Lies, Damned Lies, and Seductions - Margot_St_Just - Wiedźmin | The Witcher (2024)

Chapter 1: Geralt

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The cage was small, the cuffs were tight, and the men were thoroughly incompetent. In short, Geralt of Rivera was having a sh*t day. The hardened group of ex-mercenaries were idiots, but had managed to get the drop on Geralt after a fight gone bad with a few too many drowners. Said morons were now attempting to turn him in to a mage a few counties over for a bounty. While this might normally prove a dangerous situation for a lone Witcher, Geralt had gotten enough healing potion in him to be recovered, if slightly sore. His captors were likewise unaware that the ‘dimeritium’ cuffs they had been equipped with were some form of cheap tin, and their ‘enchanted spell-cage’ was a thin wooden crate.

Geralt was nonetheless going along with this, as it was the easiest way to track down whoever was dumb enough to go asking for trouble (IE witchers). Roach was being treated well, and they hadn’t opened the crate (equipped with small holes on the bottom for the necessary arrangements when keeping a prisoner) since stuffing him in there, so all in all it could conceivably be worse. Geralt normally met up with the bard this time of year, though, so the sooner they got where they were going, the better. There was no telling what kind of trouble Jaskier was getting up to roaming the continent unsupervised.

Almost as if his thoughts had summoned it, Geralt’s ears picked up the sound of humming and the twangy bounce of a lute-case. He groaned audibly. If there was another minstrel in a hundred leagues who would be wandering blithely thorough a monster-infested forest alone, he would eat his boots. He co*cked his head for a closer listen and revised his thought; Jaskier’s heart-rate was high, even for him, and his humming had a frantic edge. Lost? Hurt? The Witcher scented the air through the small cracks in the boards and caught a whiff of blood as the wind changed. The cuffs were broken instantly, before Geralt had made a conscious decision, and he had already moved forward as though to break through the wooden crate before he checked himself. He didn’t know what the situation was. If the mercenaries had ranged weapons, Jaskier could be put in danger by his acting rashly.

Unfortunately it seemed the sound of snapping metal had set the mercenaries on edge. They had almost finished setting up camp, still on their feet after a day of traveling, and had now fallen suspiciously silent. Geralt’s hearing was sharper than any man’s, and the bard might have passed unnoticed...if he hadn’t picked that moment to start whistling. Geralt sighed. He used the end of the metal cuffs to noiselessly pry open the seam of his box slightly, creating a hole to look out of, and stared at the bushes where-from issued a jaunty tune.

The mercenaries had their backs to Geralt’s crate, but several were armed with crossbows pointing uncomfortably towards the sound of the incoming troublemaker. At a hand signal from the leader of the group, one of the men stepped forward, shoving aside the foliage, and demanding “who goes there?” The answer was a very familiar scream, the volume and harmonics of which were unparalleled in the field of demonstrative terror. Geralt could attest that it could carry for miles, and hearing it at a short range was enough to startle the man back as a torn and dirty, but still colorful figure burst through the greenery. For a moment, no one moved, the men taking in the sight of a courtly bard covered in filth and scratch marks.

“Oh no!” shouted Jaskier, somewhat unnecessarily in Geralt’s opinion. “This is awful!” he continued. “Just awful!” he added, no doubt about to start going on and on about how imperiled he was. “You’re in terrible danger!” Yes, thought Geralt with a sigh, sounds about right… wait. Had the bard just said ‘you’re’ in danger? As in, the mercenaries? The clearly armed, trained fighters, who outnumbered him six-to-one? What?

Chapter 2: Jaskier

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Jaskier the Bard, Julian Alfred Pankraz to his enemies, was having a sh*t day indeed. Normally he would compose a more florid metaphor for the exact size and shape of said sh*ttiness, but he was not exactly at his best. It had all started a little less than a week ago. He had been minding his own business, which might have involved haunting the section of the continent he just so happened to know a certain white-haired witcher would move through as soon as he was done hibernating. But! Jaskier had taken steps this year to, as Geralt put it, “make sure the first thing I have to do when I see you isn’t haul your ass out of trouble.” He’d even gone out of his way to avoid the village with the missing livestock rumors, detouring to a sleepy little hamlet that had naught more dangerous than a particularly tetchy rabbit.

No sooner had he sat himself down at the local tavern for a well-deserved reward of ale and meat, his talents of course promising to pay for both, when he had heard rumors of an unusual nature. Alas, it was not the welcome word of Geralt moving through the newly-thawed roads. Instead the local scuttlebutt had it that a nearby member of the brotherhood had put out a bounty on all witchers. Now, this was concerning for a couple of reasons, the first of which being that witchers were (by and large) lovely people who did not deserve to have bounties on them. The second was that Jaskier was known far and wide as ‘The Witcher’s Bard,’ and had, in fact, advertised himself as such when he entered the village. And the courtyard. And the tavern. And to a great many people in all those places. Really though, it was ordinarily QUITE good business, he wouldn’t be apologizing for it.

Anyways. The wizard. The presumably-evil and most-certainly-up-to-no-good sorcerer who had a hit out on his nearest and dearest (and assorted coworkers). Likely the foul fellow would make an appearance to investigate Jaskier, but the tavern was so warm against the spring chill, and the ale was quite good. Well, it seemed a shame to waste an evening fleeing when it was likely someone with magic could track down a humble bard regardless. Jaskier had therefore settled in to play his set, and made not the slightest bit of effort to edit his usual material. When a mysterious cloaked stranger appeared on the edges of the crowd, Jaskier made sure not to miss a beat. He did, however, notice that the figure’s somewhat-hidden eyes seemed to follow him around the bar extremely attentively.

In the spirit of inquisition that ruled all his undertakings, Jaskier decided to find out if that was solely for the benefit of his witcherly knowledge, or if there might be more...mundane reasons for the attentions. Call it a hunch, but then there were those persistent rumors about sorcerers so lonely they were conjuring their own bed-mates. Jaskier had only started a few of them himself, even, after having observed Geralt misdone by some of their ilk. A few choice shakes of his hips and strategic divestment of outer garments were enough to convince Jaskier he was being observed for more than research purposes. Oh, he had thought to himself, now this I can work with.

Chapter 3: Geralt

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The mercenaries were just as confused as Geralt regarding Jaskier’s professed concern for their safety. It put them off for a moment, but then the tallest one, the second in command, raised his crossbow again. Geralt tensed, ready to jump from hiding to Jaskier’s defense, but the bard was already speaking. “Don’t be a fool! You mustn’t throw your life away pointing that at me!” said Jaskier, with such complete sincerity that Geralt was honestly tempted to check for unseen dangers.

