He hates the whispers in the streets, even if the wide-eyed students and scholarly academics are calling him White Wolf instead of Butcher. He hates the way they stare at him, their idle curiosity, the probing questions that they ask each other in hushed tones. He hates the snatches of song that he hears on street corners, the familiar notes that brought him so much coin on his travels, but played by unfamiliar hands. It's almost a relief when they get to the university proper, because everyone inside is more interested in small talk with Jaskier, as acquaintances do. He seems to know the entire damned campus, a fact that Geralt really shouldn't be surprised about.
Waiting outside of the dean's office is fine; Geralt just leans against the wall next to a statue of some founder of the department or whatever horseshit, his face set in an expression of such stony neutrality that, when combined with armor and the two swords on his back, makes an effective deterrent for inquisitive students and professors alike. The whispers don't stop, but they at least hurry quickly by him and only make brief eye contact. One particularly brave gaggle of students nearly makes it within five feet of him, but the one among them who had dared approach-- some mousy thing clutching a book, the title of which he can only read as The Collected Works of J before it's covered by her hand-- loses her nerve under his wilting stare.
Except for the one that follows Jaskier out of the office, apparently. He addresses him, at least, by his fucking name, a surprising rarity in this town, but adds on some ridiculous epithet about being an untamed muse, whatever the hell that means. The sour-lemon expression twists his mouth, betraying exactly how little he wants to be interacting with the Dean of Just Give Jaskier the Fucking Keys, but if he doesn't at least acknowledge him, this interaction will just be even longer. Geralt gives him only the most perfunctory shake of the hand. The academic blathers on about company and protection and something about perspective that Geralt very nearly snorts a laugh at, and Jaskier at least has the decency to look embarrassed about the whole affair.
The only break in his brick wall of an expression comes at the mention of coin, and that's only to make a affirming grunt; if the scientists have some use for drowner corpses, they can have whatever ones he doesn't harvest for potion ingredients.
With the bare minimum of social interaction satisfied, Geralt turns to Jaskier.
no subject
He hates the whispers in the streets, even if the wide-eyed students and scholarly academics are calling him White Wolf instead of Butcher. He hates the way they stare at him, their idle curiosity, the probing questions that they ask each other in hushed tones. He hates the snatches of song that he hears on street corners, the familiar notes that brought him so much coin on his travels, but played by unfamiliar hands. It's almost a relief when they get to the university proper, because everyone inside is more interested in small talk with Jaskier, as acquaintances do. He seems to know the entire damned campus, a fact that Geralt really shouldn't be surprised about.
Waiting outside of the dean's office is fine; Geralt just leans against the wall next to a statue of some founder of the department or whatever horseshit, his face set in an expression of such stony neutrality that, when combined with armor and the two swords on his back, makes an effective deterrent for inquisitive students and professors alike. The whispers don't stop, but they at least hurry quickly by him and only make brief eye contact. One particularly brave gaggle of students nearly makes it within five feet of him, but the one among them who had dared approach-- some mousy thing clutching a book, the title of which he can only read as The Collected Works of J before it's covered by her hand-- loses her nerve under his wilting stare.
Except for the one that follows Jaskier out of the office, apparently. He addresses him, at least, by his fucking name, a surprising rarity in this town, but adds on some ridiculous epithet about being an untamed muse, whatever the hell that means. The sour-lemon expression twists his mouth, betraying exactly how little he wants to be interacting with the Dean of Just Give Jaskier the Fucking Keys, but if he doesn't at least acknowledge him, this interaction will just be even longer. Geralt gives him only the most perfunctory shake of the hand. The academic blathers on about company and protection and something about perspective that Geralt very nearly snorts a laugh at, and Jaskier at least has the decency to look embarrassed about the whole affair.
The only break in his brick wall of an expression comes at the mention of coin, and that's only to make a affirming grunt; if the scientists have some use for drowner corpses, they can have whatever ones he doesn't harvest for potion ingredients.
With the bare minimum of social interaction satisfied, Geralt turns to Jaskier.
"Are you done here?"