The tub was a trick to maneuver into the room, had taken him a bit of shuffling to get it set up, and he'd dashed eagerly, to and fro, bringing up steaming water by the pitcher. He'd just managed the last pitcher he planned on sparing for the tub, itself, when Geralt asked him about the bottles.
"Truthfully?" Jaskier asked and though he sounded rather conversational. Nevermind the faint sensation of fear that clung to his airy tone. "I recalled you drinking it once--after that...bruxa was it? In the mountains?" Jaskier explained.
It had been better than a year ago. Geralt, he'd realized as he thought on it, was generally very sparing with his use of potions. The bottle shape had been different, and it hadn't been a grand and showy thing, and Geralt hadn't told him what it was or what it did, and...frankly, Jaskier was just lucky it had been the same thing. Fortunately, he was too tired to let that guilt and fear over what might've happened, had he guessed wrong, consume him. Instead he reached and dipped his hand in the bath and found it acceptably hot.
"It was practically the same and the only thing I spotted that looked remotely like it could be White Honey."
He stood and moved to the bed, offered his arm and shoulder as a crutch. Geralt could have been able to stand, Jaskier had no idea--what he did know was the exact number of stitches he'd put in the Witcher. Nobody with that many sutures could walk well on their own, not even a few feet. (Most people with that many sutures would have died before a much more skilled healer had finished applying them, but that was neither here nor there.)
no subject
"Truthfully?" Jaskier asked and though he sounded rather conversational. Nevermind the faint sensation of fear that clung to his airy tone. "I recalled you drinking it once--after that...bruxa was it? In the mountains?" Jaskier explained.
It had been better than a year ago. Geralt, he'd realized as he thought on it, was generally very sparing with his use of potions. The bottle shape had been different, and it hadn't been a grand and showy thing, and Geralt hadn't told him what it was or what it did, and...frankly, Jaskier was just lucky it had been the same thing. Fortunately, he was too tired to let that guilt and fear over what might've happened, had he guessed wrong, consume him. Instead he reached and dipped his hand in the bath and found it acceptably hot.
"It was practically the same and the only thing I spotted that looked remotely like it could be White Honey."
He stood and moved to the bed, offered his arm and shoulder as a crutch. Geralt could have been able to stand, Jaskier had no idea--what he did know was the exact number of stitches he'd put in the Witcher. Nobody with that many sutures could walk well on their own, not even a few feet. (Most people with that many sutures would have died before a much more skilled healer had finished applying them, but that was neither here nor there.)