Geralt didn't understand the continued treble in Jaskier's voice, the lack of normal, tripping cadence. When the man came over to take his arm, Geralt managed to hold his head up just enough to study his companion's face. His hair was still sticking up in front from where he'd been asleep, the normal fringe nothing so much now as a great cow-lick.

He was distracted by the steer of topic, however. "The Skin-Eater's head. Where is it?" Not that he needed such a trophy for proof of payment for the people of this town. At this point (six days later), he assumed that the room and board had either become his pay or else Jaskier had been dipping into their savings. But with a creature like that, rare and particular, they could pawn it off for decent coin to any number of people specializing in such things.

Perhaps an ivory dealer, even.