The bard steps up to the birds and starts to sing for them, some catchy song that must be about the elves at Dol Blathanna, judging from the lyrics about elves and devils. The peafowl seem quite taken by it, though, judging from how quickly they decide to flock around him, the peahens cuddling up around his shins while the peacocks croak along with his singing. One or two of them lift their brilliant tails up, strutting around Jaskier and shaking their vibrant plumage. They seem pleased when the bard touches them, if their quivering feathers are anything to go by.
Geralt leans against a fencepost and presses the heel of his hand against the bleeding cut on his arm, to encourage it to clot. The sight of the bard amongst a flock of noisy birds is so familiar that it makes something ache under his breastbone. He misses his bard, the lilt of his voice and his smile and the particular drum of his heartbeat. He worries, even though he knows that Dandelion can take care of himself without a witcher at his side. Is it such a terrible thing, though, to always want to be the witcher that he runs to?
(On another Continent, a bard follows a witcher on his contract, despite the witcher's protests. He's told to wait with Roach at a reasonable distance, but disregards that command almost as soon as Geralt is out of eyesight; how can be write anything if he doesn't see what happens? When he gets close enough to see the fight, there are a few wonderful moments where he can observe the action before one of the endrega drones comes after him; he calls for the witcher-- Geralt!-- and flees, and years of running from man and beast alike has given him a particular alacrity in tree climbing. It's a useful skill.)
"I hate to tell you, bard," he says, pushing down the melancholy feeling in his chest for now, "but your adoring audience has an ulterior motive."
That lovely feather display is the exact same thing that the peacocks do when they're trying to impress the hens, and it is that time of year. Apparently they've just decided that the big, loud man wearing bright colors is more attractive than the usual selection of hens, so they're vying for his attention.
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Geralt leans against a fencepost and presses the heel of his hand against the bleeding cut on his arm, to encourage it to clot. The sight of the bard amongst a flock of noisy birds is so familiar that it makes something ache under his breastbone. He misses his bard, the lilt of his voice and his smile and the particular drum of his heartbeat. He worries, even though he knows that Dandelion can take care of himself without a witcher at his side. Is it such a terrible thing, though, to always want to be the witcher that he runs to?
(On another Continent, a bard follows a witcher on his contract, despite the witcher's protests. He's told to wait with Roach at a reasonable distance, but disregards that command almost as soon as Geralt is out of eyesight; how can be write anything if he doesn't see what happens? When he gets close enough to see the fight, there are a few wonderful moments where he can observe the action before one of the endrega drones comes after him; he calls for the witcher-- Geralt!-- and flees, and years of running from man and beast alike has given him a particular alacrity in tree climbing. It's a useful skill.)
"I hate to tell you, bard," he says, pushing down the melancholy feeling in his chest for now, "but your adoring audience has an ulterior motive."
That lovely feather display is the exact same thing that the peacocks do when they're trying to impress the hens, and it is that time of year. Apparently they've just decided that the big, loud man wearing bright colors is more attractive than the usual selection of hens, so they're vying for his attention.