[ The rolly bits. Geralt's expression is flat. ] A chaigon.
[ Rolly bits. He shakes his head, adjusting the strap on Roach's saddlebag. He checks his supplies, his weapons, to make sure it's all there. Then he mounts his horse and waits for Jaskier to do the same before they ride off, leaving behind both mother and child stomping about in the woods.
In a few months, he may return to the path and there will be two of them. But unless they bother anyone, he isn't particularly worried.
Mm. Sharing a stinking bed in a shit backwater inn somewhere. Pleasant indeed. He isn't nostalgic the same way Jaskier is, but they are not unwelcome memories. Comforts are not what he gives a damn about. He remembers more the quiet nights by a fire, the candlelight, Jaskier humming a new song while Geralt sharpened his sword, restocked his elixirs. Jaskier helping tend to his wounds despite his annoyed sounds. Picking over a cold supper because he was sleeping off the toxic effects, and Jaskier had saved him a portion of the meal. ]
Mm-hmm. A bay. [ They can visit. It's on the way, anyhow.
Evening falls quickly, the stars in the sky by the time they reach the inn. Dusty, full of cobwebs, but serviceable. The old man behind the counter is kindly enough. Geralt pays him a couple of silvers for the night, as well as a roast pheasant. Some stew. And ale, of course. It isn't crowded and not near the the audience Jaskier had at the Old Public Hall—but he knows the bard will want to perform all the same. He settles back in a corner table, content to watch while Jaskier does so. Mog curls on the seat beside him, tucked under the table and sleeping once more. ]
no subject
[ Rolly bits. He shakes his head, adjusting the strap on Roach's saddlebag. He checks his supplies, his weapons, to make sure it's all there. Then he mounts his horse and waits for Jaskier to do the same before they ride off, leaving behind both mother and child stomping about in the woods.
In a few months, he may return to the path and there will be two of them. But unless they bother anyone, he isn't particularly worried.
Mm. Sharing a stinking bed in a shit backwater inn somewhere. Pleasant indeed. He isn't nostalgic the same way Jaskier is, but they are not unwelcome memories. Comforts are not what he gives a damn about. He remembers more the quiet nights by a fire, the candlelight, Jaskier humming a new song while Geralt sharpened his sword, restocked his elixirs. Jaskier helping tend to his wounds despite his annoyed sounds. Picking over a cold supper because he was sleeping off the toxic effects, and Jaskier had saved him a portion of the meal. ]
Mm-hmm. A bay. [ They can visit. It's on the way, anyhow.
Evening falls quickly, the stars in the sky by the time they reach the inn. Dusty, full of cobwebs, but serviceable. The old man behind the counter is kindly enough. Geralt pays him a couple of silvers for the night, as well as a roast pheasant. Some stew. And ale, of course. It isn't crowded and not near the the audience Jaskier had at the Old Public Hall—but he knows the bard will want to perform all the same. He settles back in a corner table, content to watch while Jaskier does so. Mog curls on the seat beside him, tucked under the table and sleeping once more. ]