whatupbuttercup | PSL Horsetrading with Monsterbytrade

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PSL Horsetrading with Monsterbytrade

To the surprise of positively no one, Jaskier was a bit discerning when it came to purchasing anything of significant value. He picked his cremes and soaps out with care, sampled and carefully balanced the perfumes he carried, gauged and tested the accouterments he kept for the care of his lute--and his clothes, the ridiculous care he took in picking fabric and trim would have driven anyone but the tailor themselves to distraction. None of this had ever been inflicted on Geralt of Rivia directly--Jaskier tended to take the day to shop, whenever they were near a major city and Geralt was suitably occupied with hunting.

This time, however, Geralt had to come with him.

Jaskier had coin enough for most trinkets and niceties--but a horse? A horse was a pricey thing and he would have to encroach into the Witcher's purse if he planned on picking out any creature that could tolerate their particularly dangerous brand of wandering.

Fortunately, for all the sound and fury of Oxenfurt, there were a wealth of horse ranches in the surrounding farmland. They had no shortage of beasts to pick from and, with the market days of the big city, it was an easy task to see the lot of them lined up and ready for sale.

Jaskier picked through the herds (literal and figurative) and examined each horse that caught his eye. He hummed, spoke to them, twined his fingers through their manes, and made clucking noises with his tongue whenever one was deemed inappropriate or unworthy. There were more than a few that he fussed over for long stretches of time, but each failed some unspoken test and was given a sad pat on their long snouts as the bard bade them farewell.

They'd started at dawn, just as the first traders had arrived, and late afternoon was creeping into evening as they wandered. A dozen dealers had their stock sorted through and found wanting and, all the while, Jaskier darted to and fro--eagerly searching for something he couldn't explain.

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"No."

There were times when he was pressed into something or other that he normally wouldn't do via Jaskier's blind enthusiasm-- festivals were primary examples of things that Jaskier insisted were good for the soul and often dragged Geralt to in order to rekindle the flames of his heart-- but the line was firmly drawn at murder dinner theater. He glanced at Jaskier's face and shook his head. "The money is for the horse." It clearly wasn't the reason he'd said no but it gave them both the excuse to move on. "Just find us an inn with decent food and clean mattresses." He glanced at Roach as he lead the mare, as if he knew that she, at least, agreed that a night spent relaxing was the best way to go. Her hooves struck a harsh sound on the cobblestones as they walked.

What he wanted was to find the man a horse and get back on the road. "What didn't you like about the horses you passed on?" Perhaps it was best to work backwards. If Jaskier didn't know what he wanted then maybe he could pick out what he didn't like. "Most of those horses were good stock and would have been fine mounts."

"Oh fine, fine," Jaskier agreed and tapped his fingers to his chin as he considered the city. There was a fine inn and stables near the University, and he'd have little trouble getting them a discount if he tried--Geralt did have a point, after all, they were here to buy a horse, not indulge in fancy dinners. He changed course as they came upon the next intersection and led them off toward the University.

The question about the horses did merit some thought.

The first horse he'd liked had been a lovely girl, dark coat and dark eyes and she didn't startle even a bit as he moved around her. Unfortunately, she'd taken his cooing and chatting with the same dispassion--not even a flick of the ears when her eyes weren't on him--he had no idea if she were hard of hearing or if she just had a tin ear (could...horses have tin ears?) but it wouldn't do.

The next had been a lovely grey gelding with a smattering of little dark spots on his face. Adorable creature, definitely given to listening and followed his voice like an orchestra followed a conductor. He got a bit twitchy and nervous when Jaskier stroked his mane for too long, though, like he was prone to being overwhelmed. He clicked his teeth and went too still and shuffled all his weight this way and that--not a good decision for a bard who followed a Witcher.

The next few had been the same--all lovely creatures...if he was a normal merchant type fellow who traveled with a regular knight down regular roads. They were nice, pretty, well bred things...sweet enough and healthy enough, but none of them looked like they'd take well to whatever strangeness the two of them got up to.