“What?” said Second. “What do you mean? I’ve got you dead to rights! This bolt’ll go right through those pretty silks, so just-”

He was cut off as Jaskier fairly wailed, “oh, if only! If only you could save yourselves so easily, truly it would be a balm to my tortured conscience.” He continued, gesturing at his ripped clothes, “My silks, as you see, may indeed be torn, but alas my blood cannot be spilled by your weapons. You’ll only seal your own dreadful fate in the attempt.”

“Bollocks!” said the more stout leader of the band, as his second lowered his crossbow nervously. “You’re all over blood, you’ll bleed just fine if we stick ya.” At his words the rest of the band, that had grown uneasy at Jaskier’s strange words, began to rally. Before they could do more than steel their resolve, Jaskier was once more making a stage of the small forest clearing.

“I wish it were so, for I would rest easy knowing you had escaped unscathed from this horrible evil,” said Jaskier. “Observe though, that despite my ripped garments, there are no wounds upon me.” Geralt looked closer and realized that it was true; unblemished flesh could be seen from beneath the gorey clothes, even though the seams were split and the sides were slashed. The mercenaries also clearly realized that he was telling the truth, and only became more unnerved as Jaskier continued ominously, “for this blood, I confess, is not my own.”

The six mercenaries were beginning to become truly alarmed. Geralt was used to Jaskier popping up in unexpected places; somehow he was always running into him. For any normal person, though, finding such a popinjay in the middle of a forest was strange indeed (let alone one totally unharmed but covered in gore), and humans did tend to fear that which was strange.

“Why shouldn’t we shoot you, then, if you’re so dangerous?” said Second, his brave words belied by the fact his crossbow now pointed distinctly downwards.

“Because if you must die, for Melitele’s sake die cleanly! Without dooming your fellows, as well,” said Jaskier. “You don’t want to know the horrors that could be visited upon you...I...Oh, by the gods, the sheer carnage.” Jaskier stumbled forward into the clearing, and began to swoon onto a tree-stump. To Geralt’s consternation he had actually begun to tear up; the witcher could smell the salt. The mercenaries backed away hurriedly, as Roach began pulling at her halter. From their point of view it must have seemed as though the battle-hardened horse was shying away from Jaskier, although likely she wanted whatever apples he intended to sneak her.

“Wh-what sort of devilry are you on about?” asked the Leader.

“Devilry?” said Jaskier despairingly, “it is worse than devilry, for a devil does not exist, and this is all too real. You must have noticed the moon the last two nights? Round and full, and a boon to travelers?” Geralt was beginning to see where Jaskier was going with this, and rather wished that he didn’t. There were hesitant nods from the six mercenaries. “A boon to travelers, but a curse to me, the curse of… the werewolf!”

f*ck, thought Geralt.

Chapter 4: Jaskier

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The wizard’s name, it turned out, was Barentholemew, and he had graciously conceded to be called Barry by his charming bardic company for the evening. Jaskier was planning to see how drunk he had to get him before he would answer to “mew-mew,” and based on the way the older man’s eyes were lingering on the bard’s legs Jaskier bet himself it wouldn’t be more than a half dozen drinks. Barry appeared to be on the less fortunate end of middle age, with greased back hair and a pronounced widow’s peak. He might have been handsome, if he hadn't had the unmistakable air of entitlement that plagued mages and nobles alike the continent over. Or, thought Jaskier, if he had taken the slightest care in dressing. As opposed to pulling on sulfurous yellow stripes under his drab gray ‘ooo look at me I’m so stealthy’ cloak. Either way.

Jaskier had shrugged back on the various accouterments of his teal and gold silk ensemble and approached the Wizard as soon as he was done with his second encore. The bard had barely had time to introduce himself and bat his eyes at the “tall, dark, and handsome stranger here in my audience,” before he was accosted with the usual small minded anti-witcher mage-lecture. Jaskier very nearly had it memorized by now, and could probably have sung harmony to all the “you know not of what you sing, bard,” and “those beasts are not as they might lead you to believe,” drivel.

Oxenfurt didn’t hand out Masterships of the Seven Liberal Arts all willy-nilly, though, and Jaskier considered himself extremely clever when he bothered about it. Instead of quoting along with or interrupting the incredibly boring “I don’t want to think these people are people because it would be inconvenient for me personally, and I’d have to use my brain for once in my life, and might have to cop to being wrong” speech Jaskier acted aghast at the supposition. He professed to never having considered that the witchers themselves might attempt to mislead him. After all, he was just a humble bard. If such an august personage as a Sorcerer, of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, believed he was in the wrong, well, surely he must hear more.

Anyone else who had spouted off half so much about Geralt and his brothers would have had Jaskier’s fist in his nose faster than the bard could spit dirty limericks about their mother. Sadly, there was f*ckery afoot (and not the fun kind), and as his witcher was absent Jaskier had to try his hand at foiling it. If Geralt was in danger Jaskier would do a great deal more than flatter some sh*theel with bad breath and wandering eyes to help him. Also, it was quite likely Barry, being a mage, could set him on fire, or turn him into a newt or some such. A lesser consideration, really; he’d make a very handsome newt, and Geralt would find him and turn him back directly. Perhaps with true love’s kiss? Hmm. He’d have to consider later the pros and cons of potential newt-dom.

By the time the tavern was closing, nearly an hour later, Barry was still pontificating in an attempt to educate his oh-so-willing audience. Not for nothing had the bard lately gotten a reputation for being the worst debate opponent in the whole of the university. Shani might tear her opponents to pieces, but Jaskier would talk them around in circles so sweetly they never noticed that they’d agreed that all their own points were bullsh*t until it was two hours later and they’d already bought him a drink to toast to their victory.

Barry had, naturally, had no other option but to take the bard up to his wizard tower to continue their fascinating (and totally one-sided) conversation. More than a little tipsy, he was thoroughly convinced that Jaskier had seen the light on witchers, and was ready to learn on a number of other lovely topics. Jaskier, for his part, always looked forward to providing a useful first-hand education to anyone who though non-humans should be hunted down like animals.

Chapter 5: Geralt

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There was real panic in the clearing now. The six mercenaries closed ranks, weapons pointed carefully away from the bloodied and sobbing bard, who had artfully collapsed against the tree trunk. Geralt could, by quiet manipulation of the gaps between boards, get a fairly clear view of what was going on. Their fear was understandable. Werewolves were one of the few monsters of the continent that was well-known to the layman, both in danger and in weaknesses. Or, rather, lack thereof. Silver and fire, one uncommon and the other difficult to harness safely, were their only banes. When transformed, they were many times faster and stronger than any human, healing instantly from what would otherwise be mortal wounds. Practically a guaranteed death sentence to any normal human meeting them by the light of the full moon. Lycanthropy was a foul curse indeed on the poor souls afflicted by it, and Geralt felt an odd pang in his chest at the thought of Jaskier being one of them.

