It takes weeks for Geralt to travel to Kaer Morhen with Ciri, to get her into the mountain fortress where she would be protected by both geography and the watchful eye of Vesemir. She would need to be trained, eventually, and come winter there would be a pack of witchers help with it. For now, though, she would be safe, and Geralt could attend to the other matter that weighed on his mind.
Jaskier.
He hadn’t seen the bard since they’d parted on the mountain. That had been months ago, and now that Geralt’s attention wasn’t entirely taken up by Ciri and her safety, he remembers something particularly important about the man that he’d sent away. Jaskier had gotten his fame by singing songs about the White Wolf up and down the entire gods-damned Continent, and now every squad of Nilfgaardian soldiers is searching for Geralt and his Child Surprise. The name Jaskier is basically synonymous with witcher’s bard, and that means that he’s in just as much danger as Ciri was. Perhaps more-- Nilfgaardian soldiers wouldn’t have harmed the princess. Geralt has no illusions that they wouldn’t extend that kind of courtesy to a flashy, talkative bard.
Nilfgaard would find him. They would hurt him. They would likely kill him, once they realize that any information that Jaskier could possibly have is months out-of-date and would be of no use to them, and Geralt doesn’t want to have his blood on his hands, too.
Geralt rides out, and he starts at the coast.
Jaskier has never been particularly concerned with covering his tracks, so it isn’t difficult for Geralt to pick up on his trail. He follows it to Novigrad, down through Oxenfurt-- people are particularly willing to speak of him there, Jaskier’s university acquaintances have looser tongues than Geralt would like about their famous alumnus-- and further still to Gors Velen. That seaside port is where the trail runs out, and Geralt moves from tavern to tavern searching for any trace that the bard had been there. He finds it on the second night of his search, when he overhears the barmaids talking about the charming bard who’d played the nearby tavern several nights before and had left with a few strange men and hadn’t been back to get his things from his room.
He corners one of them when she’s bringing a tray down from the upper floor, certainly terrifying the poor girl, but she’s useful-- she tells him where Jaskier’s room is and gives him the spare key to it, her little hand trembling the whole time. He tips her for her trouble before going upstairs and checking the room.
The Trials couldn’t strip emotions from witchers, but they did dull the more troublesome ones-- fear, most notably. But when Geralt steps into that room and sees Jaskier’s pack on the floor, his doublet, his lute-- there is an icy coldness in his guts that he hasn’t felt in years.
He gathers Jaskier’s things, to take them with him. He would want them back when Geralt found him, the first thing he would want to know is that his precious lute is safe in its case. The witcher picks up his doublet, and after a few days of airing out, the scent has begun to dissipate, but it’s still there-- the floral oils that he uses in his hair, the wax that he rubs into his lute to maintain the wood, parchment, ink, a hint of sweat and beer. Jaskier. There had been a time when Geralt couldn’t get the smell of him out of his nose, not with how it got on everything he touched, everything from the witcher’s old shirts to Roach’s saddlebags.
Something in his chest clenches. Geralt dismisses it.
He leaves the inn with Jaskier’s things slung onto his back, heading for the stables to fetch Roach and continue his search. He’s in the process of getting her tack settled when he sees the scrap of cloth caught on the rough edge of a board that frames an adjacent stall. It’s a creamy white color, soft when Geralt picks it up, and--
floral oil, lute wax, parchment
--he tucks the scrap into one of his pouches. Digs around in Roach’s saddlebags before he finds the potion that he wants, uncorks it, and throws it back like a slug of vodka. The effects hit within seconds, the world coming into almost painful clarity as his witcher senses heighten past their usual limits. He breathes in.
Geralt is assaulted by the influx of information, closing his eyes to parse it better. Jaskier was here, he’s certain of it, he can track the floral-lute-parchment smell of him, can almost taste the note of fear that sours it. There are other unfamiliar men, three of them, he thinks, and the group of them mount horses and ride off, the bard with them. Geralt saddles up and spurs Roach out into the night, following the trail through the streets and out past the gates of the city. He pushes her until she’s frothing at the bit, until he’s led to what’s left of a small fortification in the wilderness between Dorian and Maribor, some leftover outpost that has fallen into disrepair. It’s no longer useful for military purposes, but the stone’s still sound and there will be rooms inside with doors that still lock tight. A good place to keep a prisoner for interrogations.
It’s dark still and Geralt is quiet as he scouts the fortification, sparing only enough time to get an estimate of how protected it is. There are perhaps a dozen men, armed but lax in their security-- they don’t expect anyone to bother them. They don’t expect anyone to come for their prisoner.
Geralt breathes, and the scent of floral oil and lute wax may very well be scorched into his sinuses now. That feeling in his chest is still there, that vice-like clench, and the witcher oils his sword with hanged man’s venom in preparation.
He slips in a side door, and the lone guard there is dead before he can raise an alarm. The next ones are a pair, talking idly as they walk, and Geralt waits around a corner until they’re within range. He nearly decapitates one with the first strike; the other shouts before the witcher’s blade silences him, and he hears an answering call from deeper in. It only spurs him to move faster, strike harder. He kills any man that stands between him and the cells in the basement.
