"Scorpion. A very befitting name." Yet for some reason, it amuses the hell out of him. "Scorpion and Roach. The law of surprise. I'm starting to see quite unexpected patterns here."
Apparently wolf witchers name their animals after other animals and don't know how to ask for rewards that aren't coin, so the law of surprise it is. Jaskier had expected matching training and habits, but these little things are taking him by surprise. It's delightful, and it adds to the pile of reasons why running from Nilfgaardian soldiers and dealing with the cold is worth the hassle (the first one being Geralt himself, of course).
Jaskier drags a chair to sit by Eskel's side, looking smug at the fact this new wolf has done as he said... but the smugness only lasts one second, because the sight of the injury brings all the indignation back. There goes his scent, filled with worry and frustration, and he hopes these idiots freaking choke on it.
"Bloody hell, Eskel!" His inner scolding housewife comes out as he takes out the salve and a cotton rag that he starts using to clean the gash. "This is not a graze! An actual graze wouldn't need stitches! By the gods, I should hit you both with a dictionary."
His words are harsh, but his touch is gentle, not different from how he treats Geralt's own injuries. Well, except for the part where his eyes don't linger with pining for the witcher in front of him, no words of affection thrown in his direction. (But what would've happened if destiny had put Eskel in his path first, he can't help but wonder.)
"Just because you can endure it doesn't mean you should. Needle." The last word is spoken as a heads-up as he shows Eskel his little tool before he starts stitching. He isn't that dumb, alright, he knows better than put sharp metal objects against a witcher's skin without warning. The tip of his tongue peeks out again as he concentrates on his hands movements, and for once, Jaskier falls silent as he closes Eskel's wound. He's done this thousands of times by now, having left any squirmish feelings with his younger self thanks to Geralt pushing him into the real world. But even after all these years, he's still extra aware of the fact he's handling a man's pain in his mere musicians hands. So he takes it very, very seriously.
Once he's done, he leans back and admires his work with a tilted head and hands on his waist.
"See? Not the end the end of the world. Move your arm, tell me if it pulls too badly so I know if redoing them or wrapping you up." With a sigh, he turns to Geralt, looking at him with his best puppy eyes. "Is there any vodka left?"
For himself, not for the injured. Not the worst witcher injury he's treated by far, but now having two wolves that won't care of themselves is definitely an I NEED A DRINK occasion.
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Apparently wolf witchers name their animals after other animals and don't know how to ask for rewards that aren't coin, so the law of surprise it is. Jaskier had expected matching training and habits, but these little things are taking him by surprise. It's delightful, and it adds to the pile of reasons why running from Nilfgaardian soldiers and dealing with the cold is worth the hassle (the first one being Geralt himself, of course).
Jaskier drags a chair to sit by Eskel's side, looking smug at the fact this new wolf has done as he said... but the smugness only lasts one second, because the sight of the injury brings all the indignation back. There goes his scent, filled with worry and frustration, and he hopes these idiots freaking choke on it.
"Bloody hell, Eskel!" His inner scolding housewife comes out as he takes out the salve and a cotton rag that he starts using to clean the gash. "This is not a graze! An actual graze wouldn't need stitches! By the gods, I should hit you both with a dictionary."
His words are harsh, but his touch is gentle, not different from how he treats Geralt's own injuries. Well, except for the part where his eyes don't linger with pining for the witcher in front of him, no words of affection thrown in his direction. (But what would've happened if destiny had put Eskel in his path first, he can't help but wonder.)
"Just because you can endure it doesn't mean you should. Needle." The last word is spoken as a heads-up as he shows Eskel his little tool before he starts stitching. He isn't that dumb, alright, he knows better than put sharp metal objects against a witcher's skin without warning. The tip of his tongue peeks out again as he concentrates on his hands movements, and for once, Jaskier falls silent as he closes Eskel's wound. He's done this thousands of times by now, having left any squirmish feelings with his younger self thanks to Geralt pushing him into the real world. But even after all these years, he's still extra aware of the fact he's handling a man's pain in his mere musicians hands. So he takes it very, very seriously.
Once he's done, he leans back and admires his work with a tilted head and hands on his waist.
"See? Not the end the end of the world. Move your arm, tell me if it pulls too badly so I know if redoing them or wrapping you up." With a sigh, he turns to Geralt, looking at him with his best puppy eyes. "Is there any vodka left?"
For himself, not for the injured. Not the worst witcher injury he's treated by far, but now having two wolves that won't care of themselves is definitely an I NEED A DRINK occasion.