Spoken as if he felt like moving. Geralt only grunted (he didn't brood) and watched Jaskier leave. He doubted that anyone would retrieve the head or in fact that it would be there at all. There were animals everywhere who did not share Jaskier's same squeamish nature. Tough hide could be peeled or plucked away and carrion birds rarely cared at the taste of the things they dined on. Dust to dust. Ironic-- much like a Witcher. Send a monster to deal with a monster. The sword had not been special, just a means of dispatch.
Geralt stared down at the water in the bath. It was cloudy with dirt, blood, grime. He rested his head on the back of his hand still holding the tub and closed his eyes. A Skin-Eater! and he had challenged it for nothing but the sad faces in a pitiful town who was losing its children. Vesemir would have tanned him. Still would, if Jaskier actually did decide to make it into one of his ballads. Surely the song would paint Geralt as a soft but courageous touch, the savior who had gone into battle with nothing but a handful of elixirs and a silver sword. And despite the obvious, Geralt knew what else he'd had but would go unmentioned:
He had Jaskier.
"Fuck," Geralt breathed-- and then tensed in a way that made his body snarl as a feminine shriek came from behind him. He lifted his head and the woman shrieked again before shoving two large, steaming pitchers onto the floor near the bath and picking up her skirts in order to flee as fast as she could. She almost ran over Jaskier as he was coming in the door and it was a sight enough that Geralt would have chuckled if he could have been sure that it wouldn't have hurt.
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Geralt stared down at the water in the bath. It was cloudy with dirt, blood, grime. He rested his head on the back of his hand still holding the tub and closed his eyes. A Skin-Eater! and he had challenged it for nothing but the sad faces in a pitiful town who was losing its children. Vesemir would have tanned him. Still would, if Jaskier actually did decide to make it into one of his ballads. Surely the song would paint Geralt as a soft but courageous touch, the savior who had gone into battle with nothing but a handful of elixirs and a silver sword. And despite the obvious, Geralt knew what else he'd had but would go unmentioned:
He had Jaskier.
"Fuck," Geralt breathed-- and then tensed in a way that made his body snarl as a feminine shriek came from behind him. He lifted his head and the woman shrieked again before shoving two large, steaming pitchers onto the floor near the bath and picking up her skirts in order to flee as fast as she could. She almost ran over Jaskier as he was coming in the door and it was a sight enough that Geralt would have chuckled if he could have been sure that it wouldn't have hurt.