"Mercy, Jaskier-- are you saying that you won't be singing tonight?" The question was waspish-- what passed as good-natured from Geralt. His mood was improving with the weight of the ale settling on his stomach. "But how will I get to sleep tonight?" There was a flick of a smile at one corner of his mouth and he crossed his arms loosely over his chest before letting his attention roam again. Geralt tries to picture a cherub-cheeked Jaskier here amongst the wood panelling, his hat cocked askew, woo'ing patrons and beautiful women-- likely one in the same, or one to get to the other. The man has been a lech as long as Geralt has known him and there is little doubt that he'd been anything else before that.

To be fair, as much as Geralt hand-waved the small pleasures in life and gave a stern look to the general wasting of money, he did enjoy niceties. Or-- he had. When Kaer Mohren had been in its prime the chambers that were Geralt's and he passed the winter months in had shelves of books, a large copper tub, soaps and a small, neat stock of aged ports within reach of comfortable chairs. Even Jaskier would have been impressed at the fact that Geralt had spent literally months at a time being clean. But things had changed, as all things must.

Still. He would enjoy the food and the mattress and Jaskier didn't need to know. He would hate to ruin the impression that the bard needed to fuss over him. Some people needed a purpose. "If we leave just before dawn we'll be to the market when they open. And tomorrow, Jaskier, you're picking a horse."