They were also very expensive.

It wasn't all his money, so little problems had to be taken into consideration.

Roach, beautiful, lovely, darling Roach, plodded along with them as they crossed the city and Jaskier turned to stroke her mane idly as they walked. She didn't jump or flinch or even look at him apart from a huff of tolerance. He would have to ply her with an apple or a sugar cube when Geralt wasn't looking.

"It's hard to say," Jaskier told the Witcher in a sort of wishy-washy sing-song and waved his free hand in the air before him. "I mean, of course, I want someone as charming and lovely as you, my dear--" he said to Roach and patted her neck. "Unfortunately, we can't all be so lucky."

The inn was ahead and the promise of dinner had a smile on Jaskier's face.

"But, you are right," Jaskier ceded to Geralt as they walked. "There were a few that had promise. I'll see how they take to a good round of traveling songs tomorrow. Can't have a horse that dislikes my singing, after all, that would be an utter tragedy!"

"This is the fifth Roach I've had," Geralt said, his fingers stretching up from his hold on the reins to touch the velvet bristles under her chin. He'd never bothered bringing up the information before because... well. Because. But horse's lives were much shorter than witchers' and so eventually... and sometimes before that, if they were unlucky. Geralt had never tried naming his horse anything else-- Vesemir had told him from the start that it was soft, meant that he couldn't let go and he had to let go but the horses all kept the name regardless of color, sex or temperament.

"They get used to the road. Certainly don't all start with everything you need but horses are intelligent. They get the hang of things." Jaskier wasn't wrong to try and find a horse that he had a spark with, but he didn't need to test for all the ravages of what they might go through up front. "Plus, Roach will lead. Another mare, or a gelding, they'll follow her."

Jaskier doesn't quite hear the rest of what Geralt says, his advise about purchasing horses, because he just stops, mid-stride and stares at him in abject, mute horror when he declares that this is Roach V. Jaskier is positively aghast as he looks from Geralt to Roach back to Geralt again.

"The fifth?" He asks, voice strangled and timbre so high it's nearing a range only hounds can hear. "Is this the same--how many of them have I known!?"

He'd known Geralt for twenty years--Roach had been a lovely mare when he met the Witcher in Posada. Geralt had been on his own for more than a few years in their acquaintance--was this not the same--

Geralt and Roach (the V) walk on a few steps-- Geralt still talking-- before he realizes that Jaskier has stopped moving. The reins spool out as he turns. "Jaskier--"

Oh.

That is quite the pitch he reaches.

Geralt works his jaw slightly and then shrugs. He looks back at Roach as if considering though he knows the answer well enough. His black, spiked gloves work a section of her mane over to his side and she gives her head a shake before lowering it to clip at weeds pushing up from between the paving stones. The metal on her tack jingles. "Two," he agrees with her, looking calmly back to Jaskier. "Posada was Roach the fourth. She had a stocking on her left foreleg. Tail was shorter. When we parted ways near Toussaint, I retired her."

Jaskier is absolutely a man given to dramatics, they are practically the core of him, but he doesn't often look quite so utterly shattered when he hears news. His whole expression just breaks apart into a hundred pieces, somewhere between shock and finding out that the family dog has died. His hand settles on his chest in mock offense and he looks back at Roach--the V--

For a moment, Jaskier turns and tries to recall where Toussaint is in relation to Oxenfurt--but no, if Geralt had retired her so long ago she wouldn't still be grazing in a field. Oh, the poor girl--she'd been alone--

"Oh, dear, sweet girl--" Jaskier says and sounds more than a little faint. He looks at Roach, then, and back at Geralt, and then back at Roach. That meant this horse was how old--oh, bollocks, she was out of her prime then, wasn't she? Oh, he could not deal with the idea of meeting Roach VI.

"I--think I need a drink--" Jaskier announces suddenly and takes an uneasy step toward the inn. Another follows and then he's just sort of walking.

