

“No.”

“Yessir.”

“No.”

“Listen, if you think I’m going to stop anytime soon, you are sadly mistaken,” Jaskier is finally right in front of the Witcher, smiling at him like he’s won something. “Just accept the inevitable and allow me to take a look at that cut of yours.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt snaps, steering away from Jaskier’s wandering hands. He just needs the current potions to dissipate before he can take Swallow to finish knitting up the wound.  The poison from the kikimora would be dealt with once he took the healing potion, too. It was uncomfortable now, but it wasn’t something to worry about.

“Great! So you won’t have any issue with me checking the cut anyway, since it’s sooooo fine,” Jaskier argues right back, looking stubborn again as he steps forward to get a proper look at the wound. “Now let’s see here,” Jaskier mumbles to himself, reaching out, but Geralt swiftly raises his sword to point it at the minstrel in warning.

Jaskier hardly reacts, his brows rising in surprise, before stepping away again and huffing. “You’re dreadfully stubborn, are you aware? And over nothing!” Jaskier grumps, Geralt lowering his blade again. He’d had no intention of actually doing harm to the human, nothing substantial, but the warning seems to have worked fine.

He didn’t need doting over. Especially not from a human musician who would likely only make things worse.

“At least put some alcohol on it or something,” Jaskier groans, eying the wound, and Geralt narrows his eyes at him.

“Alcohol…” he repeats, not sure what that has to do with anything.

“New discovery. Kills germs quite effectively and helps avoid infection! I hear it burns something fierce, though,” Jaskier chirps, smiling brightly, and Geralt stares at him a while longer, trying to understand.

He, the Witcher, who had to regularly keep up with medical advancements, had not known about something like alcohol killing germs… but this random, enigma of a minstrel had? What was going on?

“It won’t get infected,” Geralt eventually grunts, turning away and heading to pick up the second kikimora’s head. He begins tying ropes around it so as to carry it more easily.

“Uh… And, how do you know that? Do Witchers not get infections?” he hears Jaskier question, sounding dubious.

Geralt doesn’t answer immediately, finishing up tying the kikimora head, then standing and heading for the first, hacking off its head and pulling out more rope to do the same to it. “It’s not deep. Swallow will fix it,” he eventually mumbles. Behind him, Jaskier sloshes through the swamp water, heading over to inspect the decapitated kikimora’s body, poking at it with his bow.

“Swallow? What are you swallowing?” he asks and Geralt growls, growing more and more frustrated with every passing question.

“Potion,” he finally snaps, standing and turning to glare something vicious at the minstrel. “It is called a Swallow Potion.”

“Ohhhh,” Jaskier snaps his fingers, not even flinching at the Witcher’s furious gaze, “Swallow as in the bird! I see, I see. And this potion helps heal you? Why haven’t I heard of it before? Why aren’t you taking it now?”

Geralt growls and looks skyward at the dark sky, a few stars twinkling above them, and tries to stamp down the urge to just gag the minstrel. “It is deadly to humans,” he begins slowly, measuring himself to keep his mounting frustrations in check. “It is only slightly toxic to Witchers. I must pace them out.”

When he finally looks back down, his adrenaline-pumped body under enough control he’s certain he won’t strangle the minstrel, he finds said minstrel staring at him in clear shock.

“I’m sorry, did you just say ‘toxic’?” Jaskier questions, hands flapping around, his bow swinging with the motions. Geralt only grunts at him. “You’re drinking toxins?! What the hell?!”

“In controlled doses,” Geralt grunts, not seeing what the issue is.

“Wh-why would you… What… Geralt!” Jaskier makes an even larger, flailing motion with his arms, apparently hoping Geralt will magically understand why he’s so upset. He does not.

“They offer enhancements.”

“OH!” now Jaskier throws both arms outwards, voice rising in indignation. Why was this the thing that finally set the minstrel off? “I guess it’s okay, then! Since they offer enhancements! Seriously, Geralt? Don’t just accept things like that! Has anyone ever attempted to make safer variations? Anyone at all? Have you Witchers ever commissioned some alchemist or something to better these potions of yours so they aren’t – oh, I don’t know – poisoning you?!”

Geralt says nothing in the face of this tirade, just watching Jaskier flail around with an eyebrow arched, waiting for the human to calm down. Did any of this matter? He knew how to measure out his potions as needed, knew what to expect out of them. So, where was the problem?

Finally, Jaskier seems to calm down, but now his free hand is on his hip and the other is pointing his bow in Geralt’s direction. “Listen, you shouldn’t have to settle for these things just… because! The whole… marble-pale and black eyes thing is badass, but you should still take care of yourself more.”

Jaskier then moves to attempt to lift up one of the kikimora heads, probably thinking he can help bringing them back despite how he gags at the smell, but the weight tips him over and he goes tumbling into swamp water. Geralt… Geralt could have caught him – he was close enough and fast enough – but he suddenly felt very glued to his spot.