It was also widely speculated (although not proven, as far as Geralt was aware) that attacking a werewolf in their human form was the best way to be on the top of the beast’s sh*t-list once they changed, and humans were not actually easy to totally incinerate on short notice. Given that, plus the fact that they were, at most, two hours from moonrise, the unlucky band of mercenaries had every reason to keep their distance. A few darted glances at the gear atop Roach, but she had proven to be extremely defensive of any attempts to remove Geralt’s belongings.

Six hardened fighters all but cowering away from a well dressed performer might, under other circ*mstances, have been a highly amusing sight. Geralt was not laughing. It was possible, he thought, that this was a ploy. He had overheard, once or twice, Jaskier fending off various ruffians by playing on the vicious witcher who would return shortly, and probably kill them all quite messily, no, really, go, save yourselves. This could be a similar ruse, complete with feigned histrionics, but Jaskier was also just sort of...like that. It was honestly hard, with all the bard’s habitual dramatics, to tell at times whether he was severely injured or just inconvenienced, heartbroken or just mildly put out. The tears were real, though. They weren’t, always. As was the blood; human, but not Jaskier’s.

Geralt started instinctively contemplating his options for a potential fight. His sword was with Roach, would need to be retrieved. He had no bombs ready that would put a quick end to it, and there would likely be no time to apply oils. The weather had been unseasonably warm the last few days, so it was probably too dry to use fire except as a last resort. His mind stuttered suddenly to a halt. This was Jaskier. He was planning how to kill Jaskier. That was- No.

Fine, he thought to himself, the bard is faking until proven otherwise. Hopefully the other humans will buy the act.

Chapter 6: Jaskier

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One did not become the most successful bard on the continent without learning to play to one’s audience. To flatter a patron, as it were. To lie like a rug, bluff like a cliff, and do it all with a shamelessness that might be the envy of the continent’s finest whor*s, one might say. Jaskier had learned quite a lot in the days since his best trick had been needling people into throwing bread at him for a quick meal. All that to say that the bard was in the private domain of a vastly more powerful wizard, behind stone walls and enchantments most foul, and considered himself to have Barry right where he wanted him.

The wizard had never actually asked Jaskier if he would like to come back to his unnecessarily tall tower, but that was about what Jaskier had expected. When Barry announced that they were going, Jaskier had quite convincingly pretended to be delighted. He had even talked the Wizard into allowing him to grab his possessions from the back, as of course there was the possibility he would not be returning for them. A possibility that had Barry going slightly starry-eyed as he leveled what he clearly believed to be a surreptitious glance at Jaskier’s ass. The pompous moron went so far as to let him leave a private note, specifically for Geralt of Rivia, actually believing it was some sort of denunciation.

This level of stupid was unfortunately familiar to Jaskier from his upbringing in the nobility. Provincial stupid could include such creative and entertaining outlets as putting weasels down your pants for fun* or believing witchers had the power to move backwards in time to erase their mistakes. The sort of stupid that came with privilege was considerably less varied; powerful people who believed themselves infallible and untouchable, and acted accordingly. A great deal of the time they were right about the latter, but if there was someone (say, a certain bard) who was possessed of enough of the other type of stupid to try, they might find themselves surprisingly vulnerable.

The bard not only had a great deal of that to be working with, he also had a demijohn of vodka. He had been saving it for when he “coincidentally” met up with Geralt, but this was surely a most noble cause to put it towards. Plus, he might be able to make off with a small selection from Barry’s cellar as recompense. Still, no sense counting his wine-bottles before they were stolen. That the stuff was strong was the important point. It was the very best that Oxenfurt, with all its academics, artisans, and bored students, had to offer.

Barry had been all too happy to pose, and preen under outrageous praise, and be served drinks with a great deal of berry juice, honey, and preserves stirred in. Which might conceivably mask exactly how much alcohol might be also be in them. It was a little known fact, but one of the infamous math finals of Oxenfurt involved calculating the exact amounts of alcohol that would be needed to reach different levels of inebriation with varying weights, heights, and genders, of all the known races. Jaskier was still rather good at doing it in his head, and had used it more than once to pull a ‘let’s not and say we did’ with someone’s blacked-out self. No lovemaking was so gratifying as what people could tell themselves they had performed. It was also useful to figure out who wouldn’t be able to recall the perpetrator of a well deserved punch to the face in the morning. This would be a little bit of both.

Chapter 7: Geralt

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At least two of the mercenaries seemed not fully convinced of Jaskier’s assertions, the leader and another with red hair who had been taking care of the horses. “How do we know you’re not just having us on?” asked the leader nervously. “Trying to scare us off our campsite?”

“I didn’t even know you were here,” said Jaskier mournfully. “I never would have approached if I had, for that I am sorry. I’ve endangered you, even after forsaking civilization in the hopes that no more innocent blood may spill on my account. Oh, I never should have f*cked that Wizard!” Geralt pricked up his ears. The biggest hole in Jaskier’s story so far was why someone would go to the trouble of cursing a random bard into a killing machine, but him f*cking the wrong person was a solid motivation. Also something that was distinctly a possibility, at all times, for Jaskier to have done.

“Er, what wizard?” asked the redhead.

“Barentholemew the Evil and Incompetent,” said Jaskier bitterly, spitting it out like it was the worst profanity he could muster. “I foolishly let him tempt me into a night of passion, only to find he was a maniac, bent on causing indiscriminate bloodshed.” Yes, that does sound like Jaskier, thought Geralt. Falling into bed with someone only to find they were married, or a wanted bandit, or a f*cking succubus. Jaskier continued, growing even more upset, “I couldn’t let it happen, he meant to strip the continent of its best defense! To capture the witchers, and let his own dark creations have bloody rein.”

Geralt thought uncomfortably about the many times the bard had leapt to his defense, against foes more fearsome than he could possibly overcome. More than that, the name sounded familiar, and the mercenaries obviously agreed. “It can’t be,” whispered the Leader.

“How else could he know his name, though?” asked Second. “It was a private contract.”

“Maybe it was a different sorcerer?” replied Red

“But why would he curse you?” asked the Leader, his voice now pitched to carry across to Jaskier.