Roach begins following Jaskier first and Geralt sighs, continuing after and letting her pull him along for a silent minute before he makes his boots move to catch up with the bard. "Hold it together," he roughs out, smacking Jaskier on the back of the closest shoulder. "I gave her to a family who needed a cart horse." Yes, yes, he was soft. But she'd served him well and had deserved some years of light work and open pastures without griffins around. "She spent the rest of her days in hay and oats.

"Besides, you've know this Roach," he holds up the reins in demonstration, "far longer. But now I know that when I retire her I'll make sure to do it out of your eyesight, least there be tears." And there was no way that Geralt would tell Jaskier about the original Roach, or Roach the third. Outside the inn he hobbles the current version and holds the door open for the dazed bard.

The encouragement helps, though he does sway a bit under the force of that smack. A cart horse--that was nice--and for a family. Roach was a sweet girl--that sounded like a very nice sort of vacation--until death--And Geralt was right. Yes. He had known this Roach for far longer.

He makes a second strangled sound as Geralt just continues on, as he tries to be reassuring about getting rid of this Roach, and Jaskier's offense rises up to replace his daze. Roach, who did not speak common and thus had no idea what they were discussing, was snuffling around the post she'd been hobbled to and Jaskier shot her a concerned look before turning back to glower openly at the Witcher. Had he been close enough, he might've tried to cover her ears like a child who'd strayed too close to loud and drunken sailors.

"Don't you dare--" Jaskier snaps in a very quiet and very sharp whisper, as though he's trying to keep from making a scene in front of the horse. He strides through the open door and shakes his head at Geralt as he does--his shoulders set and a look of firm disapproval on his face.

Fortunately, Jaskier is able to take a moment to calm down and settle his frazzled nerves--he spends a few minutes chatting with the proprietor, discussing Oxenfurt and the University, and manages to win a bit of the man's favor. He arranges room and board, food and drinks for the both of them, and stabling for Roach. (He stubbornly decides to pay the extra coin to have a farrier see to her in the morning, if only as an apology for the grim conversation they'd had whilst they walked her in.)

By the time he returns to join Geralt, two ales in hand and food already ordered, he's not nearly so flustered. He does have a very firm set to his shoulder, though, and a determined look on his face. He hands Geralt the ale, plops down in the seat opposite the Witcher, and announces quite certainly:

"If you retire Roach while I'm not looking, I shall be mad at you forever. That lovely girl deserves some sappiness for all her years of loyal service and since you won't bawl over her, I'll just have to sob enough for the both of us."

He takes a sip of his drink, as if that's the end of that.

"I ordered pierogi and some of the beef roast they've got, as well as pies for tomorrow so we can take them with us."

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?"

Geralt refrained from comment on his threat which, in Jaskier's world, meant that he'd agreed to the terms. Why he'd even suggested Jaskier write a song and hadn't sounded entirely sour about it. Jaskier, satisfied that the importance of his stance on the matter had been imparted, perked up and relaxed at once.

"Where I hung around?" Jaskier asked and recoiled a bit, puffing a laugh over the edge of his tankard (and they were honest tankards with fancy embossed edges and designs). "Oh gods' no, this place is far too expensive for students. It's changed hands twice since I started school--this owner is newer to the city than I am--but in my day this was where you brought fancy ladies you wanted to bed. Or prospective patrons."

Jaskier takes a sip of his ale and sighs with delight at how much better than their usual fare it is. This place was very fond of Oxenfurt graduates and had lowered their prices accordingly. If not, he'd have been far less fond of it.

"The food is fantastic, the beds are soft, and best of all--there's no chance I'll run into anyone I know and loathe because this particular inn has neither a proper stage nor flattering acoustics."

Edited (what are words I'm going back to sleep) 2020-03-30 10:35 (UTC)

"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."

Geralt was suitably sour as they enjoyed their very fine dinner and a bit more very fine ale to accompany it. Thankfully, they talked no more on poor Roach IV, or the current lovely Roach V, and a few good drinks and a wealth of good food had Jaskier tipsy, happy, and back to his normal self. It was a testament to how comfortable the beds in this particular establishment were that, when confronted with a handsome bed partner and several free hours, Jaskier actually couldn't turn the night into something ridiculous and carnal.