Somewhere in all the excitement and bickering and frustrations and questions, Geralt had forgotten what he currently looked like. The Cat potion still coursing through his veins, turning said veins and his eyes black as night… He was what mothers warned their children about. He was the monstrous Witcher, sending terror through men of all kinds.

He’d learned, early on, to show this state of being to as few people as possible. It terrified people, made them run, attack, or not pay him. It solidified people’s views that Witchers were no better than the monsters they killed.

And Geralt had forgotten about it.

Somehow, he’d gotten so wrapped up talking to Jaskier, trying to sort out what was so odd about this minstrel, he’d forgotten what he looked like. And Jaskier…

Jaskier hadn’t acted any different than he usually would. Geralt might have forgotten, but the entire time Jaskier had been jabbering to a pale, demon-eyed man like it was nothing. His heartrate hadn���t changed, he’d never jumped, and even when Geralt glared and growled there was never any smell of fear.

And now Jaskier was just dropping that piece of information, that he thought the look was “badass,” like it was nothing. Like they were just sitting in a tavern, eating and drinking, Jaskier babbling about nothing and everything.

Geralt gulps down a lump that forms in his throat, slowly coming back to the present to hear Jaskier loudly and colorfully complaining about the water and mud. The Witcher says nothing as he leans down to pick up both kikimora heads and makes his way back in the direction of town.

By the time he gets there his current potions will have worn off and he’ll have been able to take Swallow and everything will be fine.

Behind him, Jaskier follows, his usually faint, quiet footsteps loud with sloshing water and complaints. Perhaps it is the adrenaline or the night or the daze he’s still under from Jaskier’s comments, but Geralt thinks it wouldn’t be the worst option to allow the minstrel to tag along on a few more hunts in the future.

+++

Jaskier makes it his mission to learn how to make Witcher potions.

Well… more like a side mission, really, but he still approaches it with the same intensity and eagerness as he does his music.

He knows Geralt will never make a move to try and better the potions. The Witcher seems to live on a perpetual “if it isn’t broke, don’t fix it,” mentality, but Jaskier isn’t like that. Things can always be made better.

Especially potions that have pros that only JUST outweigh the cons.

Before Jaskier can begin searching for a method to bettering these potions, however, he must learn how to make them. Problem is, Geralt isn’t sharing. Less of a problem, though, is the Witcher will prep and make the potions right where they’re camping or in their inn room.

It takes time and observation, but Jaskier is good at that, as he memorizes the plants used, how they are prepared, and what the outcome should look and smell like.

The first time Jaskier hands over a Willow Potion for Geralt’s upcoming hunt – which Jaskier is allowed to come along with, now, so long as he dresses sensibly and carries his weapons – the Witcher looks like he’d just been gutted. Which is QUITE the face on Geralt.

“How did…?” but Geralt doesn’t seem to know how to finish.

“Oh, I watched you and memorized how to craft some of your potions,” Jaskier smiles, hands clasped behind his back. “I’ll need to know how if I have any intention of getting these perfected for you.”

Geralt stares at him for a shocked moment, before he’s shaking his head and opening his mouth, likely to deny Jaskier’s services. Jaskier cuts him off before he can.

“In addition, it will surely save you time and effort if you have a second person helping prepare your potions, right? Of course, it will!”

Geralt shakes his head again. “You don’t have t—”

“Well someone does!” Jaskier cuts him off again, and now his hands are on his hips and he’s setting his face into a displeased pout. “Someone needs to look after you, and seeing as you are intent on not doing it for yourself… Well…” He trails off, allowing Geralt to fill in the gaps.

The Witcher’s eyes narrow, suspicious, and Jaskier is growing tired of that look. “And you’re going to?” he asks in disbelief and Jaskier huffs.

“Might as well!” He flaps a hand at Geralt. “Believe it or not, I find myself rather invested in YOUR safety.”

Geralt says nothing to that. Instead, he looks away, scowling, then shoves the Willow Potion into his potions pouch and starts gathering up the remainder of his gear. It leaves Jaskier grinning, which causes Geralt to punch his arm on his way out of the inn.

So, Jaskier occasionally helps prepping potions after that. Geralt won’t teach him anything new, and if Jaskier messes up Geralt won’t tell him how, just throws out the concoction, but it’s something.

Now, all Jaskier needs is to find someone trustworthy and intelligent enough in alchemical practices to help him better these potions. Luckily, he already has a place in mind.

For every Society of Bards, there was a specialty. The Society of Foxes at Oxenfurt specializes in weaponry. The Society of the Mantis in Novigrad specializes in espionage and manipulation. The Society of Eels in Beauclair specializes in “bardic magic,” whatever that means. The Society of Panthers in Vizima specializes in stealth.

And the Society of Spiders in Cintra specializes in poisons. Specifically, they train relentlessly in alchemy of many kinds, but are known particularly for their poisons.

Jaskier didn’t know when he would next be near Cintra, but it would be his next goal for bettering these damn potions. He wasn’t in any, major rush, though.

No, instead he intended to chronicle and memorialize as much of the White Wolf’s heroic exploits for as long as he could. He was going to make people stop sneering and spitting at his Witcher if it was the last thing he did.