“I argued with his plan. I asked him to spare the heroes of the continent, to stop his madness, turn his back on his dark designs,” said Jaskier, and Geralt had to guess that this, at least, was a lie. It sounded entirely too noble. Although Jaskier had been known to make impassioned pleas to awaken the better nature of humanity. Sometimes it even worked. People usually had to be pretty drunk, though. The mercenaries, on the other hand, were hanging on to every word sober, not least of all because this was their employer they were hearing about.

“He attacked me,” sobbed Jaskier, as the mercenaries leaned forward, clearly enthralled by this tale of betrayal and black magic. “He made to throw me to the fiends he had created, and was set upon by his own creatures. With his dying breath, he cursed me to become just like them, a plague on the good people of the land. I am doomed to slay and slaughter until I can find peace by the sword of those I would defend.”

Well, sh*t, thought Geralt. That was exactly the kind of curse an asshole sorcerer trying to be poetic was wont to cast. Worse, it would be unbearable for someone like Jaskier. For all his faults, he seemed genuinely to delight in spreading cheer, and making the world a better place for those who could not speak for themselves.

Chapter 8: Jaskier

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Jaskier had won his internal bet about the pet name, for the record. He couldn’t let his reputation as a lover extraordinaire be totally ruined, of course, and that meant leaving some evidence of amorous activities. He hardly needed to make love to the man just to accomplish that, though; it was a small matter to make his undressing into such a production that Barry had spilled practically before getting his pants off. The wizard was into knives, and chains, and honestly it was a bit much for someone in a big stone tower. Jaskier was beginning to think he was compensating for some personal inadequacy. Still, a few of Jaskier’s seams split with an ornamental knife, a pair of tin handcuffs hanging off the bard’s wrist, and the slightest touch of Barry’s own hands undoing his braes was enough to send the now thoroughly drunk wizard spurting off to a sated slumber. Jaskier hadn’t even had to get into the spitting distance, let alone dirty his hands, as it were. Although it had been a shame to ruin a good outfit.

Left alone in the ludicrously over-Gothic tower, Jaskier did what he did second-best (after his various bardic endeavors, of course); snooping around and messing sh*t up. Geralt was always telling him he could make a magical disaster out of a hedge-witch's compost-heap, now was the time to see what he could do with a real sorcerer's supplies. There was, it had to be said, a certain amount of gleeful cackling.

Three hours later, the bard was quite satisfied with his results. The extremely creative insults he’d sent out using the Wizard’s personal stationary and megascope had been a good start (he had certainly listened to the man talk long enough to mimic him convincingly). Barry’s magical colleagues could likely visit vengeance upon him far in excess of what Jaskier could accomplish in a single night. At least, without leaving immediate evidence. Stripping off potion labels was another worthy endeavor; his close observation of Geralt’s alchemy let him know just what to swap for the most potentially explosive results. Loosening the hinges on the specimen cages would provide a nasty shock next time Barry attempted to fill them, along with an escape route for the unfortunate prisoner.

After those entertaining diversions, he had turned his attention to his original goal; thwarting any plans to capture or otherwise inconvenience his or any witcher. Luckily, Barry was the sort of person to label all his projects and equipment, as he assumed anyone aside from himself was an idiot. One of many reasons, Jaskier supposed, that the tower ran on magic instead of manpower. How convenient for any would-be saboteur. The helpfully tagged “Witcher Capturing Supplies” had been easy to locate and access. Those cuffs he had used earlier had come in handy to swap out for the heavy and odd-smelling type Jaskier knew from experience could mess with magic. The enchanted cage had been slightly harder to deal with, but it was worth the trouble of moving all the pears out of a fruit crate to know that anyone who tried using these supplies to capture a witcher would meet with a very unpleasant surprise.

A quick trip to pick up some goodies as a reward for his hard work, and Jaskier settled down to catch a few hours of sleep. He was awakened by the groans of his host, and was happy to serve him the most foul tasting and ineffective “hangover cure” he could produce on short notice.

“Where did the, uh, doohickies, go?” asked Barry eventually, gesturing at Jaskier’s wrists.

“The handcuffs? You burned through them in a moment of sublime passion,” improvised Jaskier.

“I did?” said the extremely hungover evil wizard, who clearly did not remember much at all about the previous night.

“Oh yes, it was truly the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen, Sir Sorcerer, I nearly fainted from the sheer sexiness,” prevaricated the Bard.

“Er, yes, of course, I’m sure it was,” said the wizard. “A, ah, repeat performance shall have to be arranged.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” said Jaskier, as though it had been a polite request as opposed to a boorish order, “for I am afraid that this one night of ecstasy has ruined me for carnal pleasures for months, nay, years. I must return at once to Oxenfurt, that I may compose a series of odes to your prowess and magnificence! The Ballad of Barentholemew the Extremely Well-Endowed will echo throughout the annals of history,” he lied. Well, not lied exactly. He had the bare-bones of a truly scathing tune that was going to be very popular in the whor*houses of the world by this time next year. About a sorcerer thinking with his dick, and sending off for a witcher without any idea what to do with him. Jaskier couldn’t wait to find out how it ended.

As Jaskier had expected, his supposed-bedmate had been unable to resist the draw of potentially having the whole continent literally singing his (co*ck’s) praises. Say what people might about the quality of his work, Jaskier had by Melitele earned his title as Voice of the Continent. Barry probably thought he was rather clever, giving up one good lay now, for infinite lays in the future. Hah. Sucker. A f*ck in the hand is worth two in the...hmm, Jaskier needed to work on that metaphor, actually. In any case, the bard was quickly on his way, cheerfully composing several more verses to ‘what do you do with a horny wizard’ to tide him over until he could have narrative closure to his more bespoke work.

Chapter 9: Geralt

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“Please,” said Jaskier, as he finished his tale of woe, “I beseech you. Flee, far away, to the nearest settlement you can find that might serve as some refuge. Find the witcher, Geralt of Rivia, if you can, and tell him his bard waits for him in the forest.”

“Um,” said the leader darting a glance over at the large box where said witcher was currently (barely) contained, “that wouldn’t be the White Wolf, would it? The white haired witcher?”

“Yes,” said Jaskier, “the very same. My boon companion lo these past years. I know he travels these lands in springtime, and he is the only hope the countryside has against the bloodthirsty might of a werewolf such as I.”

“We...uh...We’ll keep an eye out,” said the Redhead. He had moved slowly over to the crate while the drama unfolded. Peering through the slight gap, he saw the glow of Geralt’s yellow eyes reflected back, clearly awake and aware. He attempted to signal this frantically to the rest of the group, and managed with about half of them. The other half were too busy edging away from Jaskier without ever taking their eyes off of him.

