Jaskier starts to tell yet another wildly embellished story, this one about the time that they had met-- and he's barely a dozen words in before the lying starts. Smell of fresh bread his leather-clad witcher ass, the only thing that tavern smelled like was a heinous mix of vomit, sour ale, and onion. Perhaps with a slight undertone of old sweat from too many unwashed bodies. The lies continue to mount, adding to the pile the assertion that Jaskier had earned a meal rather than had it pelted at his head, that their eyes met at all before the bard approached his table to speak with him (nevertheless that there were sparks, whatever that might mean), the way he completely skipped over the tragic opening line of I love how you just sit in the corner and brood...
Geralt's face is set into a neutral and generally unimpressed expression, at least until Jaskier gets to the part about leaving his last coin. Then there's an interesting face journey that occurs across the witcher's countenance-- neutrality to thoughtfulness to confusion, complete with heavily furrowed brow; then dawning realization. Jaskier had already continued on with the story by the time his face had finished its contortions, but the other witchers would've certainly seen it.
Jaskier squeezes his thigh briefly as the story progresses, as though in warning or perhaps comfort-- just before he mentions the punch that Geralt had leveled into Jaskier's gut all those years ago. It isn't a memory that he relishes, and he had done it solely for the sake of driving the bard away from him before any real harm could befall him. Jaskier had been so young at the time, barely old enough to be wandering the world on his own. And Geralt couldn't see how he would survive at his side-- either he would leave of his own accord after he'd seen his first real monster, or he would die in that encounter. Better, then, that the first monster that he encounters be Geralt himself-- something he could survive and then go back to the safety of civilization.
He hadn't known that Jaskier had taken the punch as the first piece in a puzzle, not the warning that it was. What would he have had to do to scare him off? Would he have had to be so extreme as to pin him to the ground, bared fangs at his tender throat like his namesake? Draw his sword?
Jaskier's mood shifts and he leans back against Geralt's chest, and he has to adjust his hold on the bard a little to comfortably accommodate him. The part about Filavandrel and the elves is at least mostly accurate, even if it's deeply colored by the bard's own biased perspective. Brave and noble, he says, like there's anything noble about getting your ass kicked and your throat nearly slit. The very same throat that Jaskier's pressing his face against like an affectionate cat, or at least like what Geralt would assume a cat would be like if he would have ever been able to pet one.
"And what does the muse have to think about all this?" Coën asks, watching the bard curl himself into Geralt's lap with those mutagen-damaged eyes.
"Hm," Geralt grunts, making no move to displace Jaskier from his seat. "Half of it's wild embellishment, a quarter outright lies. That leaves another quarter that's roughly the truth, which is more than most of his songs."
"What's the lie about the coin?" Lambert cuts in, his chin propped on the heel of his hand. "Your face looked like you'd gotten a mouth full of wyvern bile."
The face journey most certainly had not gone unnoticed. He could lie, but Eskel is particularly adept at sniffing out his falsehoods, and Lambert wouldn't be satisfied unless he gives a decent answer.
"...The coin," he says, "was for my drink."
There's a moment where that statement sinks in, and then Lambert busts out laughing.
no subject
Geralt's face is set into a neutral and generally unimpressed expression, at least until Jaskier gets to the part about leaving his last coin. Then there's an interesting face journey that occurs across the witcher's countenance-- neutrality to thoughtfulness to confusion, complete with heavily furrowed brow; then dawning realization. Jaskier had already continued on with the story by the time his face had finished its contortions, but the other witchers would've certainly seen it.
Jaskier squeezes his thigh briefly as the story progresses, as though in warning or perhaps comfort-- just before he mentions the punch that Geralt had leveled into Jaskier's gut all those years ago. It isn't a memory that he relishes, and he had done it solely for the sake of driving the bard away from him before any real harm could befall him. Jaskier had been so young at the time, barely old enough to be wandering the world on his own. And Geralt couldn't see how he would survive at his side-- either he would leave of his own accord after he'd seen his first real monster, or he would die in that encounter. Better, then, that the first monster that he encounters be Geralt himself-- something he could survive and then go back to the safety of civilization.
He hadn't known that Jaskier had taken the punch as the first piece in a puzzle, not the warning that it was. What would he have had to do to scare him off? Would he have had to be so extreme as to pin him to the ground, bared fangs at his tender throat like his namesake? Draw his sword?
Jaskier's mood shifts and he leans back against Geralt's chest, and he has to adjust his hold on the bard a little to comfortably accommodate him. The part about Filavandrel and the elves is at least mostly accurate, even if it's deeply colored by the bard's own biased perspective. Brave and noble, he says, like there's anything noble about getting your ass kicked and your throat nearly slit. The very same throat that Jaskier's pressing his face against like an affectionate cat, or at least like what Geralt would assume a cat would be like if he would have ever been able to pet one.
"And what does the muse have to think about all this?" Coën asks, watching the bard curl himself into Geralt's lap with those mutagen-damaged eyes.
"Hm," Geralt grunts, making no move to displace Jaskier from his seat. "Half of it's wild embellishment, a quarter outright lies. That leaves another quarter that's roughly the truth, which is more than most of his songs."
"What's the lie about the coin?" Lambert cuts in, his chin propped on the heel of his hand. "Your face looked like you'd gotten a mouth full of wyvern bile."
The face journey most certainly had not gone unnoticed. He could lie, but Eskel is particularly adept at sniffing out his falsehoods, and Lambert wouldn't be satisfied unless he gives a decent answer.
"...The coin," he says, "was for my drink."
There's a moment where that statement sinks in, and then Lambert busts out laughing.