After getting his permission from Vesemir, Jaskier is quiet for a while-- listening, apparently, to the witchers at their breakfasts, the way they bicker and argue over the last of the sausage in the pan, how Lambert pelts Geralt with bread when he loses said argument. Or, at least, when his fork isn't fast enough to spear the sausage before Geralt's, and the witcher shoves half of the purloined meat into his mouth and chews it down like the wolf that is his namesake. Table manners were never a high priority at Kaer Morhen, a fact that certainly would have scandalized Ciri if she hadn't had several weeks to get used to it already. Maybe it had scandalized Jaskier at one point early in their acquaintance, but he's almost certainly gotten desensitized to it after two long decades.
Thankfully, Ciri will still have some semblance of civilized tutoring, since Jaskier asks her if she'd like some lessons and she seems thrilled at the prospect. Geralt breathes; both of his humans smell like happiness. There is a particular heavy, wet scent to the air that marks an impending snowstorm, likely to hit within the next day or two. Once that snow falls, the pass will be entirely impenetrable until the spring thaws, and they will truly have months of safety. Months to train Cirilla, months to decide what to do with her come spring. Months to navigate this fledgling thing with Jaskier, to make amends.
When the snow comes-- that's when he'll finally feel like they're all truly safe.
He feels distinctly less safe when Jaskier reminds his brothers that he has twenty years of embarrassing stories to tell, and when his brothers are simultaneously reminded that they also have several decades of embarrassing stories. Lambert perks up immediately.
"Hey, bard, did Geralt ever tell you what he wanted to call himself?" he says, and Geralt's eyes snap to him like a cat that's sighted a bird. "It's great-- Geralt Roger Eri--"
Lambert gets no further, on account of the fact that Geralt vaults the breakfast table in order to get him into a headlock. There is a minor scuffle on that side of the table; Coën avoids it by sliding further down the bench, while Eskel cracks up laughing at the sight of Lambert's head clenched in the crook of Geralt's elbow, slowly turning a spectacular shade of red. There is a bout of prodigious, if strained, swearing from the youngest Wolf witcher, and if Ciri winds up using naughty words, they all know who to blame.
"--Eric du Haute-Bellegarde," Vesemir finishes, ignoring the look that Geralt shoots his way, his deeply furrowed brow. "I told him to use Geralt of Rivia instead."
Betrayed by his own fencing tutor. This is payback, probably, from all those times that Geralt and Eskel and the other boys nearly gave Vesemir heart attacks over their antics. Hell, it's probably all because of that one time that they stole white gull and gave some to Lambert before he had taken the Trials, and he got so sick that they didn't know what else to do but hand him over to their teacher. Turned out that he was just really fucking drunk, but still.
Lambert slaps Geralt's arm a few times, a universal signal of crying uncle. Geralt lets go of him before he passes out, and he collapses onto the floor in a gasping heap.
"Fuck," he wheezes, "you fucking reek. The fuck'd you do, roll around in it?"
"I'll put you in another headlock," Geralt says, and Lambert makes a rude hand gesture at him.
The baths do sound like a good idea, though, before anyone else gets any ideas about sharing stories. Geralt stands, frowns at the fact that Ciri's been laughing at his plight, too, and tips his head towards the door-- a gesture for Jaskier that they should go. Baths await, and Geralt is only too happy to be not in the company of his asshole brothers for a while.
They have to stop back at the room to pick up their things, but after that it's a direct path down to the baths. Since it's such a well traveled route, the halls leading down into the belly of the keep are well maintained; none of the witchers want to do without their hot soaks just because the hallways are falling apart.
The baths themselves are carved out of the living rock of the mountain, a series of descending pools that are filled from the natural hot springs that well from deep within the rock. The highest pools are hot enough that only witchers can endure the temperature, and even then only for a time; the baths cool the further down they go. The largest pools, the ones at the very bottom, are even fed with fresh snowmelt off the mountain, making the water icy cold. A human would probably find it unbearable for more than a few minutes, but the cold pools have seen their own fair share of use from witchers with muscles sore from overwork. It had been what one of their old teachers had told them to do after particularly hard training sessions-- a dip in the cold pool to take down the swelling, then a soak in the warm pools to ease tired limbs.
For now, though, the more moderately warm pools saw the most use. The coolest of the pools that the witchers tended to use would probably be just right for Jaskier, hot enough to soothe but not to scald.
"Stay out of the top pools," he says, his voice echoing through the stone bathhouse. "They're too hot for you. The water cools as it runs down, the lowest pool is the coldest. Feel free to jump into that one, if you want to see how far your balls can go back into your body."
