Four is a Crowd - Chapter 10
It’s finally up. I know I promised it two days ago, but I’m struggling to finish things at the moment (especially writing), so I hope you’ll forgive me.
Sunshine caressed his features with concentrated warmth, waking Geralt up from the deepest sleep he had had in what felt like an eternity. Heavy eyelids fluttered open to catch sight of the window curtains floating gently to the caress of the wind. Outside, the villagers had begun going about their day.
He stretched in utter laziness and patted the spot on the bed beside him. To his disappointment, he found it empty and cold. Jaskier must have gotten up a while ago, which was unusual, knowing how his bard delighted in a morning-after.
He slipped back inside his worn-out outfit, fixed his armor on top and considered taking it to the blacksmith if it were not for the lack of coin in his pocket. He ran a swift hand across his unruly hair then headed out of the room. He stopped at the threshold, watching the door across part open and his eyes darted upwards to catch an identical golden pair.
“Hm.“ His counterpart groaned, as if minutely contemplating stepping back inside and shutting the door close.
“Rough night?” teased Geralt, innocently referring to the mess that was his hair and the heavy bags of clear exhaustion hanging under his eyes. Though he was quick to notice he looked more on the radiant side – if that word could ever describe him in any existing universe.
The White Wolf winced and a dark frown traced his forehead out of clear offense. Confused yet uncaring, Geralt watched him step out of the room, shut the door behind him, and trudge downstairs.
Something about him was clearly amiss but Geralt did not bother to question it – did not care, really. Instead, he chose to follow suit and head downstairs for breakfast.
The inn’s tavern was quiet even though it was nearing mid-day. Most of the guests have had drunk themselves to unconsciousness the night before, which left only the innkeeper seated behind the counter, counting her scarce coin. She, too, nestled a drink with a strange mixture consisting of ingredients that had Geralt, regardless of the fair distance separating them, scrunch up his nose in pure disgust.
Anything to cure a hangover, he guessed.
He located Jaskier with delay – due to his abnormally quiet state – at the far corner of the tavern hunched over the table and glaring daggers at the lively man seated across from him. It was Dandelion. He was holding his head up higher than usual, the grin at the corner of his lips tugged further, and the air about him was obnoxiously prideful. One glance was all Geralt needed to tell he had just won whatever debate the two were amidst.
“Cry me a river,” came his humorous laughter, “I, for one, slept like a baby reared against its mother’s breast. Perhaps you would have complained less if you had had half so good a pounding, you poor boneless bag of misfortunes. Ah, speak of the devil! There come our favourite witchers.”
