Geralt was now keeping an eye on the demon, despite prices. He watched how it gave the rancher the wide berth and seemed to slip into the herd-- how a horse like that could not stand out amongst the rabble he didn't know, but he saw it happen. It used it's shorter stature and actually seemed to deliberately put taller horses between it and the pockmarked man. Because of the sight he took a moment for Geralt to tune into the dejected pluck of the lute that paced at his side.
Shit.
Jaskier pouting generally was one thing, the man had a hopeless amount of daily whims and wants that were never attended to, mostly fantastical, and they would pass with the changing of the breeze. When he plucked forlorn strings as he was doing now, however. That never boded well. Geralt squared his shoulders and ignored the instrument though the misery of the man was two-fold-- because he was agreeing with Geralt instead of pushing and being annoying.
Double-shit.
Geralt knew what would happen, now, it was only a matter of if he delayed it or not. Jaskier would almost certainly buy a horse at his suggestion, could he find one that didn't openly balk... something that might be possible now that the razor-edges of happiness had been sanded off Jaskier's personality by his dejection. But that horse would skitter tomorrow, and the day after, and there would be more monotone agreements to plans, more forlorn notes tossed into the air like sighs--
No. Geralt routinely frowned on so-called-premonition but knowing someone exactly was a different sort of clairvoyance. To boot Geralt knew himself as well-- he would certainly wind up sorely tempted to feed Jaskier a monster if that sort of thing went on for the amount of time it would take to train any sort of stead-fastness into a steed.
He blinked; they'd stepped out of the end paddock and started down the cobblestones toward the smaller enclosures, Jaskier a few good steps in front of him. There was a wet curse from behind and Geralt turned to see the rancher struggling to back up the Ahkal-Teke from the gate they'd left as the horse flattened his ears and snapped at gloved hands struggling with the metal bars. Geralt swore that the horses movement were not defensive-- he wasn't trying to protect himself from the gate-- they were offensive. He was actively trying to get the rancher to move.
Melitete's tits. Geralt swallowed his pained sigh. He was going to regret every part of this. He knew it.
"Rancher!" Both the man and the horse snapped their heads around; however the horse took the split-second to drop himself back down and bull his way forward. The rancher stumbled back, cursing, and golden haunches let hooves find freedom on the cobblestones in two bunny-hopped bounds. The horse tossed its high head and looked very happy for itself. Geralt started forward, holding one flat, pacifying hand toward the beast as the rancher grunted and climbed the boards to his feet. Geralt's other hand slipped into one of the small pockets on his belt. "Jaskier," he called over his shoulder, "play something. And for fucks'sake, make it happy." Then he looked at the Rancher. "Three hundred crowns." He knew what his smile looked like-- it said that he knew the man had a problem and for a drop in price, Geralt would take it off his hands. It was not a particularly kind smile.
The rancher spit. "Even demons're worth more. Seven-fifty."
"Four-fifty."
"Six-fifty," the man hissed, and Geralt grabbed the man's hand to shake it. Then he turned their hands flat as one, to ground and sky, and pulled his own away carefully. In the rancher's gloved hand sat a small but perfect ruby-- certainly worth somewhere between six and seven hundred crowns depending on the market he sold it in. The rancher held it up to the sun, casting flecks of blood-colored light on his face before pocketing it with a nod. "I'll throw in some tack," he gruffed out. "Hold a'mo." And he walked off. Geralt was sure the tack would be shit, but that was fine.
no subject
Shit.
Jaskier pouting generally was one thing, the man had a hopeless amount of daily whims and wants that were never attended to, mostly fantastical, and they would pass with the changing of the breeze. When he plucked forlorn strings as he was doing now, however. That never boded well. Geralt squared his shoulders and ignored the instrument though the misery of the man was two-fold-- because he was agreeing with Geralt instead of pushing and being annoying.
Double-shit.
Geralt knew what would happen, now, it was only a matter of if he delayed it or not. Jaskier would almost certainly buy a horse at his suggestion, could he find one that didn't openly balk... something that might be possible now that the razor-edges of happiness had been sanded off Jaskier's personality by his dejection. But that horse would skitter tomorrow, and the day after, and there would be more monotone agreements to plans, more forlorn notes tossed into the air like sighs--
No. Geralt routinely frowned on so-called-premonition but knowing someone exactly was a different sort of clairvoyance. To boot Geralt knew himself as well-- he would certainly wind up sorely tempted to feed Jaskier a monster if that sort of thing went on for the amount of time it would take to train any sort of stead-fastness into a steed.
He blinked; they'd stepped out of the end paddock and started down the cobblestones toward the smaller enclosures, Jaskier a few good steps in front of him. There was a wet curse from behind and Geralt turned to see the rancher struggling to back up the Ahkal-Teke from the gate they'd left as the horse flattened his ears and snapped at gloved hands struggling with the metal bars. Geralt swore that the horses movement were not defensive-- he wasn't trying to protect himself from the gate-- they were offensive. He was actively trying to get the rancher to move.
Melitete's tits. Geralt swallowed his pained sigh. He was going to regret every part of this. He knew it.
"Rancher!" Both the man and the horse snapped their heads around; however the horse took the split-second to drop himself back down and bull his way forward. The rancher stumbled back, cursing, and golden haunches let hooves find freedom on the cobblestones in two bunny-hopped bounds. The horse tossed its high head and looked very happy for itself. Geralt started forward, holding one flat, pacifying hand toward the beast as the rancher grunted and climbed the boards to his feet. Geralt's other hand slipped into one of the small pockets on his belt. "Jaskier," he called over his shoulder, "play something. And for fucks'sake, make it happy." Then he looked at the Rancher. "Three hundred crowns." He knew what his smile looked like-- it said that he knew the man had a problem and for a drop in price, Geralt would take it off his hands. It was not a particularly kind smile.
The rancher spit. "Even demons're worth more. Seven-fifty."
"Four-fifty."
"Six-fifty," the man hissed, and Geralt grabbed the man's hand to shake it. Then he turned their hands flat as one, to ground and sky, and pulled his own away carefully. In the rancher's gloved hand sat a small but perfect ruby-- certainly worth somewhere between six and seven hundred crowns depending on the market he sold it in. The rancher held it up to the sun, casting flecks of blood-colored light on his face before pocketing it with a nod. "I'll throw in some tack," he gruffed out. "Hold a'mo." And he walked off. Geralt was sure the tack would be shit, but that was fine.