Jaskier settles in at Corvo Bianco quite well for a man who is, ostensibly, heartbroken. He sings and flirts with the maids, which is basically like having Dandelion back, and gets drunk on fine wine, and every once in a while would even deign to play a game or two of Gwent with him. It's pleasant, and Geralt enjoys his company and the stories that he tells, the differences between his version of events and the ones that Geralt remembers. There are a number of differences between their worlds, some seemingly quite arbitrary, like the shape of Geralt's medallion, and some quite a bit more important, like the Cintran banquet.
Little by little, Jaskier seems to bloom again. Like a flower transplanted into fresh soil.
It's mid-morning when he finally gets around to feeding Dandelion's flock of abominable peacocks, a noisy and fussy mob of brilliantly-colored cocks mingling with the dully-colored peahens. Dandelion favors them terribly, and for whatever reason they're equally as enthralled with him, sometimes even thronging around his feet like ardent admirers when he sings for them. And for Geralt? The man who feeds them regularly and makes sure that they have a warm, dry place to sleep at night? The man whose land they live on?
They peck him. Quite viciously, really, he's bled before because of the little bastards. He's got a scar on his forearm from when one of them got him with its claws. And while he curses and tries to distract the animals from pecking at his shins by tossing out fistfuls of grain, Jaskier comes across his plight. He doesn't aid him, of course, but merely mocks him in verse, which is on-brand enough that it makes something twist a little in his chest. Geralt dumps the whole bucket out for the little bastards to finally catch their attention, then retreats back to a safe distance.
"Little shits," he says, and there's a spot on his arm that's bleeding afresh after one of them had gotten him. "I feed them, and this is the thanks I get."
He expected this kind of treatment from people, not animals.
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Little by little, Jaskier seems to bloom again. Like a flower transplanted into fresh soil.
It's mid-morning when he finally gets around to feeding Dandelion's flock of abominable peacocks, a noisy and fussy mob of brilliantly-colored cocks mingling with the dully-colored peahens. Dandelion favors them terribly, and for whatever reason they're equally as enthralled with him, sometimes even thronging around his feet like ardent admirers when he sings for them. And for Geralt? The man who feeds them regularly and makes sure that they have a warm, dry place to sleep at night? The man whose land they live on?
They peck him. Quite viciously, really, he's bled before because of the little bastards. He's got a scar on his forearm from when one of them got him with its claws. And while he curses and tries to distract the animals from pecking at his shins by tossing out fistfuls of grain, Jaskier comes across his plight. He doesn't aid him, of course, but merely mocks him in verse, which is on-brand enough that it makes something twist a little in his chest. Geralt dumps the whole bucket out for the little bastards to finally catch their attention, then retreats back to a safe distance.
"Little shits," he says, and there's a spot on his arm that's bleeding afresh after one of them had gotten him. "I feed them, and this is the thanks I get."
He expected this kind of treatment from people, not animals.