The bard leaves after making demands of Eskel, a fact that startles the witcher just as much as Jaskier's concern had. While there are perks to Jaskier's fearlessness around their kind, there are also downsides-- he doesn't have a single qualm about ordering them around or talking back to them. He can't be intimidated, he just laughs and pats your arm or takes your ale right out of your hand and tells you to get into the outfit that he, for whatever reason, just so happened to have in your size. Geralt knows this firsthand, he's tried to glare the bard into submission and just ended up at a wedding banquet for his trouble.

Both witchers hear his complaining as he goes all the way out to the stable.

"Is he always like this?"

Geralt grunts in reply. Eskel, having literally grown up with this walking communication disaster, is well versed in the nuances of grunting, and recognizes this one as an affirmative.

"And you rolled right over for him. We knew it was bad from all your moping last year, but wow."

Despite his complaining, Eskel unlaces his clothes and pulls his arm out of the sleeve of his jacket and shirt, revealing the full extent of the injury. It's just a graze, sure-- by a witcher's metric, anyway. By that, he clearly meant a good six inch gash along his bicep, stretching from elbow to shoulder. No longer bleeding, of course, his accelerated healing had taken care of that, but deep enough that it would benefit from stitches.

"Fuck you, Eskel."

"I think your bard might have something to say about that--"

The door opens again, bringing in a burst of cold air and snow, and one annoyed bard. His mood seems to have improved, though, simply from making the acquaintance of a new witcher's horse.

"Isn't he a sight? He was a knight's mount, I got him by law of surprise. I call him Scorpion."

And he seems quite pleased about it, his pretty stallion warhorse. But a good steed is as valuable to a witcher as his swords, just ask Geralt.