He knows which cell it is. He can tell from down the hall, would have been able to smell the blood and sweat and rancid stink of fear even without the potion enhancing his senses. There’s a key ring on a guard’s belt, and he takes it-- its former owner has no more earthly need of it-- and the key scrapes when he unlocks the door.
for rollstoseduce
Jaskier.
He hadn’t seen the bard since they’d parted on the mountain. That had been months ago, and now that Geralt’s attention wasn’t entirely taken up by Ciri and her safety, he remembers something particularly important about the man that he’d sent away. Jaskier had gotten his fame by singing songs about the White Wolf up and down the entire gods-damned Continent, and now every squad of Nilfgaardian soldiers is searching for Geralt and his Child Surprise. The name Jaskier is basically synonymous with witcher’s bard, and that means that he’s in just as much danger as Ciri was. Perhaps more-- Nilfgaardian soldiers wouldn’t have harmed the princess. Geralt has no illusions that they wouldn’t extend that kind of courtesy to a flashy, talkative bard.
Nilfgaard would find him. They would hurt him. They would likely kill him, once they realize that any information that Jaskier could possibly have is months out-of-date and would be of no use to them, and Geralt doesn’t want to have his blood on his hands, too.
Geralt rides out, and he starts at the coast.
Jaskier has never been particularly concerned with covering his tracks, so it isn’t difficult for Geralt to pick up on his trail. He follows it to Novigrad, down through Oxenfurt-- people are particularly willing to speak of him there, Jaskier’s university acquaintances have looser tongues than Geralt would like about their famous alumnus-- and further still to Gors Velen. That seaside port is where the trail runs out, and Geralt moves from tavern to tavern searching for any trace that the bard had been there. He finds it on the second night of his search, when he overhears the barmaids talking about the charming bard who’d played the nearby tavern several nights before and had left with a few strange men and hadn’t been back to get his things from his room.
He corners one of them when she’s bringing a tray down from the upper floor, certainly terrifying the poor girl, but she’s useful-- she tells him where Jaskier’s room is and gives him the spare key to it, her little hand trembling the whole time. He tips her for her trouble before going upstairs and checking the room.
The Trials couldn’t strip emotions from witchers, but they did dull the more troublesome ones-- fear, most notably. But when Geralt steps into that room and sees Jaskier’s pack on the floor, his doublet, his lute-- there is an icy coldness in his guts that he hasn’t felt in years.
He gathers Jaskier’s things, to take them with him. He would want them back when Geralt found him, the first thing he would want to know is that his precious lute is safe in its case. The witcher picks up his doublet, and after a few days of airing out, the scent has begun to dissipate, but it’s still there-- the floral oils that he uses in his hair, the wax that he rubs into his lute to maintain the wood, parchment, ink, a hint of sweat and beer. Jaskier. There had been a time when Geralt couldn’t get the smell of him out of his nose, not with how it got on everything he touched, everything from the witcher’s old shirts to Roach’s saddlebags.
Something in his chest clenches. Geralt dismisses it.
He leaves the inn with Jaskier’s things slung onto his back, heading for the stables to fetch Roach and continue his search. He’s in the process of getting her tack settled when he sees the scrap of cloth caught on the rough edge of a board that frames an adjacent stall. It’s a creamy white color, soft when Geralt picks it up, and--
floral oil, lute wax, parchment
--he tucks the scrap into one of his pouches. Digs around in Roach’s saddlebags before he finds the potion that he wants, uncorks it, and throws it back like a slug of vodka. The effects hit within seconds, the world coming into almost painful clarity as his witcher senses heighten past their usual limits. He breathes in.
Geralt is assaulted by the influx of information, closing his eyes to parse it better. Jaskier was here, he’s certain of it, he can track the floral-lute-parchment smell of him, can almost taste the note of fear that sours it. There are other unfamiliar men, three of them, he thinks, and the group of them mount horses and ride off, the bard with them. Geralt saddles up and spurs Roach out into the night, following the trail through the streets and out past the gates of the city. He pushes her until she’s frothing at the bit, until he’s led to what’s left of a small fortification in the wilderness between Dorian and Maribor, some leftover outpost that has fallen into disrepair. It’s no longer useful for military purposes, but the stone’s still sound and there will be rooms inside with doors that still lock tight. A good place to keep a prisoner for interrogations.
It’s dark still and Geralt is quiet as he scouts the fortification, sparing only enough time to get an estimate of how protected it is. There are perhaps a dozen men, armed but lax in their security-- they don’t expect anyone to bother them. They don’t expect anyone to come for their prisoner.
Geralt breathes, and the scent of floral oil and lute wax may very well be scorched into his sinuses now. That feeling in his chest is still there, that vice-like clench, and the witcher oils his sword with hanged man’s venom in preparation.
He slips in a side door, and the lone guard there is dead before he can raise an alarm. The next ones are a pair, talking idly as they walk, and Geralt waits around a corner until they’re within range. He nearly decapitates one with the first strike; the other shouts before the witcher’s blade silences him, and he hears an answering call from deeper in. It only spurs him to move faster, strike harder. He kills any man that stands between him and the cells in the basement.
He knows which cell it is. He can tell from down the hall, would have been able to smell the blood and sweat and rancid stink of fear even without the potion enhancing his senses. There’s a key ring on a guard’s belt, and he takes it-- its former owner has no more earthly need of it-- and the key scrapes when he unlocks the door.
Geralt pushes it open.