“Thank you,” said Jaskier, desperate gratitude coloring the words. “I fear he may have been waylaid by brigands, as that thrice-damned sorcerer sent out sabotaged supplies, that men might kill themselves attempting to apprehend him.”

“Oh?” said the leader, voice squeaking. “The supplies were faulty, you say?”

“Naught but plain wood and tin, no more proof against a witcher than your crossbows will be against...but no, you will have gotten safely away, surely,” said Jaskier, and now Geralt was sure he was bullsh*tting them to some degree. Playing it up, at the least. Surely? “Though noble as he is, he might have allowed himself to be captured, rather than spill the blood of those led astray by a true villain, he will surely fight his way free once he hears of the monster that now threatens to horribly murder everyone within a hundred leagues.”

Ah, f*ck, thought Geralt. He was going to have to explain how he had been caught with his breeches down and actually been captured by these idiots, wasn’t he? Maybe he would get lucky and Jaskier would just eat him instead. The joke rang hollow as soon as he thought of it, his usually bolstering dark humor having the opposite effect. Geralt shook his head and attempted to refocus. Jaskier was clearly attempting to run these men off. Question was, was that for his benefit, or theirs?

Geralt tried to center himself by going over the facts. There was definitely a spiteful sorcerer on the loose who was collecting witchers for unknown reasons. Jaskier’s insistence on styling himself as ‘the witcher’s bard’ whenever possible would likely have made him a target. The normally fastidious bard was covered in blood, not his own, at least a day old. Geralt was investigating livestock reported missing one village over, recently, and Jaskier had clearly been out in the wilderness for several days at least by the state of his hair. Two of which would have been full moons.

“Should you meet him, good sirs, I beg you ask him make haste to give his friend the only mercy he deserves,” said Jaskier, voice trembling, “And should you, oh gods forbid, meet death at my terrible claws, I beg you forgive me my unwilling butchery.”

That did it. Any shred of doubt in the men was swept away by the hair-raising and increasingly plausible thought of imminent dismemberment at the hands of a well-dressed troubadour.

“f*ck this!” yelled the Second-in-Command, the first to lose his nerve. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

“We never should have messed with witcher sh*t!” added the redhead, running for the horses.

“We’re not even getting PAID,” wailed the leader, and off the lot of them fled.

Chapter 10: Jaskier

Chapter Text

Half a day’s walk served to bring the vindictively victorious bard back to where he started, but he had made a few alterations to his appearance since leaving the tower of tackiness. One of the little trinkets he had discovered during his night of poking around had been a chest filled with small spheres, each containing roughly a hogshead of liquid somehow fit into something the size of a cherry. They had, of course, been meticulously labeled. ‘Had’ being the operative word. Although they were, after all, still technically labeled. It was just that those labels now had nothing whatsoever to do with the contents. Three he had made off with entirely, their contents too useful (or amusing) to leave behind.

When given the chance, Jaskier was capable of some quality plotting. Not necessarily realistic plotting, see also his songs, but people were often so entertained they went along with it. With that in mind, the order of the day was to make sure the common peoples of the area were firmly on the side of the White Wolf, whenever Geralt happened to show up. They already thought the local sorcerer was a bit of a snob, and by the time Jaskier was done with his reputation there wouldn’t be a person for a dozen leagues that would spit on him if he was burning (or help him harm sentient beings for any price). There was the slightest twinge of what might once have been a conscience, and then Jaskier remembered a mercifully empty drawer labeled ‘witcher teeth samples’ and resolved to ruin the poorly-dressed mage even harder.

One of the spheres was full of a type of scentless oil Jaskier was, ahem, intimately familiar with, and he had thought it downright hilarious for anyone to have so much of it on hand. Especially a wizard who clearly had so little use for it. The next was less amusing, a small red ball that had been tagged as containing “purified and everfresh blood, of virgin women, still living.” The substance was one he recognized from university as occasionally being kept on hand by the oldest houses, in the event of a vampire guest. ‘Donations’ would be taken from convents, with the ladies well compensated for their chastity and discretion. Officially, no one possessed such a vile enchanted substance. Unofficially, it was apparently much desired by creatures that might otherwise eat the owner, and never went bad thanks to the enchantment.

What Jaskier had planned with this extremely sterile (he did occasionally listen to Shani’s lectures on hygiene) blood was much less, er, appetizing than the usual use. Jaskier had decided however, that needs must when the devil drives. He was shortly thereafter covered with blood, which combined with the rents in his outfit to create a truly gruesome picture. Now it was just a matter of acting. Which might pose a small problem.

Jaskier’s acting was the stuff of legends, yes, but not necessarily in his usual way. Public speaking, he could do. Performance of music or poetry was a breeze. Lying, even, he was absolutely accomplished at, and that was supposed to be basically the same as acting. It was just that Jaskier was so persistently himself that unless he happened to be cast as an extremely sexy bard who everyone should be looking at all the time, it didn’t tend to work out. Any lie or performance had to be a variation on Jaskier the Bard, and slotting himself in to someone else’s narrative had literally never once in his entire life worked out for him. Just ask his parents.

Henri, a playwright classmate of his, had once nearly had an aneurysm after a freak accident had left Jaskier, understudy just there for extra credit (and not at all because he was f*cking the stagehands, noooo), on-stage at the yearly new-writer’s tragedy showcase. The young author had been ready to strangle the troubadour all through the first act, as Jaskier had spent it periodically ad-libbing and reciting the frankly melodramatic dialogue with all the reverence it deserved (which was to say, none at all).

When at the start of the second act Jaskier’s character had been suddenly killed off with extreme prejudice, it was quite a shock for everyone, including (especially, even) the actors. Luckily, the dean’s wife had immediately burst into tears, and the man himself had declared it a novel and daring disruption of tropes and conventions. A shocking twist, highlighting how the real nature of tragedy was a cruel and uncaring world that could snuff out even the brightest flames in an instant. Henri had won an award, and gotten himself an excellent, generous patron. He had also never once spoken to Jaskier again without calling him some variation on “a hopeless ham-ass hack.”

If Jaskier was going to pull this off, clearly he would have to find a way to do it as himself. A shocked and terrified victim of the awful evil wizard was right out; Jaskier had never stayed terrified of anyone in his life and he couldn’t start now. He could perhaps try for long-suffering but pure-hearted troubadour trying desperately to warn the townspeople of the danger in their midst. If all else failed, a bit of improvisation might be required.

Chapter 11: Geralt

Chapter Text

With the whole of the mercenary band fleeing into the night, Geralt was left with a dilemma. Should he reveal himself now, or wait a few minutes for when Jaskier’s insatiable curiosity led him to prying open every closed container within grabbing distance? Roach made her feelings known immediately, whinnying imperiously for her due.

