Jaskier treats Geralt's broody mood as he would have back before the Mountain-- by mostly ignoring it and chattering away like songbird in spring. He fills the silence with idle talk, either to Geralt, who barely responds, or to their horses, who also don't respond but whose unresponsiveness is only to be expected, as they are horses. Roach, at least, flicks her ears towards the bard whenever he talks, rather than laying them back as she used to do when Jaskier had first started following them.
Geralt frowns at her. Even his fucking horse.
Their stops are similarly familiar; when they make camp at night, Geralt hunts for whatever autumn game he can supplement their supplies with, and Jaskier starts the fire and sets up the cooking pot. They fall back into their routine with almost disturbing ease, like the bard hadn't had a year's absence from his side.
He still lets Jaskier put their bedrolls together at night, and the bard still falls asleep in his arms. He needs it, and Geralt tells himself that this is a far better arrangement than Jaskier waking up in the middle of the night with a screaming fit. And if Geralt presses his nose to the nape of Jaskier's neck and breathes and only then feels settled enough to meditate, well. No one has to know.
The mood gets somehow worse when they get closer to Rinde, which is a notable feat. Jaskier is quiet and tense, Geralt is still darkly brooding, and the day is... actually quite decent, for the time of year. The air is chill but not biting, with a woodsmoke edge to it that's almost pleasant. It's a shame that neither of them are in the mood to appreciate it.
And Geralt is certainly not in the mood to appreciate running into someone that they already know. He wants to make it through Kaedwen without being noticed, not to run into every damned acquaintance they've made in the past twenty-some odd years.
"Hm." His grunts have been taking a curt, short edge as of late. It's even shorter, now-- Chireadan is staring. There's no need for him to stare, and Jaskier apparently doesn't want him staring, either, considering that he cursed about it. "Passing through."
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Geralt frowns at her. Even his fucking horse.
Their stops are similarly familiar; when they make camp at night, Geralt hunts for whatever autumn game he can supplement their supplies with, and Jaskier starts the fire and sets up the cooking pot. They fall back into their routine with almost disturbing ease, like the bard hadn't had a year's absence from his side.
He still lets Jaskier put their bedrolls together at night, and the bard still falls asleep in his arms. He needs it, and Geralt tells himself that this is a far better arrangement than Jaskier waking up in the middle of the night with a screaming fit. And if Geralt presses his nose to the nape of Jaskier's neck and breathes and only then feels settled enough to meditate, well. No one has to know.
The mood gets somehow worse when they get closer to Rinde, which is a notable feat. Jaskier is quiet and tense, Geralt is still darkly brooding, and the day is... actually quite decent, for the time of year. The air is chill but not biting, with a woodsmoke edge to it that's almost pleasant. It's a shame that neither of them are in the mood to appreciate it.
And Geralt is certainly not in the mood to appreciate running into someone that they already know. He wants to make it through Kaedwen without being noticed, not to run into every damned acquaintance they've made in the past twenty-some odd years.
"Hm." His grunts have been taking a curt, short edge as of late. It's even shorter, now-- Chireadan is staring. There's no need for him to stare, and Jaskier apparently doesn't want him staring, either, considering that he cursed about it. "Passing through."
There's that patented Geralt-brand sociability.