geraskier // modern human AU; first meeting during long travels; inspired by Sea Wolf’s Dear Fellow Traveller // 2.5k words
Their eyes meet across a busy street of an unfamiliar city and neither of them knows yet that they have finally found what they were looking for.
read on AO3 here!
Jaskier has stood at this street corner for hours and yet the white-haired stranger is the first one that has truly drawn his attention.
The man stands a few feet away, brooding in the shadow of a building. He’s dressed in all black, would blend into the shadows nicely if it wasn’t for his pale skin and light hair. His shoulders are broad, jaw practically square and fuck, Jaskier can’t take his eyes off him.
It’s not just that he’s exactly Jaskier’s type, though. There’s something more to him - the air of mystery, adventure. And a certain weariness, as though he’s already seen everything the world has to offer.
And Jaskier, besotted fool that he is, wants to make him smile.
Even though the stranger is ways away, Jaskier can feel his eyes on him. With that knowledge in mind, he makes quite an effort of showing off - swirling around with his guitar, belting out lyrics louder than he had before - but the man is as stoic as a statue. He might as well be a murderer, with how absolutely blank his expression seems and how Jaskier knows nothing of him, but Jaskier has always liked a little in his life.
(And he knows better than to judge a book by its cover. Even if the book looks as though it could snap him in half with one hand.)
At some point, though, the stranger turns his attention away from him and begins to walk away, a slight limp in his step. Jaskier, unable to let go of an opportunity so easily, instantly lets his song fade into silence and wastes no time in shoving his guitar into its case, shooting an apologetic smile towards the little audience he’s gathered. Then he’s off, chasing after the white-haired stranger as though his life depends on it. He nearly trips over his own feet several times before he finally catches up to him.
“Come here often?”
Even as he walks away, Geralt can’t get the busker’s blue eyes off his mind. Try as he might, it’s all still there - blue eyes, charming voice and the surprising intensity with which the busker had turned his entire attention towards Geralt, despite the many other passersby surrounding them both. As though no one else mattered.
(Geralt can think of only one other person that has ever looked at him like that.)
Despite the force of the man’s gaze, though, Geralt doesn’t expect for his voice to follow after him, like an echo. Doesn’t expect to see those blue eyes up close the second he turns his head. He frowns, momentarily taken aback both by the question and the sight of him, dishevelled and with his guitar hanging wildly off one arm as he clearly struggles to keep up.
“No,” he grumbles eventually. The corners of his lips quirk up into a barely there smile, unable to hide his amusement.
“Well, me neither,” the man responds, seemingly not at all put off by Geralt’s tone. “First time in these parts, actually. Don’t come from this city. Or country, for that matter.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow. The guy certainly has confidence, then. Or a death wish, perhaps.
“And yet you’ve decided to follow a stranger.”
The second he says it, the busker jumps in front of him and sticks a hand out. Geralt has no other choice than to stop, staring at him all the while.
“I’m Jaskier,” the man introduces himself. “Now, if you tell me your name, we won’t be strangers anymore, will we?”
His logic is absolutely ridiculous and yet Geralt doesn’t hesitate as he takes his hand.
“Geralt.”
Taking a seat across from Geralt, Jaskier vividly hears his mother’s voice. Don’t talk to strange men, she would say, if one invites you out, don’t take him up on it. Protective, his mother was, all the more reason why he got as far away from home as soon as he could. Besides, his dear old mom certainly couldn’t be upset if he was the one inviting a stranger out, right?
(She would be, if she had any say on it from her grave.)
In any case, Geralt doesn’t seem particularly murderous, despite his tough exterior. He’s quiet, yes, but rather gentle in his silence, further proven by a situation Jaskier can now recall with great fondness.
As they walked through the city, a child approached them, a single dandelion in a pudgy hand. They stopped right in front of Geralt, offered him the flower and Geralt, without a question, accepted it, thanking the child softly. The kid had grinned at them, a toothless and joyful smile.
(If Jaskier didn’t already have a crush on the man, he certainly would have one after that interaction.)