“Oh, Roach!” said Jaskier, “am I ever glad to see a friendly face. Even if it is a long one. Yes, yes, I have your apple. Even at my worst I wouldn’t dare neglect that. Where is your witcher, fine lady? I can’t see him being contained by a pear-box, of all prisons.”

Geralt’s displeased grunt was, apparently, audible from where the single remaining horse was tethered, as Jaskier immediately perked up. “Oh-ho! Is that so? Really, Geralt? A fruit-crate? Not even a magical one, I made sure when I picked it out.” Geralt huffed. “Come out already, you great lump, I won’t bite-” Jaskier cut himself off suddenly, going rather pale. “Ah, that’s not as funny as it would have been a while ago, I’m afraid.”

Just as Jaskier staggered slightly, he found himself supported by the steady weight of a witcher on one side, and a horse on the other. He looked a little shocked, as though he hadn’t even had time to hear Geralt tear through the slim boards. He probably hadn’t. Humans were slow like that, sometimes. Geralt thought that the bard up close was even more concerning than seeing him from a distance. He truly did look awful.

“Geraaaalt,” Jaskier said, drawing the witcher’s name out pitifully. “I am having almost as bad a day as you were, stuffed in a box.” Geralt grunted in what he hoped was a satisfactorily sympathetic manner. Jaskier seemed mollified. “I supposed I just had to run into you now, AFTER I’ve already done all my best work against that magic prick,” said the bard with a sniff, turning to embrace Geralt and promptly drying his eyes on the larger man’s shirt. “Still,” he said, voice brightening slightly, “I suppose you did see me chase off those assholes who took the job, that was fairly well done.”

“Yes,” said Geralt, because it had been, he supposed. For someone like Jaskier to scare other humans took a great deal more work than it would take a witcher, and for some reason Jaskier had never been the best of actors, despite lying like the lying liar he was at every possible opportunity. If, of course, he had been acting this time.

Geralt took the opportunity to sniff Jaskier surreptitiously; scent of blood, sweat, and tears, check, scent of magic, check, scent of wolf...f*ck. There it was. The scent of a werewolf was faint but unmistakable, and it was all over Jaskier’s clothes. The moon would be up in less than two hours, there was no time to reach a safe distance.

Chapter 12: Jaskier

Chapter Text

It was possible that Jaskier had overdone it. Slightly. Just a bit. Not too much really, he had avoided being run out of town. Not by a margin of more than a few minutes, but still. Coming back to the village looking (and, importantly, these were farmers) smelling like he had just escaped from a dungeon of horrors had caused quite the stir. Everyone had been out for market day, and it had been quite the gratifying crowd that had been there to witness him collapsing dramatically against a handy well.

His tale of a wizard gone mad with power, casting curses to create monsters wasn’t even entirely fabricated. Barry was technically only interested (as far as Jaskier knew) in creating giant farm animals, sure, but a goat the size of a boat was likely to be quite deadly indeed if you asked Jaskier so really it wasn’t much of a lie at all (if he added a few details about what the mage might want to do with goats in general, well those had been rather admiring research notes). That made a fairly direct segue into his probably wanting to capture witchers to get them out of the way, so no one could stop his horrible horde. They lapped it up. After all, everyone loves to gossip about the neighbors, especially if they have a bigger house and treat people like dirt.

Someone had, however, noticed that Jaskier wasn’t actually injured under all the gore, and the bard had had to think fast and put on a credible act of being as shocked as anyone at that fact. He could, however, see the gears start to turn in the innkeeper’s eye about magic monsters, and someone with newfound healing powers, and made the decision to get ahead of it. He declared himself to be obviously cursed before anyone could get out the pitchforks themselves, and nobly offered to leave in order to save them all from whatever awful consequences there might be to this foul magic. There was much lamenting. Clearly while they were glad to be rid of him on one level, on another people liked to convince themselves that they would have been the ones to shelter him. Out of their sheer principledness, naturally.

Not to rain on the parade of their theoretical generosity, he made sure to mention that he would head for the wilderness to attempt to preserve their safety. Also, he could make sure to warn the heroic witcher (no doubt riding to the rescue at this very moment) of all that was going on, and if he only had a few supplies he could hold out ever so much longer. The innkeeper, who had both been about to raise the hue and cry and the loudest professor of outrage at his exile, had no choice but to grant him all the rations he could carry.

That had been four days before Jaskier’s current, sh*tty, day, and the high of his triumphant setting out was wearing thin indeed. He had reasoned that if Geralt hadn’t taken the one road down from Kaer Morhen, he must have taken the other, and really it was more like his witcher to go investigate the missing sheep first anyways. Barry would have to hire outside help if he wanted to send anyone witcher-hunting, so that bought a few days. Jaskier had thought he would cut through the forest to meet Geralt on his way between the two towns, but had gotten lost. Not immediately. After just long enough to have a hard time finding his way back to the road by random chance. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant stroll for the bard. The weather had been hotter than usual for this time of year, so Jaskier had been in no danger, but he hadn’t had a chance to wash off the still-unrotting magic blood either.

Jaskier was thinking he’d finally caught a spot of luck, and started whistling a jaunty tune in celebration, when all the men in the campsite he’d spotted had suddenly frozen and gone quiet. No one froze that way in the wilderness in response to whistling unless they were up to no good, Jaskier reasoned. He therefore had about a minute to figure out how he wanted to play this.

Chapter 13: Geralt

Chapter Text

Geralt’s heart was, for a witcher, racing, which meant it beat maybe twice to each of Jaskier’s three. He could feel it, as he had pressed them together. His arms encircling the bard protectively, without his even thinking about it. There was nothing here he could shield the bard from, though. The damage had already been done.

“I missed you, too, Geralt,” said Jaskier, clearly mistaking Geralt’s witcher instincts for more human sentiment. “You must have been ill-done-by indeed if seeing me is such a relief. I won’t even tease you about the fruit-box. Much. Yet.” The other man seemed content for a moment to lean into the witcher, his arms wrapped around under Geralt’s.

Geralt tried to think of what Eskel might do in a situation like this, and then tried frantically (and unsuccessfully) to unhook the resulting chain of thought. Eskel could be said to be the kindest and most merciful of the surviving wolf witchers, but that included the cruel mercies Geralt had always found most difficult. He would have told Geralt to put a silver dagger through the bard’s back to pierce his heart before Jaskier ever had time to be afraid. If Geralt had been unable to do it, Eskel would have taken the knife himself, with a sad smile, and done the needful his brother couldn’t. Without pain, without fear, without warning of any kind.

