"Dandelion isn't lost," Geralt says. "He's just... temporarily mislaid. He'll likely get himself into some kind of trouble, but I'll get him back out of it again."
Somewhere, in a different world and on a different Continent, a bard is walking into a tavern and finding a grouchy, white-haired witcher in the corner of the room.
Jaskier steps closer and lets his forehead rest on Geralt's chest, and he slides his arms around the bard in response. Holds him as friends do, as a comfort when one is upset-- as he would with Dandelion or any other friend. Well, perhaps less amorously than he would with Dandelion, but that's neither here nor there.
Starlight hair. Dandelion's used the same line before, but it's a good sign that the bard is starting to spout poetry again. A bard that doesn't make poetry is a sad thing, indeed.
"I wasn't always like this," he says, rubbing a soothing hand over Jaskier's back. "I used to talk in mostly grunts and curses. Drove Dandelion up a wall. It took years of patience to teach me how to use words instead of just saying hm and then brooding for half an hour."
But you can teach an old wolf new tricks, if you're patient enough and have exactly zero fear around witchers. Which, thankfully, Dandelion had in spades-- though he could be a coward in many other circumstances, he was always more loyal than he was cowardly. And a man who was willing to walk into Brokilon Forest after Geralt was certainly confident enough to tell the witcher to quit glaring at the wall like a sodden cat and talk to him.
"You've gotten your wish, I suppose," Geralt muses. "You are about as far away from it all as you can get. And your reputation won't haunt you here. If you don't want to sing a note, you don't have to, White Wolf ballad or otherwise. You can spend your days here drinking wine and losing to me at gwent if it pleases you."
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Somewhere, in a different world and on a different Continent, a bard is walking into a tavern and finding a grouchy, white-haired witcher in the corner of the room.
Jaskier steps closer and lets his forehead rest on Geralt's chest, and he slides his arms around the bard in response. Holds him as friends do, as a comfort when one is upset-- as he would with Dandelion or any other friend. Well, perhaps less amorously than he would with Dandelion, but that's neither here nor there.
Starlight hair. Dandelion's used the same line before, but it's a good sign that the bard is starting to spout poetry again. A bard that doesn't make poetry is a sad thing, indeed.
"I wasn't always like this," he says, rubbing a soothing hand over Jaskier's back. "I used to talk in mostly grunts and curses. Drove Dandelion up a wall. It took years of patience to teach me how to use words instead of just saying hm and then brooding for half an hour."
But you can teach an old wolf new tricks, if you're patient enough and have exactly zero fear around witchers. Which, thankfully, Dandelion had in spades-- though he could be a coward in many other circumstances, he was always more loyal than he was cowardly. And a man who was willing to walk into Brokilon Forest after Geralt was certainly confident enough to tell the witcher to quit glaring at the wall like a sodden cat and talk to him.
"You've gotten your wish, I suppose," Geralt muses. "You are about as far away from it all as you can get. And your reputation won't haunt you here. If you don't want to sing a note, you don't have to, White Wolf ballad or otherwise. You can spend your days here drinking wine and losing to me at gwent if it pleases you."