[For once, Jaskier will not rise to defend Mog's level of intelligence. Now that the wind is blowing gritty sand into his face and hair, he's much less inclined to be kind about his gryphon, the little shit.

He may, however, cry with relief if he is found unharmed. Maybe. When very far from Geralt's hearing or vision.

Jaskier gets the door open with minimal fumbling, but stops automatically in his tracks once Geralt grabs him. Even goes silent, too, but for the pounding of his heart. The store is quiet inside; he's sent Quille to an inn until the storm's over, and he hasn't had energy to open it himself with all the commotion from the storms. The building creaks from the pressure of the wind, but the plants inside still grow as safely as ever.

There!]

Mog! You horrible shit! You tiny ass! [Jaskier grabs him, and for once in his life, does not berate Geralt for manhandling him. Mog is a shaking, terrified thing in his grip, attempting to run away once again, but Jaskier locks him against his chest and tucks his wing in tight.] You are so lucky I am not in the market for a gryphon feather hat.

[He shakes the gryphon a little.] Now where is Coram, you mongrel?

[Mog's response is a plaintive bird cry and is not helpful in the least.]