Chapter Text
It had been a handful of months since Jaskier had last seen Geralt.
They had parted ways after yet another “we’re not friends” incident. For a mutant reputed to have “no capacity for human emotion” the witcher could be downright pissy sometimes. Admittedly, it mostly happened when Jaskier was around.
I bring out the best in him. The bard decided to himself.
Jaskier had spent a couple of those months in court at Tretogor providing entertainment for several banquets and courtly events, while providing himself with entertainment in the form of a lovely countess.
But things had ended, as they often did, with an angry uncle and some none too subtle threats against his life and manhood, so he had departed and spent the next couple months as an itinerant minstrel, plying his trade and keeping an ear to the ground, as he always did, for news of Geralt.
It hadn’t been long before he’d heard rumors of a white-haired witcher killing some drowners down in Drakenborg, and after that of a Leshen being vanquished up near Vartburg. It seemed good old Geralt was moving north from Vartburg towards Tridam, so Jaskier adjusted his travel plans accordingly and now found himself in a small town that very well might be the witcher’s next stop.
“Did the selkimore descend,
The witcher there to end,
And naught to do,
But become it’s stew,
And kill the beast from within!”
Jaskier finished the song with gusto and glee, but the usual laughter that accompanied its amusing end was somewhat muted tonight. Probably they didn’t know selkimores...hmm. Too far inland for that song… he considered... best save it for lake towns…
“So you know this white-haired witcher now do ya?” A man sitting at a nearby table with a large company of friends turned and asked, “You actually see him kill that selki-thing?”
“Well not as such.” Jaskier strode over to the man with an amiable smile. “That particular battle I took from a very reliable eye-witness account.”
The man looked unimpressed and turned back to his friends.
“But as for ‘knowing’ the witcher--” Jaskier rejoined, “Ha! Let me tell you! I more than know him. We are practically best friends. I am his long-time and deeply loyal travel companion. I have personally witnessed him fight more than a dozen assorted varieties of monster, including, but not limited to, a fully grown dragon, and it was I who brought him to the fated weddings of Calanthe and Pavetta in Cintra. ‘Do I know him?’ I do believe it’s fair to say I know him better than anyone ever has known him.” He grinned triumphantly and was pleased to see the questioner and all of his friends turn back to look at him with keen interest.
“Hey Torol,” the man called to a taller man in uniform sitting at the bar. “This here bard says he knows the Butcher of Blaviken.”
“Well, now, actually, that is a point of some contention,” Jaskier hedged, “You see, the term ‘butcher’ is clearly a derogatory one in this case, and strikes fear into the hearts of ordinary folk. For someone whose job involves helping ordinary folk solve their monster problems, you can see how such a moniker could be rather unhelpful. So I’ve taken it upon myself, as his friend and advocate, to help him free of it. If you wouldn’t mind terribly calling him “the White Wolf” we’d both be deeply appreciative. As it happens I…”
Jaskier stopped as his shoulder brushed up against something. He turned to look and found the rather intimidating ‘Torol’ looming over him.
“So you do know the Butcher.” He said, emphasizing the last word to make it clear he was not inclined to honor Jaskier’s request. “We’ve heard he’s headed in this direction. Care to shed any light on that? Being his friend and all.”
Jaskier gave a nervous laugh, starting to become markedly uncomfortable with the direction this conversation had taken.
“Aaacctually.” He said slowly and then laughed in a way that did not successfully dispel the tension in the room. “It may behoove me to admit that I am rather prone to exaggerate my connection to the…uh...’Butcher.’ It’s a foible common to creative types, I’m afraid. I’ve crossed paths with this witcher a time or two, but in actual fact, I barely know him. He’s more of an acquaintance, really.”
An unyielding hand gripped his bicep.
He gulped.
“You may have heard he travels with a bard sometimes, yes? I know the man, as it happens. Bit of a professional rivalry after all-- aaaah,” his arm was twisted behind his back and his lute roughly wrested out of his grip.
“He’s a short fellow, actually, rather fat, goes by the name ‘Buttercup’ of all things. Something of a pushover, really-- ooof,” his knees were kicked out from under him and he fell forward, almost hitting the floor but for the next hand grasping him by the collar.
“...truth be told, I stole most of these songs from him and improved on them. It’s embarrassing to admit, but there you have it. So you see, you’ve got the wrong bard! If you’d be so kind as to--”
A gloved fist slammed into his temple.