[ A scrunch of his brow and a look greets that remark. It's a security device. What sort of fun is Jaskier expecting out of it?
No. Don't answer that. ]
Weapon might do. [ Geralt does not add that Viktor is not any type except the gravely ill type. It's neither of their business and he's pretty damn certain Viktor does not want him to know. He only knows because he can smell it. (Also, he's got eyes.) Which isn't something Geralt can help, but he can at least afford the man a semblance of privacy.
They finish supper; Geralt feeds a scrap of bone to Mog when he thinks Jaskier isn't looking. The room is small, the blankets scratchy, but he sleeps easier than he has in some time. Come sunrise, he rouses Jaskier. Packs up their horses and rides out. They camp a couple more days, cross the beach that he decides they can stop by on their way home, and eventually land in the bustling city of Aquila. It isn't bigger than Cadens, but it feels so. Maybe it's the open market square, the sculptures, the atmosphere. The clothes are, indeed, more colourful, more adorned here. He's never been to Aquila proper—not to explore or visit. Only made quick stops by the outskirts for a contract.
He does have the delivery to make. A short walk takes care of that, package handed to the shopkeeper. Then: hm. What now? Inexplicably, he finds himself lost. It is not a feeling he's used to. But Geralt tends to go places for a purpose. Which he's accomplished. This is normally the part where he would turn around and go home, or find an inn to rest in before the next day's ride.
Accompanying Jaskier is the easiest solution. So that's what he does, following his friend where he might go. The bard needs someone to look after him, in any case. ]
no subject
No. Don't answer that. ]
Weapon might do. [ Geralt does not add that Viktor is not any type except the gravely ill type. It's neither of their business and he's pretty damn certain Viktor does not want him to know. He only knows because he can smell it. (Also, he's got eyes.) Which isn't something Geralt can help, but he can at least afford the man a semblance of privacy.
They finish supper; Geralt feeds a scrap of bone to Mog when he thinks Jaskier isn't looking. The room is small, the blankets scratchy, but he sleeps easier than he has in some time. Come sunrise, he rouses Jaskier. Packs up their horses and rides out. They camp a couple more days, cross the beach that he decides they can stop by on their way home, and eventually land in the bustling city of Aquila. It isn't bigger than Cadens, but it feels so. Maybe it's the open market square, the sculptures, the atmosphere. The clothes are, indeed, more colourful, more adorned here. He's never been to Aquila proper—not to explore or visit. Only made quick stops by the outskirts for a contract.
He does have the delivery to make. A short walk takes care of that, package handed to the shopkeeper. Then: hm. What now? Inexplicably, he finds himself lost. It is not a feeling he's used to. But Geralt tends to go places for a purpose. Which he's accomplished. This is normally the part where he would turn around and go home, or find an inn to rest in before the next day's ride.
Accompanying Jaskier is the easiest solution. So that's what he does, following his friend where he might go. The bard needs someone to look after him, in any case. ]