Jaskier is a huddled figure in the corner of the room, dirty and injured and afraid. Another man might have barely been able to recognize him through the grime and bruises, the missing doublet, the tattered chemise stained with blood. He looks nothing like the vibrant thing that sang at banquets and public houses, all smiles and winks and merriment. Geralt stands in the doorway for several agonizing moments longer than he wants to, senses assaulted by the evidence of what was done in this small, cold room.
The smell of fear is inescapable, and it's far worse than the reek of piss, vomit, and blood that clings to the bard.
His name, spoken so soft and in a voice hoarse from screaming and dehydration, spurs Geralt into movement. He is across the room in two strides, kneeling before Jaskier to assess his wounds. His mind is clear, focused. Underneath that witcher-trained lucidity, Geralt wants to walk back out into that outpost, find every man who laid a hand on Jaskier and drag them back from the dead so that he can kill them all again, but more slowly. What he needs to do is make sure that the bard is well enough to move, and if he isn't, to tend to his wounds.
"I'm here."
His voice is low and gentle, the same tone that he uses to calm Roach when she spooks. He reaches out slowly to unlock the shackles from around his wrists; then hooks two fingers under his jaw, tilts his head a little to get a better look at the bruising to his face, to see if it's serious. Checks his eyes for a concussion. Moves on from there, to the major joints-- shoulders, knees, ankles. Dislocated shoulders wouldn't have been uncommon for this kind of treatment, and are easily, though not painlessly, fixed. Injuries to the knees or ankles would mean that Jaskier couldn't walk and would be harder to mend, would possibly require a healer or a mage. It's the long-term outcome that concerns him-- Geralt would carry him as far as necessary.
"We need to leave." He needs to take Jaskier somewhere safe, somewhere that he could get him cleaned up and bandaged, put him in a bed to rest. Get a few good meals into him. "Can you stand?"
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The smell of fear is inescapable, and it's far worse than the reek of piss, vomit, and blood that clings to the bard.
His name, spoken so soft and in a voice hoarse from screaming and dehydration, spurs Geralt into movement. He is across the room in two strides, kneeling before Jaskier to assess his wounds. His mind is clear, focused. Underneath that witcher-trained lucidity, Geralt wants to walk back out into that outpost, find every man who laid a hand on Jaskier and drag them back from the dead so that he can kill them all again, but more slowly. What he needs to do is make sure that the bard is well enough to move, and if he isn't, to tend to his wounds.
"I'm here."
His voice is low and gentle, the same tone that he uses to calm Roach when she spooks. He reaches out slowly to unlock the shackles from around his wrists; then hooks two fingers under his jaw, tilts his head a little to get a better look at the bruising to his face, to see if it's serious. Checks his eyes for a concussion. Moves on from there, to the major joints-- shoulders, knees, ankles. Dislocated shoulders wouldn't have been uncommon for this kind of treatment, and are easily, though not painlessly, fixed. Injuries to the knees or ankles would mean that Jaskier couldn't walk and would be harder to mend, would possibly require a healer or a mage. It's the long-term outcome that concerns him-- Geralt would carry him as far as necessary.
"We need to leave." He needs to take Jaskier somewhere safe, somewhere that he could get him cleaned up and bandaged, put him in a bed to rest. Get a few good meals into him. "Can you stand?"