Even now, as they sit in this pub, the dandelion is still safely tucked behind Geralt’s ear. Jaskier doesn’t even bother hiding the smile that spreads over his face whenever he glances over at it. It takes a moment before can tear his eyes off the flower and meet Geralt’s gaze instead.
“Order anything you like, it’s on me,” he tells him.
“Last I checked, buskers weren’t usually wealthy,” Geralt hums in response, looking at him curiously.
“Darling, I’m very good at what I do.” Jaskier is quick to wave off his worries. “In fact, I’ve gotten quite the fan base around here, now.”
A truth and a lie. He is good, he knows as much, but the truth is he’s barely earned any money while in the country. Fortunately, he has enough savings still and is more than happy to use them to impress this charming hulk of a man.
“Hm.” Geralt doesn’t seem to believe him, but he doesn’t press further.
It’s only after they’re both several drinks in that Geralt finally feels his tongue loosen. Quite an achievement, for him, while for Jaskier it seems talking is just as natural as breathing. And strangely enough, Geralt doesn’t mind the constant chatter.
In all the time that he’s been traveling, he’s always thought he had to do so alone. That he wouldn’t be able to give up the blessed silence, no matter what possible company was out there in the world. And yet, Jaskier fills in for something that he’s never even realized he was missing.
(He could get used to this.)
“I know why I’m out here,” Geralt says, unprompted. “Why are you?”
Jaskier tilts his head. The lighting above them is an awful artificial blue and yet his eyes shimmer prettily in it. “Out here - like here, specifically, or out in the world in general?”
He considers it for a moment. “The latter.”
With a nod, Jaskier drops his gaze to the glass in front of him. He runs a fingertip over the rim of it and for a while, says nothing. It’s uncharacteristic, this quietness, but Geralt doesn’t press. He waits.
“Because I’ve always believed that there’s something more to the world,” Jaskier says eventually. “Because I’m a romantic at heart, a poet and a musician and I… want to experience adventure and destiny and heartbreak and - all of these… grandiose things.” He smiles, then, and the smile seems bittersweet as he meets Geralt’s eye. “Sounds silly, doesn’t it?”
It does, Geralt thinks. It does, to him, but in Jaskier’s gaze all he can see is genuine belief that this is what he wants from life. That this is what he desires.
“Yeah,” Geralt admits after a moment. He makes sure to keep their eyes locked on one another. “But it’s still what you want.”
“More than anything else,” Jaskier agrees. “That and… well, I want to keep making music. I need to find a muse, if I’m to keep creating. I’m hoping if I don’t stop moving, I’ll have to run into them, sooner or later.”
Geralt grunts his acknowledgement and there’s a lull in the conversation as Jaskier takes a longer sip of his drink. He only speaks once his glass is back down on the table.
“What about you, though? You never did share your reasons.”
“I’m…” Geralt starts, but then he trails off.
For a moment, Jaskier thinks he’s not going to elaborate after all - truthfully, that wouldn’t be surprising. In all the time that they’ve spent together, Jaskier has learned that Geralt isn’t particularly talkative. Not that it’s much of an issue, as Jaskier is perfectly content to fill in any silences. This time, though, he doesn’t have to.
“I think I’m still trying to figure that out.”
“So, soul-searching.”
Geralt snorts. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Sounds to me like it’s not wrong, though, is it?” Jaskier points out, leaning back.
So far, this is the most open Geralt has been and Jaskier knows well he can attribute that, at least partially, to all the drinks they’ve shared so far. It’s not difficult to notice that Geralt isn’t used to nor comfortable with talking about himself, but Jaskier, as wary as he is of not pushing too far, is also incessant in his curiosity. He wants to know Geralt.
(He needs to know him. Because perhaps this is where he finds his muse.)
“No,” Geralt agrees, albeit reluctantly. He sighs, but continues on before Jaskier can say anything. “I used to work as a security detail,” he says. The words see Jaskier scrambling in his chair as he leans back in, eager to soak up any information he can get. “Traveled a lot, back then, but never for myself. Not much time off, either. When I retired -”
“Retired?” Jaskier cuts him off mid-sentence, unable to stop himself. “Come on, you cannot be older than forty.”