His brother would not have hesitated. Neither of them, probably, although if Lambert respected Jaskier enough he might let him see it coming. Not enough for any action, of course. Just an acknowledgment that he deserved to know what killed him. Who, rather. The thought made Geralt feel physically ill.

Vesemir would have said to use Axii, and no witcher he had ever known would have thought what Geralt himself was thinking now. He was weighing whether he should do nothing. Choosing not to choose had damned him once, and now he considered it again. Why? For a personal bard that followed him everywhere, singing his praises? Was Geralt truly so vain? Or was it because the one part of Jaskier’s story that rang truest was that whatever he had done, it was for witchers. For his witcher. He was The Witcher’s bard, after all, whether Geralt liked it or not.

There was only himself in range, really. He might not be able to fight a werewolf to a standstill all night, but he could slow it down enough that it couldn’t reach other victims. The only humans at risk would likely be the mercenaries, and as for them...Well, it wasn’t that their lives were worth less than Jaskier’s, exactly. It was just that they had made the conscious decision to deprive sentient beings of their liberty as a way to earn coin, and Jaskier hadn’t.

That thought brought him up short. Jaskier generally did what he wanted and damn the consequences; Jaskier wouldn’t knowingly cause that sort of harm because he would never want to. He wouldn’t want to hurt innocent people, if he could help it. Geralt remembered the way Jaskier had spoken, earlier. The bard was well known for hiding sincere sentiment behind flowery language. Geralt could believe he’d want to be stopped, with blood on his hands, from staining them further.

If Geralt didn’t stop him tonight, that was another month for Jaskier to find a cure. The bard would be all alone in the wilderness, though, and even with Roach to help there was no guarantee he could find a witcher or magic user able to remove the curse in time. Attempting to restrain him would be difficult, but if it worked, Geralt could brew him the wolfsbane potion in the morning. The safest option, with the least loss of life, would be...mercy. Of the cruelest kind. Not cruel for Jaskier, who he would make damned sure could rest in peace. For Geralt, who would have to live with it. How can I make that choice? thought the witcher, his slow heart twisting in his chest.

Chapter 14: Jaskier

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This was, Jaskier thought, objectively less dangerous than subverting a sorcerer in their own domain. Yet somehow, looking down the barrels of several pointy crossbows, he simply couldn’t summon the same composure. He supposed he was out of his element. Not to mention improperly dressed for a performance. Still, one worked with what one had. Whether that was an embarrassingly amateur script or an audience made up of ruffians and thugs.

The scream had been pure reflex, and while he was fairly sure that Geralt was capable of clocking it from a fair distance, he couldn’t count on the witcher to save him this time. He already had the bare bones of a story though, and really that was all Jaskier had ever needed to get him off the ground. These rouges would be running for their lives inside half an hour. Hopefully.

Acting, his friends had (repeatedly) assured him, was best when one could almost believe oneself. Perhaps in this case it wouldn’t be so different from molding Jaskier the Bard into a slightly different shape to suit every audience. In this case he was Jaskier the Bard, as he would be having gone through a (more) horrible ordeal. Jaskier had picked werewolves not entirely at random; it was a full moon tonight, after all, and it was a fair sight easier than pretending to be a ghost while conspicuously corporeal. They were well-known, but not a beastie the average bandit was likely to think he could take in a fight.

Really, it was ultimately because Jaskier knew them. Write (or in this case perform) what you know, and all that. He had helped Geralt on a few hunts for them now. It was an easy curse to cast, for someone who truly wanted to cause as much pain as possible. Usually it splashed back on them, and they wound up burning in the flames they’d lit, but people like that didn’t tend to care. Werewolves who reveled in bloodshed were easy. It was the reluctant ones, victims as much as the people they’d killed, that were difficult to stomach. If Jaskier could channel that into a song that would make grown men weep (and he very much could and had, thank-you-very-much), he could surely convey a bit of it when acting for his life.

On the whole, this particular performance seemed to be going rather well, once Jaskier had gotten into character, as it were. He had stumbled a bit, stepping into the clearing, and wedged his foot rather roughly against a tree-root. He had managed to work his eyes watering from the pain into the bit, though, and rather thought Henri would be proud of the work he was putting in. Either proud or abjectly horrified, it was hard to say. Jaskier wasn’t exactly enjoying himself, it was hitting a little too close to home given that he still hadn’t found Geralt in all this.

Barry the wizard was once again hurled under the ox-cart of public opinion. Jaskier would admit to enhancing his tale more than a little, but he really thought he had them now, in terms of narrative investment. Hardly an easy feat if placing his dashing bard alongside a foil with all the charisma of a wet noodle. The improved story was catching him up in it as well. He found himself thinking, truly, about all the injustices visited on his witcher, the anger and defensiveness he felt. He noticed their strong reaction to the name, and a quick look around the clearing revealed a few details he had been (at first) too busy watching the pointy weapons to notice.

Roach was unmistakable among the horses, although a bit of greenery stopped him from seeing how much gear she retained. He also noticed the crate he had spent entirely too long clearing of produce in the back, but there was absolutely no way they could possibly be containing Geralt in it. That would be ridiculous. It was made to hold pears, for Melitele’s sake, not witchers. Still, these must therefore be the mercenaries that Barry had hired. Probably the only ones he could get, hah, thought the Bard. They were clearly from a down-on-their-luck Southern company, ill-suited to jobs up North. Likely cost a pretty penny, too. They’d probably been passed the implements from the mage without the slightest hint of oversight, the Sorcerer trusting to his inane labels, and had no reason to doubt the workings of a Mage.

Jaskier decided to preemptively dissuade them from bothering Geralt, and didn’t miss the frantic hand signals one redheaded fellow was giving his compatriots as a result. There was clearly something in the box, so Jaskier dropped in a few extra hints as to how much they really needed a witcher to save them, just in case. f*ck, now he was really tearing up. The thought of Geralt, coming to find him, only to have to...well, it would make a banger of a ballad, but Jaskier thought he’d rather sing it than live it, certainly. Just the idea of it might haunt him for a while. He thought for a moment he might have laid it on too thickly even for these culturally limited cretins, but no, they broke and ran as if on cue. So nice to have a cooperative crowd to work with, thought Jaskier with satisfaction, and, after a moment to collect himself, went over to start snooping.