There are cubbyholes set into a wall to put clothes and such in, and Geralt strips out of his clothes and takes a towel and Jaskier's ridiculous bag of bathing supplies over to the pool. It's warm when he steps into it, and the water has a faintly sulfurous smell from the dissolved minerals. He sinks into it up to his shoulders and sighs at the feeling of it, the comfort of being submerged in warmth.
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Thankfully, Ciri will still have some semblance of civilized tutoring, since Jaskier asks her if she'd like some lessons and she seems thrilled at the prospect. Geralt breathes; both of his humans smell like happiness. There is a particular heavy, wet scent to the air that marks an impending snowstorm, likely to hit within the next day or two. Once that snow falls, the pass will be entirely impenetrable until the spring thaws, and they will truly have months of safety. Months to train Cirilla, months to decide what to do with her come spring. Months to navigate this fledgling thing with Jaskier, to make amends.
When the snow comes-- that's when he'll finally feel like they're all truly safe.
He feels distinctly less safe when Jaskier reminds his brothers that he has twenty years of embarrassing stories to tell, and when his brothers are simultaneously reminded that they also have several decades of embarrassing stories. Lambert perks up immediately.
"Hey, bard, did Geralt ever tell you what he wanted to call himself?" he says, and Geralt's eyes snap to him like a cat that's sighted a bird. "It's great-- Geralt Roger Eri--"
Lambert gets no further, on account of the fact that Geralt vaults the breakfast table in order to get him into a headlock. There is a minor scuffle on that side of the table; Coën avoids it by sliding further down the bench, while Eskel cracks up laughing at the sight of Lambert's head clenched in the crook of Geralt's elbow, slowly turning a spectacular shade of red. There is a bout of prodigious, if strained, swearing from the youngest Wolf witcher, and if Ciri winds up using naughty words, they all know who to blame.
"--Eric du Haute-Bellegarde," Vesemir finishes, ignoring the look that Geralt shoots his way, his deeply furrowed brow. "I told him to use Geralt of Rivia instead."
Betrayed by his own fencing tutor. This is payback, probably, from all those times that Geralt and Eskel and the other boys nearly gave Vesemir heart attacks over their antics. Hell, it's probably all because of that one time that they stole white gull and gave some to Lambert before he had taken the Trials, and he got so sick that they didn't know what else to do but hand him over to their teacher. Turned out that he was just really fucking drunk, but still.
Lambert slaps Geralt's arm a few times, a universal signal of crying uncle. Geralt lets go of him before he passes out, and he collapses onto the floor in a gasping heap.
"Fuck," he wheezes, "you fucking reek. The fuck'd you do, roll around in it?"
"I'll put you in another headlock," Geralt says, and Lambert makes a rude hand gesture at him.
The baths do sound like a good idea, though, before anyone else gets any ideas about sharing stories. Geralt stands, frowns at the fact that Ciri's been laughing at his plight, too, and tips his head towards the door-- a gesture for Jaskier that they should go. Baths await, and Geralt is only too happy to be not in the company of his asshole brothers for a while.
They have to stop back at the room to pick up their things, but after that it's a direct path down to the baths. Since it's such a well traveled route, the halls leading down into the belly of the keep are well maintained; none of the witchers want to do without their hot soaks just because the hallways are falling apart.
The baths themselves are carved out of the living rock of the mountain, a series of descending pools that are filled from the natural hot springs that well from deep within the rock. The highest pools are hot enough that only witchers can endure the temperature, and even then only for a time; the baths cool the further down they go. The largest pools, the ones at the very bottom, are even fed with fresh snowmelt off the mountain, making the water icy cold. A human would probably find it unbearable for more than a few minutes, but the cold pools have seen their own fair share of use from witchers with muscles sore from overwork. It had been what one of their old teachers had told them to do after particularly hard training sessions-- a dip in the cold pool to take down the swelling, then a soak in the warm pools to ease tired limbs.
For now, though, the more moderately warm pools saw the most use. The coolest of the pools that the witchers tended to use would probably be just right for Jaskier, hot enough to soothe but not to scald.
"Stay out of the top pools," he says, his voice echoing through the stone bathhouse. "They're too hot for you. The water cools as it runs down, the lowest pool is the coldest. Feel free to jump into that one, if you want to see how far your balls can go back into your body."
There are cubbyholes set into a wall to put clothes and such in, and Geralt strips out of his clothes and takes a towel and Jaskier's ridiculous bag of bathing supplies over to the pool. It's warm when he steps into it, and the water has a faintly sulfurous smell from the dissolved minerals. He sinks into it up to his shoulders and sighs at the feeling of it, the comfort of being submerged in warmth.