Geralt rolls his eyes, amused by Jaskier’s disbelief. “Early retirement after an injury,” he tells him and taps lightly at one of his knees. Ah. So that’s what the limp is.
“Right, right.” Jaskier nods. “Go on, then. When you retired…?”
“My daughter, Ciri, she told me to… she suggested I do this.”
A daughter. Another puzzle piece neatly fitting in, another bit of knowledge that Jaskier carefully jots down in the journal of his mind. Something to ask about later, he decides as he notices the gentle glint of joy on Geralt’s face, a hint at how much Geralt must love her.
Now, though, Jaskier doesn’t dare let his mind drift any longer, not while Geralt is still speaking.
“So I suppose I’m…”
“...trying to work out what pleases you?” Jaskier finishes for him, voice soft.
Once more, Geralt finds that he’s right. He is soul-searching. He is trying to make sense of what he wants from life. Who he is, now that he doesn’t have the work that used to be the whole sum of his identity.
“Yes,” he simply responds, this time with no hesitation.
Jaskier gives him a warm smile and somehow, that smile makes it all the easier. They barely know each other, had met one another mere hours ago and yet Geralt doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt so at ease talking to someone.
(A ridiculous thought crosses his mind that maybe this is the kind of love that’s for him. One that comes with an easy comfort rather than a stormy passion.)
He quickly takes another sip, hoping to stop his thoughts from spiralling down any other dangerous lanes.
“So where are you staying?” Jaskier suddenly asks. “I could walk you back to your hotel… if you want.” He wiggles his eyebrows and Geralt nearly sputters the drink all over himself when the unsubtle suggestion behind his question hits him at full force.
“Are you propositioning?” he asks, deadpan.
“What if I was?”
Geralt doesn’t respond, for a while, and instead gives him a long and absolutely unreadable look. It’s enough for Jaskier to decide that perhaps now is not the time to be pushing his luck.
“I’m not, Geralt,” he chuckles. He had thought about it, certainly, but… “As much as I do sleep around, quite a lot, in fact, it doesn’t mean I’m always going to put my baguette in another man’s oven the very same day I’ve met him. Though, of course, you are incredibly… baguette-able.”
To Jaskier’s utter surprise and delight, Geralt laughs at that, a good, full-bodied deep rumble of a laugh. It’s enough for Jaskier to relax, to know that he hasn’t made Geralt as uncomfortable as he thought he might have.
After all, he likes Geralt. Likes him too much to risk it all being a one night stand. He’s had plenty of those and he enjoys them, thoroughly, and he’s not ashamed of it - but Geralt is something entirely else, he feels. And it’s a stupid, dangerous thought, perfect set up for a broken heart and another ballad, but it’s too late now to change the rhythm of his emotions.
Their conversation dies off along with Geralt’s laughter, but it’s fairly natural - even Jaskier is tired by now, having rambled about this and that ever since they had first met.
It’s only a matter of time before they heave themselves out of their seats and head outside, into the night, the fresh air.
It’s only a matter of time before Geralt feels that can’t keep resisting Jaskier’s pull anymore.
They had laughed off Jaskier’s supposed proposition and in a way, Geralt is glad for it - but the fact is that Jaskier does end up walking him to his hotel. Along the way, Geralt finds his eyes drifting over to him, more and more often. He can’t quite control it.
There’s safety to be found in the darkness of the night, Jaskier’s figure illuminated only by the moon and the dim lamps lining the street they’re walking down. It makes some more of Geralt’s walls crumble, uncertainty suddenly tossed into the wind.
(Jaskier’s words ring in his head. What pleases him?)
Gently, but with no warning, he grasps Jaskier’s wrist. Jaskier looks at him, a question etched into his expression, but when Geralt pulls him closer, he is utterly pliant and trusting.
Their lips meet and black skies change into the blue of Jaskier’s eyes.
They kiss underneath the moon.