Chapter 15: Geralt & Jaskier

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Geralt knew he had hesitated too long in the embrace when Jaskier piped up, “Geralt, are you alright? I know you’re the strong silent type, but you can speak up if you need help.” There’s a thought, considered Geralt. He wasn’t alone. It was such an obvious statement, but he was so used to having to make the hard choices of the Path without guidance or support. Most humans didn’t know enough to make informed decisions even if they had opinions. Jaskier though, Jaskier had been with him on more than a few werewolf hunts. He could have a choice in this. Maybe it was selfish, to share the burden, but maybe not. It was the bard’s life on the line.

Jaskier had been thrilled to get a hug from his favorite witcher, of course, (granted he did perform a quick silver test while Geralt was uncharacteristically distracted) but it seemed like Geralt was troubled, and that simply wouldn’t do.

“Darling?” tried Jaskier again, gently.

“The moon,” said Geralt sounding uncharacteristically unsure, “will be up soon.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Jaskier. “Do you mean you think we should make camp, or…” the bard trailed off, catching a glimpse of Geralt’s face. A very particular face he generally only made when he was staring into people’s souls, serving as arbitrator of their futures, generally pulling his witchery destiny bullsh*t.

The coin proverbially dropped, and Jaskier burst out laughing. He collected himself enough long to explain “I am not any more a werewolf now than I was when last we met, dear witcher. I assure you all of this was merely a masterful performance to play on the fears of our unlucky former camp-mates.” He then promptly dissolved back into snickering.

“f*ck,” said Geralt, his whole being suddenly so giddy with relief that his balance faltered for a moment. It wouldn’t have been enough to bring him to his knees, had he not been holding onto (or up) an even more unsteady bard. So, down the two of them went, Roach snuffling curiously at the tops of their heads.

“You really-” said Jaskier breathlessly, “I really got you that time? Honestly? You can always tell, Geralt, this wasn’t even a believable one, this of all lies?”

“You’ve got the smell,” said Geralt defensively.

“Oh, of course, I’d forgotten,” said Jaskier, laughing. “I liberated some eau de loup-garou from that stupid wizard, he had a little ball of the stuff and I wanted to cut through the forest. I remembered you saying no other beasties would go near the smell of werewolf.”

That was perfectly true, and an extremely clever solution to a problem that could only have arisen from being incredibly stupid. Which was Jaskier all over, really. Pesky monsters causing you trouble while wandering through dangerous wilderness? Slap on some rare alchemical components instead of using the f*cking road. Trying to get famous by roaming the continent with no survival skills? Pick a traveling companion with an occupational obligation to keep you alive. Tired of traveling with a hated mutant? Just use your songs to change the whole world’s opinion and make them a hero.

Jaskier spent the next quarter of an hour going over an extremely bare-bones (but completely honest, he swore!) summary of what on the continent the bard had actually been up to the past week. Geralt was frankly impressed. If half of it was true, the sheer havoc the bard had managed to set up against his enemy was admirable. The energy Jaskier seemed to harness just by existing (more malevolently directed than when it upset Geralt’s life), gave a whole new meaning to ‘the power of chaos.’

“Were you planning to convince the whole countryside you were a werewolf stalking these woods until I came to find you?” asked Geralt exasperatedly once Jaskier had finished.

“And I would have gotten away with it, too, if not for you, meddling witcher,” replied Jaskier blithely. “And your horse. Do go on, though, I’m sure you have oodles of questions for me” he continued, clearly fishing for complements on his self-declared heroics.

“Why didn’t you just kill him?” asked Geralt, honestly curious. Half of what Jaskier had alluded to getting up to was potentially fatal anyways, it wasn’t like the bard to walk away from a fight just because it was a terrible idea.

“Well aside from him most likely having built-in magical protections, especially in his own domain, stabbing him in his sleep simply wasn’t good enough for him. Or bad enough. Depending on how you measure,” said Jaskier.

“Exactly what sort of system does one use to measure karmic retribution?” Geralt asked, already expecting a ridiculous answer.

“I’m not exactly sure myself,” said Jaskier. “I imagine the various other members of the brotherhood of sorcerers might be inclined to set the scale for us quite adequately, though. They’ll soon receive “his” messages about, among other little tid-bits, their comparative dick sizes and habitual lack of academic rigor. After that they’ll no doubt be demonstrating a good range for us,” he finished with a feral grin.

Yes, siccing mages on each other, thought Geralt. That’s not something I, or any other person with the slightest sense of self-preservation, would ever think to do. Geralt thought of asking what exactly was in those messages that Jaskier was so sure would bring down hell, then decided that maybe he didn’t want to know.

“Alright then, last question,” said Jaskier. “I can tell you’re almost out of words for the day, and I don’t want to be greedy.”

There was a pause. The witcher carefully considered all the holes that had been left in the story Jaskier had woven. What he might wish most to know. The most pressing question to ask. “Jaskier?” said Geralt.

“Yes, Geralt?” said Jaskier.

“Did you actually f*ck the wizard?” asked Geralt.

“Oh, honestly Geralt, I am offended, he was a terrible person, a pedantic, pox-personalited…” ranted Jaskier, before being interrupted.

“Jaskier,” said Geralt.

“Well, he certainly thinks I did,” said Jaskier.

“What does that even mean?” asked Geralt.

“Well, Geralt, it means that a bottle of Oxenfurt’s best vodka and my own not-insignificant charms bought Mister Mew-Mew the idea of the best night he’ll never remember, and myself access to some cuffs and cages. The latter of which, I can tell, has proved quite useful,” said Jaskier. “Not to mention,” he continued as he produced two ancient looking bottles of wine “a couple of party favors, as a treat.”

“So, this is what you get up to when I’m not around? Seduction and petty thievery?” said Geralt, with perhaps a tiny edge of fondness.

“Excuse me, how dare you?” said Jaskier, “these are rare vintages, this is at least grand theft.”

“My mistake,” said Geralt, without the slightest variation in tone.

“Well, I forgive you,” said Jaskier magnanimously, “and you’re welcome for the sabotage, by the way.”

“Hm.” Said Geralt

“Hm, yourself, and come drink with me,” said Jaskier cheerfully. “Tomorrow you can go explain to the world’s worst lover why trying to capture witchers is a bad idea.”

“And tonight?” said Geralt, his yellow eyes fixed on his bard, here, and happy, and oh-so-very-much alive.

“Who knows?” said Jaskier, grinning, as he popped open the first wine bottle. “Who knows what might happen under the light of the full moon?”

***

Three extremely enjoyable days later they finally got around to confronting Sorcerer Barentholemew, only to find nothing but a large still-smoking crater where once there had stood a terribly unsubtle tower.

“What,” asked Geralt, “did you DO, bard?”

“Only what came naturally, really,” replied Jaskier, utterly truthful for once in his life.