Geralt leans against the wall near the fire, watching Jaskier as he excitedly pats through his pockets until he finds his notebook, ready to write down everything that Eskel tells him about the wyvern. He does this thing every time he's concentrating on composing or taking notes where his tongue juts just a little bit past his lower lip, and it's... a thing. That he does. Geralt only notices because he's observant, of course.

There must be something in his expression, though, because Eskel looks up briefly during his storytelling and catches his eye, tossing Geralt this knowing look that sets his features immediately back into sullen brooding mode. And then Jaskier has to go and make it worse by calling him his favorite, and he could see the shitty response written all over Eskel's face--

Until the bard interrupts that by asking about his injuries. Eskel stares at him for a moment, gobsmacked, like he has no idea how to respond to someone asking after his well-being in a genuine manner. In all fairness to him, he probably hasn't had anyone care about whether he was hurt or not for the past year, and even then, only from his fellow witchers. Eskel could probably count on one hand the number of times that a human has cared whether or not he got hurt in the process of slaying a monster.

"I-- what, no, I'm fine. It was just a wyvern--"

But Jaskier wants a second opinion, and Geralt sees an opportunity. Eskel wants to get buddy-buddy with the bard? Well, he gets all of the irritations of that association, too. Geralt sniffs once or twice-- and yeah, there it is, underneath the smell of dirt and reptile, the copper tang of blood-- then huffs through his nose like he's trying to clear the smell from his sinuses.

"Right arm."

Eskel has the gall to look affronted, like Geralt has betrayed him.

"I thought we were brothers!" he says, and Geralt just shrugs in response. "It's nothing. Remember that part where I stabbed it through the roof of its mouth? I got grazed by a tooth, it's barely a scratch."