"You realize," Geralt said, glancing at the sun slinking its way toward the treeline, "that you will not find a unicorn in any of these herds." They'd been at this all day and he didn't think that he'd ever seen Jaskier with such a determination to be discerning-- and this was talking about Jaskier, who made a habit of being obstinate. Geralt ran a hand over the ear of a nearby gelding almost absently. "Unicorns don't actually exist, Jaskier."
He had started the day a willing participant in this endeavor; he was, after all, the one who had pushed Jaskier into this purchase. They'd gone on for too long and had gotten in enough scrapes that it felt like lunacy not to be on equal footing, so to speak. To be able to go on pretending that this was anything less than a more-often-than-not permanent traveling arrangement just to salve both their stubborn prides was no longer a good enough excuse; they would simply have to find another. So, then.
Each horse that Jaskier gave attention, Geralt swept an eye over. Each horse that Jaskier lingered around, clucking, Geralt ran hands over fetlocks and ears. There were a few over which he even spent time haggling with the rancher before Jaskier would, inevitably, withdraw his sparkling and cooing affections and turn away. Geralt was growing tired of the bard's unexplained fickleness. For all that Oxenfurt was-- in the Witcher's estimation-- a city he'd rather not spend an length of time in, the horseflesh was quality. These ranchers knew their business. Which was why Geralt had gone past annoyed and well into frustration after they'd missed lunch and now that the sun was rounding it's final curve his stomach was growling rudely his tongue was ready with a few choice rude remarks as well.
"Let's at least find somewhere to get supper," Geralt said, glancing at a piebald mare who looked as tired as he felt. "We still have another day. The horses will be here tomorrow." For all the good it seemed that would do them.
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He had started the day a willing participant in this endeavor; he was, after all, the one who had pushed Jaskier into this purchase. They'd gone on for too long and had gotten in enough scrapes that it felt like lunacy not to be on equal footing, so to speak. To be able to go on pretending that this was anything less than a more-often-than-not permanent traveling arrangement just to salve both their stubborn prides was no longer a good enough excuse; they would simply have to find another. So, then.
Each horse that Jaskier gave attention, Geralt swept an eye over. Each horse that Jaskier lingered around, clucking, Geralt ran hands over fetlocks and ears. There were a few over which he even spent time haggling with the rancher before Jaskier would, inevitably, withdraw his sparkling and cooing affections and turn away. Geralt was growing tired of the bard's unexplained fickleness. For all that Oxenfurt was-- in the Witcher's estimation-- a city he'd rather not spend an length of time in, the horseflesh was quality. These ranchers knew their business. Which was why Geralt had gone past annoyed and well into frustration after they'd missed lunch and now that the sun was rounding it's final curve his stomach was growling rudely his tongue was ready with a few choice rude remarks as well.
"Let's at least find somewhere to get supper," Geralt said, glancing at a piebald mare who looked as tired as he felt. "We still have another day. The horses will be here tomorrow." For all the good it seemed that would do them.