The problem with being on the road constantly was that there was simply no way that Geralt could ride Roach-- any Roach-- very far past their prime. It was dangerous for him, it was dangerous for the horse and it was dangerous for anyone who happened to be riding with them, too. He rubs a hand over his face and slides onto the bench, looking around. Jaskier had managed to pick what seemed like a decent, upstanding inn despite himself. The patrons were well-dressed, well-mannered, well-heeled; no one was screaming or spitting or throwing a beer at anyone else. Gods, the place was probably full of scholars.

Geralt groaned and leaned back against the wall, glad for the sight of Jaskier and the ale. His is hand drained in one long go. "Maybe you can write a ballad about her." The words were dry but lacked the bite of a normal jest. He might not have cried over Roach IV's retirement or the ends of any of the other mounts he'd had over the long years, but each one had still had a profound effect on him-- certainly more profound than any person he'd travelled with up until that point. (Excluding, as always, Her.) He'd given them their due respect in other ways.

And he's decided to get a gelding next time, just to throw Jaskier horribly off his game.

"Smells good in here, at least." Geralt raised an abortive sort of sweep at the assembled. "Tell me this is where you hung around when you were fresh and starry-eyed. An old haunt?"