Eskel watches with some amount of bemusement as Jaskier puts his hands on his hips and starts arguing with Geralt like... well, like he's arguing with any old person, not a witcher with decades of combat experience and a severe disinclination towards sociability. It's a level of familiarity that he hasn't seen anyone share with Geralt since... well. Since Kaer Morhen, the few remaining wolf school witchers.

There are so few of them left, and it's a number that's only ever ticking down.

Geralt bears the bard's complaints and the finger that he jabs into the witcher's pectoral muscle with a sour face, his mouth twisted up in an annoyed expression and about an inch away from saying something like shut up, Jaskier. But he had promised the bard that there would be no more repeats of the mountain, no more callous disregard for him.

Also, Jaskier is assuming that he slept before he reached Gors Velen. A more accurate statement is that he hasn't slept much since he left Kaer Morhen the last time, to go look for him. But the bard can't yell at him for something that he doesn't know about.

"We're two days out and Eskel is injured," he says. "I'll sleep at Kaer Morhen."

"Hey, don't bring me into this," Eskel says, flopping back onto the bed that, apparently, he has now claimed. "And what's with the werewolf? Where did you hunt a werewolf?"

"Oxenfurt."

"...what? Why was a werewolf in Oxenfurt?"

Geralt shrugs. "Didn't ask it why."

"Maybe you should've, I want to know why there was a werewolf in the middle of Oxenfurt."

This could go on for a while.