In Jaskier’s opinion, the kiss lasts for what is an entirely too short amount of time, but he doesn’t protest when Geralt pulls away. Doesn’t feel like he can protest when he sees how Geralt, with strangely unsteady hands, reaches for the dandelion behind his ear. He hands it to Jaskier and Jaskier’s heart aches at the gesture, aches with the sudden realization that this is it, then. That this is the last he’ll see of Geralt and that, for all that he is now sure Geralt is his muse, this is where they must part ways.
(And what are the chances that they will ever run into each other again, out in the wide world?)
Tenderly, he cradles the dandelion close. Later on, when it’s just him and the flower, he carefully presses it between the pages of his songwriting journal. His treasure, a souvenir, a piece of his heart.
Months pass, the flower dries, and that’s when Jaskier finds him again.
He recognizes him instantly, sitting in the shadowed corner of some dive bar he doesn’t quite remember the name of. He has a far more important name to remember, though, as he approaches his dear fellow traveler.
“Geralt!” he calls out.
For the first time since their farewell, the flower of his heart blossoms.
Welp... @theamazingbard posted this a few days ago and I couldn’t help myself so here we are. Uh, mind the tags, this is probably going to get kinda spooky at some parts and fairly wumpy at others. I’ll update tags as I go and there will also be a posting on AO3... soon...ish?
Obligatory tag for @jaskierswolf <3
If you want to be tagged on this series or anything going forward, please let me know! :)
-Jay
---
The den reeked of unwashed bodies, festering wounds, and spilled blood, layers of it. Geralt wrinkled his nose, his eyes scanning the darkness for the telltale sign of blue he had been warned about.
The village had called it a djinn, but what they described was nothing near what Geralt had ever heard of before. It was possible that maybe this thing had been a djinn at one point, or it was something completely new. A new mutation that the Witchers would have to now be wary of.
Looking around, counting up the huddled forms, Geralt got the distinct and unnerving feeling that this thing was not new. It was in fact incredibly old and incredibly dangerous. Every once in awhile there would be a soft sound of contentment or even a rolling giggle, half murmured words.
He knelt beside an older woman, and watched her face closely. She was still breathing and there was the tiniest smile curling her lips. He looked her over and saw what he had seen on the others around her. Her arms were covered in long scratch marks, like tallies, angry bruises around each of them. Geralt rolled her as gently as possible, finding what looked to be a tendril, almost like a vine slipping into the back of her neck. Glowing blue fluid trickled sluggishly around the wound where it dug in.
Geralt looked around, not seeing any sign of the monster. Pulling out the dagger from his boot, he propped the woman up and made to cut the tendrel in her neck. He barely had his fingers around it to pull it taught when her eyes flew open, milky and burning bright blue. She let out a scream that nearly burst his eardrum.
“Fuck,” he tumbled back, pulling the dagger up and wheeling around. Something behind him, always behind him slithered along the ground. His hand clamped over the back of his neck as he felt a pinch but it was too late.
“Fuck!” Geralt was unconscious before he hit the ground.
-o-O-o-
It was the feeling of his heartbeat, too fast but steady in his throat, that must have woken him. The smell of something terrible lingered but he was safe in his bed at home.
Safe? No, he had just been fighting a… something? Bright blue specks floated behind his eyes, a dull ache pushing against his head.
The sheets pooled around his hips when Geralt sat up, softer than he thought they should be. Far finer than anything he had been used to when travelling with-
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to stave off the pounding behind them. He felt-
“Well good morning, handsome!” Jaskier waltzed in and Geralt started.
He finally took in the room around him. The furniture was understated but still lavish and he found himself in a large four poster with linens that were far more expensive alone than his whole armor set.
But I don’t have armor? He thought, frowning down at the covers that he gripped in his hands. He looked up again to find Jaskier was standing there with a look of concern on his face.
