Geralt is somehow not surprised that when Jaskier got a taste of freedom, he ran with it and never looked back. Got tattoos and piercings, went out and did what he wanted. It's probably understandable-- the child of wealthy helicopter parents, who spent most of his life being shuttled from home to private school to approved after-school activities. A life rigidly structured and rigidly controlled, a diametric contrast to Geralt's childhood.

Neither one was better than the other, probably. Jaskier's overbearing proper upbringing or Geralt's latchkey freedom in a house of unwanted boys.

"Hm," he says, because this talk of the richness of souls and such is out of his depth. Too much poetry to it. Geralt has never been good that that kind of thing-- too much metaphor for him. Anything worth saying is worth saying plainly. "Wouldn't know."

He tips his head just a little, to look back at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. "Finished up back there?"

As nice as it's been to have someone touch him gently, this has been purely for a practical purpose. There's nothing behind it, Jaskier's just been easy on his hair because he's had experience with combing similarly long hair in the past and knows that it can hurt if you yank at it. That's all. Everything is practical.

"I can finish checking myself. You should go wash up, in case there are any more on you."