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“I don’t see how that's my problem.”
“You’re a witcher, it’s your job to kill those monsters!”
Geralt sighs, casting a look on the crowd of drunk people singing along with Jaskier. He’d better make it quick.
“I only kill monsters that are being a threat to the population. Your monster only attacks people because they’re invading its territory. It’s the same with bears, wolfs and animals in general. That’s not complicated to understand.”
He’s about to leave, really, because he sees the look on the other man’s face. After so many years doing what he does, he knows what trouble looks like, and frankly, he’s not certain he wants to be a part of this. Whatever this is.
He sees Jaskier turn his way mid-song, seemingly knowing even from a distance what’s going on. The smile on his face seems to be taunting Geralt. “You’re going to take t his job even if you already hate it, right?” He bites back yet another groan.
But suddenly, Jaskier’s attention shifts a few meters to his right, his smile freezing, his gaze narrowing. Speaking of trouble...
“But we were planning on rehabilitating this mine to save the village from poverty!”
The guy’s turning desperate and Geralt is not having it.
“How heroic of you. Now save this village from being slaughtered by not going near this mine,” he growls.
One of the drunk guys, the loudest of the group since early tonight, is getting louder and louder. Geralt had noticed him, like the rest of the inn had. He had already threatened two barmaids and punched three people – amongst his own men, so far. Geralt really needs to leave right now.
Except that’s the moment his potential client decides to finally be honest.
“There are already people in there!” he blurts rapidly.
“What?”
The man gets impossibly more ashamed as he sinks further on his chair.
“Why would there be anyone in there? You still haven’t received the authorization from the kingdom to do anything!”
“We… we wanted to gain time by—”
Geralt grunts while running his hand over his face. A few meters away, the drunkard stumbles toward the counter — and Jaskier.
“I know what you’re thinking! But we don’t have anything left and our families are starving, we couldn’t just—”
By Melitele, can’t he catch a break just for one second? He gets up with a groan.
“Please, witcher!”
“We’re not done talking. But I need to prevent a murder first.”
His client turns toward the bar and notices the man now screaming at Jaskier, pointing an angry finger at him.
“Ah yes, Vjor is certainly a nasty drunkard, but I highly doubt he will try to kill your friend.”
Geralt sighs one more time in despair.
“It’s not the bard’s life I’m hoping to save.”
It’s a good night.
That’s what Jaskier is thinking, as the crowd from the inn is absolutely focused on loving him. Well, maybe more his songs than him, but as he created those songs it’s all the same, right? He’s starting to get more and more famous. And Geralt too. Two birds one stone, as they say. And by Melitele, what an amazing bird Jaskier is being tonight, singing songs that are enthralling everyone.
Well. Almost everyone he muses, as yet another barmaid is passing by with tears in her eyes. This guy over there, Vjor apparently, is an immense douche. He even booed Jaskier at some point, telling him to “shut up already”. Jaskier is not fazed by such words. He heard them enough times not to care anymore. Plus, he’s the only one here complaining, so Jaskier has decided to be the big boy between the two of them and ignore him.
He throws a look in Geralt’s direction and can’t prevent his smile from growing even larger. His face is telling all there is to know: oh he’s absolutely hating every second of his client’s demand, but he is so clearly resigned to do it anyway. So much for “witchers don’t feel emotions”.
Jaskier is at his third encore of “Toss a coin to your witcher”, because the good people of this inn can’t seem to get enough of it. And well, who is he to refuse such demands?
That’s when Mister Douchebag drunkenly gets up from a few tables away to Jaskier’s right.
“There it is,” he thinks as the man makes his way towards him.
The shiver down his spine is definitely not out of fear. His smile doesn’t falter but it changes oh so subtly to something more bestial.
Vjor stops in front of him and starts insulting him colourfully. Which really doesn’t come as a surprise to Jaskier, considering the guy. He’s not even sure to understand everything he’s saying as he’s slurring... quite intensely. But his general message easily gets through with his angry gestures.
However, Jaskier knows he’d better behave. Geralt is discussing work in the back of the room. He doesn’t like this kind of attention anyway, it makes him even grumpier. Yes, it is absolutely possible. And seeing he is already grumpy before even accepting the work… So as he was considering earlier, he’s gonna be the big boy for the—
The man spits directly on his lute.
Jaskier becomes impossibly still. From the sudden quietness of the room, people around him must have sense the bloody mistake this guys just made. Everything’s out the window starting now. The bard quietly and slowly put his lute on the chair behind him.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Geralt is rapidly coming their way and oh no, he won’t take this away from him.
Jaskier grabs the side of the offender ’s head to accompany his “fall” toward the counter. Fall provoked by a swift kick in the man’s legs. The sound his head makes by connecting with the wood is redemptive. He falls on the floor like a brick. But he’s not unconscious yet, so Jaskier indulges himself by planting his foot right on the man’s crotch without breaking eye contact.
“So, how about now, fucker?”
That’s when he feels a hand grab the back of his collar and lift him away from his prey. Shit, he really didn’t have the opportunity to do enough.
“Jaskier,” comes the tired voice of Geralt behind him.
“What? He spat on my lute! Oh, which makes me think,” Jaskier says before stopping and spitting on the guy still laying on the floor.
Yes, that feels already better than before.
Geralt lets escape something between a sigh and a groan, then drags Jaskier towards his table — but not before apologizing to the inn-keeper, who dismisses it with a movement of the hand. His eyes are not leaving the bard though, like he’s in some sort of trance.
The noise of the conversations starts again in the tavern as Geralt’s client watches him come back, a bard in one hand and his lute in the other. He carefully drops him on the seat next to his own and hands him back his instrument. The bard is now stuck between the witcher and the corner of the room, and by the look of it, he is not pleased.
Without a word, Geralt pushes the plate he has barely touched while they were talking earlier in the bard’s direction. He huffs, annoyed, but takes it anyway and starts eating. With his free hand, he’s carefully wiping his lute, grumbling under his breath.
The witcher rolls his eyes and turns back toward his client.
“So, where exactly in the mine are these men? And how many of them?”
And suddenly, the man realizes the witcher in front of him is not as scary as he thought earlier. Not after seeing him care for of his friend like that. And certainly not after witnessing said friend absolutely destroy Vjor without any hesitation. It’s not like he hadn’t it coming — he sure had — but no one could have expected this outgoing, friendly human being to be so aggressive, so dangerous. Almost feral.
If anyone were to ask him, he would rather deal with a witcher every day of his life rather than having to meet this bard alone.