“Are you alright, dear heart?” Jaskier leaned first against the edge of the bed before climbing in and onto Geralt’s lap, his arms wrapping around him as if it was just something he did. He gave Geralt an easy teasing kind of smile. “Did you have far more to drink last night than I originally thought? You shouldn’t let Merik egg you on so much.” And then…
Geralt’s mind went pleasantly blank as Jaskier leaned down and kissed him, his fingers threading up through Geralt’s hair. If Geralt wasn’t pretty sure he was losing his mind, he would have even thought it an incredibly nice kiss. Jaskier’s mouth was warm and soft above him and it was easier than breathing to wrap his arms around his waist. He was rewarded with Jaskier’s soft breathy laugh and, oh, he wanted to hear that again.
This was a dream, Geralt decided. A very good, very vivid, very warm dream. That’s why when he took a deep breath, trying to fill his lungs with as much of Jaskier as he could, he found that the smell of him was muted somehow. But he was there so Geralt rolled them, tangling them both in the sheets as he dipped his head to drag his teeth along the pale column of Jaskier’s throat.
Geralt tried not to think of how everything around him seemed muted in the same way. Shadows around the edges of the otherwise bright room were deeper, how he had to be pressed tightly to Jaskier to feel his heart beating in tandem with his own.
He didn’t have a chance to think about that before Jaskier was pushing up on his shoulder gently, still beaming under him but now deliciously rumpled.
“Come on, you big oaf, we have people to meet today,” he hummed leaning up to nip on Geralt’s chin affectionately.
It struck Geralt how easy the gesture came, how openly affectionate Jaskier smiled at him. His hand came up, cupping the side of Jaskier’s face, pushing his hair out of the way as Geralt’s thumb traced his cheekbone.
That’s when it caught his eye. Geralt looked closer above Jaskier’s brow and frowned. The small scar that had been in his hairline nearly as long as they had known each other was gone.
They were sitting in camp and Geralt took Jaskier’s face gently in his hand, dabbing at the cut with a damp cloth.
“It will need stitches,” he said flatly.
“Oh no, Geralt! Not my face, I’m far too pretty to scar!” Jaskier squirmed. They had been travelling together for only a few months and this was the closest Geralt had ever seen him to fear, and it wasn’t directed at him.
“Don’t worry. You’ll still be pretty.”
“You think I’m pretty, Witcher?” Jaskier tried to waggle his eyebrows but winced, a fresh stream of blood sliding down his brow.
“Hold still, you’ll only make it worse,” he hid his smile behind annoyance and exasperation.
When had they been traveling again?
Jaskier was turning his face into Geralt’s hand, kissing his palm. “As much as I would love to stay like this all day,” he leaned up, propping himself on his elbows, “we have so much to do before overmorrow.”
Geralt let him up, watching this Jaskier closely. As Jaskier moved from under him, Geralt caught his hand, letting himself revel in the way Jaskier just let him as if it didn’t bother him. But the skin he found there was soft and unbroken. The calluses he knew populated Jaskier’s fingertips and the top of his palm were all smoothed away.
“My you’re affectionate this morning,” he leaned down and gave Geralt a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you at breakfast, dear heart.”
Geralt watched from the large unfamiliar bed, tracking this familiar and unfamiliar Jaskier as he left. But his eyes caught instead on something else.
Across from where he sat, a long looking glass hung on the wall. What he couldn’t quite understand was that the man there was in fact, handsome. Geralt had the distinct memory of long silver hair and bright amber eyes from the last time he looked into his reflection. Now, he was met with tousled dark curls and warm hazel eyes. His bare chest was unmarred by battle wounds. He was just… a man? A human, stripped of his mutations and the wear of the Path.
The only thing that seemed to not have changed was the deep concerned scowl reflected back at him. Even in his wildest dreams, Geralt was still always Geralt the Witcher, he would never even hope to be…
“It’s a djinn, Master Witcher. It has to be! How else could it have shown me… It’s all I ever wished…” The man sat there, haggard and on the brink of breaking down. His eyes had been sunken and they couldn’t seem to focus on Geralt’s face.
