Geralt nearly misses lunch by the time he gets back from the wall, only catching the tail-end of a few anecdotes that Eskel's telling to entertain Jaskier. Harmless things, really, about their youthful indiscretions at the keep, back when it was still full of witchers and witchers-to-be. With that many boys running around, it was inevitable that they'd get themselves into some kind of mischief-- aarding the younger children into haystacks and stealing white gull from the cellars, that kind of thing. Undoubtedly nothing worse than what the bard would've gotten into as a wealthy man's son with free range of an estate.
After that, there's more work to be done-- finishing up the wall, then helping Lambert and Coën with the southern hall's roof. The Griffin is a diligent and steady worker, with good hands and a good eye for construction; Lambert is mostly thumbs and hit his own with a hammer at least three times before his brothers arrived. It puts him in a terrible mood for the rest of it, which isn't at all helped by Eskel or Geralt. Especially not when Eskel aards him off of the roof.
A while later, Geralt heads back inside to check on the bard and his charge; Jaskier had agreed to give Ciri lessons in the more civilized subjects, things that she ought to learn that witchers wouldn't be able to teach her. There's no one better for it, really-- the bard's had both a nobleman's upbringing and a formal education at Oxenfurt. He's a professor at said university, so surely he would be able to handle being the private tutor of one precocious princess, right?
Geralt goes to check on them anyway.
They're in the middle of some discussion of politics when Geralt comes across them in the library, wrapped up quite cozily with a fire banked in the hearth for warmth. Redanian politics has never been a topic that Geralt's had much interest in, so he knows little about the names and events that the bard's talking about, other than the ruling monarchs. Ciri seems quite engaged in the discussion, however, so he assumes that it must be going well. Neither of them notice him as he stands, leaning against one of the library stacks, listening to their steady human heartbeats. Jaskier smells pleased and relaxed, as does his child surprise, and that's... good. They're safe and well, and what else could he ask for?
Well. Other than, perhaps, some news of Yennefer. The rumors out of Sodden had been concerning, and though he doesn't think that she had perished there, he would have liked some hint that she had gotten out all right.
Geralt leaves the bard and his charge to their political lessons. His presence would only interrupt them, and he has no valuable input to offer. He's best employed right now with manual labor alongside his brothers, shoring up the keep.
By dinnertime, all four of them are tired and sore, ready to sit down for a heavy meal and then laze around in front of a fire for a few hours with some of Lambert's questionable alcohol. On the way in, they all could hear Jaskier entertaining Vesemir and Ciri, his voice pitched as low and gravelly as it could get to imitate Geralt's. The Cintran banquet, going by the fact that he's repeating that bit he said about shitless deaths.
The four witchers pile in, cold and hungry, and it's a good thing that Vesemir is nearly done with the food. Lambert's already starting on the bread, taking a few rolls without even waiting for butter.
"Telling tales again, Jaskier?" Geralt says, putting a hand on Jaskier's waist to move him aside while he reaches for the rolls himself. His hand gets smacked with a wooden spoon for it; Vesemir has a quick hand with that particular weapon. He's told to wait for supper while Lambert shoves the entirety of one of his pilfered rolls straight into his mouth, smug as you please. Vesemir points the spoon at him as well-- a silent warning that his knuckles won't be safe either if he tries that shit again.
(Little princesses, however, ask for it first-- may I have a roll, please, Vesemir?-- with wide, sweet eyes and are given permission for it, and told to go get the butter too. No wooden spoons for those little knuckles.)
no subject
After that, there's more work to be done-- finishing up the wall, then helping Lambert and Coën with the southern hall's roof. The Griffin is a diligent and steady worker, with good hands and a good eye for construction; Lambert is mostly thumbs and hit his own with a hammer at least three times before his brothers arrived. It puts him in a terrible mood for the rest of it, which isn't at all helped by Eskel or Geralt. Especially not when Eskel aards him off of the roof.
A while later, Geralt heads back inside to check on the bard and his charge; Jaskier had agreed to give Ciri lessons in the more civilized subjects, things that she ought to learn that witchers wouldn't be able to teach her. There's no one better for it, really-- the bard's had both a nobleman's upbringing and a formal education at Oxenfurt. He's a professor at said university, so surely he would be able to handle being the private tutor of one precocious princess, right?
Geralt goes to check on them anyway.
They're in the middle of some discussion of politics when Geralt comes across them in the library, wrapped up quite cozily with a fire banked in the hearth for warmth. Redanian politics has never been a topic that Geralt's had much interest in, so he knows little about the names and events that the bard's talking about, other than the ruling monarchs. Ciri seems quite engaged in the discussion, however, so he assumes that it must be going well. Neither of them notice him as he stands, leaning against one of the library stacks, listening to their steady human heartbeats. Jaskier smells pleased and relaxed, as does his child surprise, and that's... good. They're safe and well, and what else could he ask for?
Well. Other than, perhaps, some news of Yennefer. The rumors out of Sodden had been concerning, and though he doesn't think that she had perished there, he would have liked some hint that she had gotten out all right.
Geralt leaves the bard and his charge to their political lessons. His presence would only interrupt them, and he has no valuable input to offer. He's best employed right now with manual labor alongside his brothers, shoring up the keep.
By dinnertime, all four of them are tired and sore, ready to sit down for a heavy meal and then laze around in front of a fire for a few hours with some of Lambert's questionable alcohol. On the way in, they all could hear Jaskier entertaining Vesemir and Ciri, his voice pitched as low and gravelly as it could get to imitate Geralt's. The Cintran banquet, going by the fact that he's repeating that bit he said about shitless deaths.
The four witchers pile in, cold and hungry, and it's a good thing that Vesemir is nearly done with the food. Lambert's already starting on the bread, taking a few rolls without even waiting for butter.
"Telling tales again, Jaskier?" Geralt says, putting a hand on Jaskier's waist to move him aside while he reaches for the rolls himself. His hand gets smacked with a wooden spoon for it; Vesemir has a quick hand with that particular weapon. He's told to wait for supper while Lambert shoves the entirety of one of his pilfered rolls straight into his mouth, smug as you please. Vesemir points the spoon at him as well-- a silent warning that his knuckles won't be safe either if he tries that shit again.
(Little princesses, however, ask for it first-- may I have a roll, please, Vesemir?-- with wide, sweet eyes and are given permission for it, and told to go get the butter too. No wooden spoons for those little knuckles.)