It's an admonishment, but only slight. If they had been sitting on the same sides of the table, it may have been accompanied by a light slap to the arm, but nothing more. Yen hardly needs Geralt to defend her-- she can defend herself against Dandelion perfectly well on her own, she can probably handle his alternate universe counterpart, too.
He's certainly not at his best, too, if he can't get more creative than bitch. Or more mature than sticking his tongue out at an inanimate object. Well-- he's had a trying day, no doubt, and he's halfway to drunk, so maybe he can be forgiven for not being particularly witty.
The bard asks for a room, which is... fine, of course. There are plenty of rooms. He could have more than one, if he wants, and sleep in different rooms as he pleases.
"Of course," he says. "Pick whichever one you want. If you go down the hall, the last door on the right is a study that Dandelion liked to write in. You can use it if you want. It gets good light."
And had a lovely view of the vineyards, which Dandelion had said was immensely important for his creative flow, when he had claimed it for his own. Though if Jaskier went through all of the guest rooms, he wouldn't find a bedroom with this world's version of Filavandrel's lute and a closet full of foppish clothes-- because they were all in the master bedroom. The lute on a stand next to a rack housing a pair of swords, doublets hung up in the closet next to plain linen shirts. A book of antique poetry on the nightstand on the right side of the bed, a manual of rare potion recipes on the nightstand on the left, the side that was nearest to the door. Other little signs of cohabitation.
"You're welcome here," he says, "for as long as it takes to get you back home. You don't have to worry."
no subject
It's an admonishment, but only slight. If they had been sitting on the same sides of the table, it may have been accompanied by a light slap to the arm, but nothing more. Yen hardly needs Geralt to defend her-- she can defend herself against Dandelion perfectly well on her own, she can probably handle his alternate universe counterpart, too.
He's certainly not at his best, too, if he can't get more creative than bitch. Or more mature than sticking his tongue out at an inanimate object. Well-- he's had a trying day, no doubt, and he's halfway to drunk, so maybe he can be forgiven for not being particularly witty.
The bard asks for a room, which is... fine, of course. There are plenty of rooms. He could have more than one, if he wants, and sleep in different rooms as he pleases.
"Of course," he says. "Pick whichever one you want. If you go down the hall, the last door on the right is a study that Dandelion liked to write in. You can use it if you want. It gets good light."
And had a lovely view of the vineyards, which Dandelion had said was immensely important for his creative flow, when he had claimed it for his own. Though if Jaskier went through all of the guest rooms, he wouldn't find a bedroom with this world's version of Filavandrel's lute and a closet full of foppish clothes-- because they were all in the master bedroom. The lute on a stand next to a rack housing a pair of swords, doublets hung up in the closet next to plain linen shirts. A book of antique poetry on the nightstand on the right side of the bed, a manual of rare potion recipes on the nightstand on the left, the side that was nearest to the door. Other little signs of cohabitation.
"You're welcome here," he says, "for as long as it takes to get you back home. You don't have to worry."