“Hmm. We’ll see,” Geralt nodded, leaving the tavern and the only survivor of the monster that had taken up residence in a nearby cave.
not like pre-trials or au anything maybe it’s some kind of curse i’m not sure
but suddenly he’s human.
and everything is muted. everything is moving so fast. he’s so weak, he’s vulnerable, he’s tired and hungry all the time and he hates it. HATES IT.
and for a few days he can hardly take care of himself, he’s so overwhelmed by the silence
because it really is a silence. not just of sounds- though it is strange, not being able to hear the others’ hearts beating, not being able to hear what people are saying- but of smells, of sensations, of sights in the dark that were a constant presence in his life but now they’re gone.
and it takes him a while. long enough for him and jaskier and yen and ciri to accept that maybe he isn’t getting back to normal. but he adapts. he can fight just as well as ever, maybe he’s a bit slow, but he’s still known and feared as the white wolf in the same armor, with the same companions.
so yeah. he learns to fight and live and breathe human, but above it all he learns to value himself as himself, rather than as a witcher.
and of course he gets back to normal eventually, but he carries it with him, and he remembers.
We’re all talking about immortal/creature Jaskier, but how about Geralt being turned into a human? His hair curly and brown, eyes brown as well, skin tan and lacking any of his scars, yet his posture would still stay tall and bulky.
He could lose his memory and get taken in by some nice people from some village. Geralt could be a farmer or work in the stables, because his love towards horses wouldn’t go away. He would be more relaxed and because of that he would often smile, joke and talk freely (many would call him even charming).
After half a year have passed, Witchers from the School of Wolf (Lambert and Eskel) would start an investigation, but would only find Geralt’s things (swords, armour, potions and medallion) and his horse abandoned somewhere in a forest. They would also find Yennefer and question her about their brother, but even with her help they didn’t find anything, then they would find Jaskier and question him as well but only find out that after the mountain accident they didn’t meet again. Few months later the Witchers deemed Geralt dead and decided that they needed to go back on the Path, no matter how much it would hurt them.
Yet there was still someone who didn’t stop looking for the White Wolf. And it was Jaskier, even as the Witchers informed him that it was no use to look for Geralt, the bard still didn’t stop and promised himself that he would never stop looking for the man that he loved (even though said man broke his poor heart).
During his search Jaskier found a girl in the woods, this girl was Princess Cirilla. Jaskier knew her well because he managed to get to play on many of her Birthdays, always keeping an eye on the girl that was bound to Geralt. Through the years he managed to get close to the girl, Jaskier never though that he would enjoy spending time with a child and yet this little cub of Cintra had him wrapped around her finger.
And with that meeting, his plan has changed. Jaskier decided to deliver Ciri to Kaer Morhen, where Geralt’s brothers and father figure would surly take care of her and protect her. After he’ll make sure that Ciri is safe and okay, he promised himself that he would go back to looking for Geralt.
So Jaskier and Ciri travel together, until they decide to stay in a small and harmless village where no one would even recognise Ciri or Jaskier. They get checked into an small inn and everything is going well, until they get bothered by some drunk men.
Jaskier pulles Ciri behind him and tries to reason with the men, but is prepared to fight in order to protect Ciri or at least let her escape and go get help. Just as one of the men is about to touch Jaskier, his hand is harshly grabbed by someone. The man is standing protectively in front of Jaskier and Ciri, the only thing they can see are his wild short brown curls and broad shoulders.
“I believe that my friend and his daughter would appreciate it if you left them alone. So how about you back away and go home”
Men are away in minutes muttering apologies, as they leave the inn the tall stranger turns towards Jaskier and Ciri with a charming yet apologetic smile.
“Are you alright? They usually don’t cause problems around here but you’re new so you were a perfect target for them unfortunately. I’ll talk to them tomorrow, what they did wasn’t right”
But Jaskier doesn’t pay attention to the words as his heart squeezes in his chest at the sight of the man’s handsome face. He is so shocked that only word leave his lips, almost like a prayer to Melitele herself.
You know all those roleswap AUs with Witcher!Jaskier and Human!Geralt?
Yes to those but instead of a witcher Jaskier still identifies as a bard thank you very much.
He's a poet at heart and a damn good one at that. It's only a matter of time until he will be famous and requested to perform at all the highest of courts. He just has to figure out how to actually perform in front of people without getting chased off for being a witcher.
People can be very rude all of the times sometimes unless they want him to kill a monster and unfortunately he never has the heart to not help them out in the end. So he sees all of his witchering as more of a side hussle until his career kicks off.
And all poor Geralt ever wanted was a quiet life on the road as a wandering horsetrainer(?) /fighting instructor (?)/philosopher (?) and now he's somehow stuck with this really loud and annoying idiot of a witcher claiming Geralt as his muse of all things.
He's not impressed and doesn't understand how anyone could possibly be afraid of Jaskier.
Until Jaskier goes full witcher mode protecting him of course. Then he's slightly more impressed. But only slighty. Jaskier is still an idiotic bard.
For the prompt thing: bard!Geralt and witcher!Jaskier
in this house we are not a coward and we ar drawing human bard geralt with his actual
Edit: this has been in my drafts forever because I haven't been able to motivate myself to create lately, but I really love this artists work and wanted to share some of what I do have that they inspired 💙💙💙
@hey-there-hunter I hadn't gotten to the meat and potatoes of your lovely head cannon, but I still wanted to show you😅
~~
Practiced fingers tease their way across well loved lute strings. It's a delicate melody that filters through the witcher's consciousness, hardly disturbing the night that had fallen around the two traveling companions, but instead weaving into the natural ambience of the woods.
Jaskier blinks open his eyes, abandoning meditation until he can focus enough to reign in his heightened senses. Ignore the bats flitting through the trees, far enough away that no human would possibly detect or think to track the positions of them. Briefly let the rushing of the stream north of their camp be a normal man's stream, home to no threat of monsters. Separate the scents that creatures had long since trailed in their wake, thinning and fading, only to be crossed and replaced a hundred times over.
There is only the sound of their sleeping horses, at the edge of the camp. The woody smell of the crackling fire in the middle of it. And the music of the bard. Simple observations for any ordinary man to take in. Appreciate.
Geralt pauses when he notices his attention has settled on his playing, casting a gentle smile and a silent nod when Jaskier stands to gather his swords.
He will never be a common man, could rarely ever find the kind of energy it takes him to consider himself even a man. A Witcher was made to stretch their senses. Complete a contract. Collect the proof. Coin. Move. Repeat.
An average man will not fight a horror. Is not sufficiently prepared to. But that is a matter for another night.
With a small shake of his head, Jaskier refuses to entertain further musings of monsters and men, blinking the incessant weight from his eyes. Sleep has brought little comfort for a number of days, with little respite in comparison to the energy they expend between contracts. Although, it can hardly be considered rest when there always seems to be some invisible force that refuses to let his racing thoughts idle.
He checks the potions he has sequestered away into pockets and pouches along his person.
It is a full moon out tonight.
The werewolf sightings have all been reported to be on the other side of the forest. Their camp is upwind in the current weather, mild breezes carrying their combined scents back to the debatable safety of the small village they had left behind.
This does not stop Jaskier from pressing the hilt of a silver dagger into Geralt's awaiting hand, only stepping away when his fingers wrap securely around the weapon. Does not stop him from telling him to let the fire die down when it begins to fade. From grabbing his own bedding and stacking it diligently together with the bards, unwilling to let him suffer dropping temperatures if it can be helped while he is out on the hunt. Necessary precautions for Geralt's safety.
It isn’t as if he will be using his bedroll anyways, upon his return. If he can manage to. Villagers have apprised skewed information before. Jaskier can hardly begrudge their fear for miscalculating the exact number of monsters that go bump in the night as he makes his way farther from the light of the fire.
Let the darkness try and envelope his senses. He is, if nothing else, a monster of men. Made to battle even the night due to his mutations. Perhaps that particular thought might be of some use to Geralt.
Cat works quickly into his system, and the bottle is tucked safely away before he is, finally, well and truly off, chasing howls into the night.