No, the moment his tipsy head hit the feather pillow (and it was a very soft pillow with very smooth linens) he was out and snoring.

The sun had barely been down.

In Jaskier's opinion, had he been awake to give it, this was an utter waste of a very ideal arrangement...but he was not awake, not until just before dawn when Geralt dragged him out of bed and into the quiet, misty streets of Oxenfurt. Roach, at least, got to sleep in some--the farrier wouldn't be in and finished until mid-morning at the earliest--but even sleepy Jaskier (cad that he was) couldn't begrudge her the warmth of her stall. She deserved a comfortable morning.

"Alright," Jaskier said as he fiddled with the fine tuning on his lute and started idly strumming a chord. He hadn't played the night before, nor all that day, and his fingers were starting to itch. He'd planned on playing at some of the creatures already, but strumming whilst they walked in the bluish light of the early morning? That hadn't been his original intent. "Today we pick a horse! I can feel it, Geralt, we're going to be lucky."

"We'd be luckier if you fell on your lute," Geralt muttered, shrugging his shoulders as if missing the weight of his sword, left in the room with the rest of their things. Almost all the rest of their things.

Jaskier was going to sing to the horses.

Fuck.

The market seemed to roll out before them from out of the fog as they walked down the hill, their steps carried forward by the pluck of strings. It was only the best sleep that he'd had in weeks that kept him in a frame of mind to deal with the obvious debacle that lay in front of him. The sounds of horseflesh were muted by the the weather but once they'd gotten closer, Geralt's suspicions were confirmed. "More than yesterday," he said, in a tone that supplied thanks to anything holy as an addendum. Perhaps there would be something that Jaskier would confer his blessings upon so that they could get out of Oxenfurt and back to getting the money to get him another sword.

Though the morning wore on, the fog wore off, and Jaskier was still clucking and cooing and walking away.

Ah, except. Now the lute had been added in.

Just before lunch, Geralt had finally just leaned himself against a paddock fence and began to navel-gaze. He was sure that Jaskier would collect him when he found something. If he found something. If he ever found anything.

The new influx of horses had been a lovely, encouraging sight--more than a few ranchers had been missing the day before. Jaskier had perked up, strumming and humming as they meandered through the throng and Geralt, well, he'd been surprisingly amicable. For the first few hours, at least. To Jaskier's utter frustration, the vast majority of the horses that caught his eye seemed utterly repelled by him.

Yesterday, he'd been able to walk up to nearly any of them, cooing and clucking as he liked, and they'd either ignore him or turn a fond look his way. These horses--oh, they were not the same. When he strummed a soft chord or hummed sweetly at them, they would either wander off, flatten their ears at him, or paw at the ground nervously. He'd had one sweet-faced black horse trot up to him when he started strumming a lullaby, but it hadn't gotten within arm's reach before its ears swiveled with alarm and it bounded off.

The bard was crestfallen--crushed, even--and while Geralt begged off to watch as he wandered through the paddocks, Jaskier had an absurd moment of terror. He wanted to find a horse but, well, what was he going to do if none of these could tolerate the sound of a lute? He couldn't use that as an excuse with the Witcher, he'd been very firm about finding a horse today--but it would be a catastrophe.

Jaskier was so distraught by his sudden conundrum that he stopped playing and just stared at the poor black mare who'd run off. He stood there for a minute or two and was so consumed in the dilema that he didn't notice the horse that came up behind him--at least, not until it huffed impatiently in his hair and chewed at the shoulder of his doublet. He started as it tugged at him, and when he whirled around he actually, honestly, gasped with delight.

"Well--aren't you gorgeous!" Jaskier praised in a bright tone and the horse in front of him stared back, eyes blue as the summer sky, and waited. It huffed again and tried to chew on his arm--no on his lute strap? "Oh, were you listening? How rude of me."

Jaskier strummed a chord and the horse--well, he had rarely seen one look delighted, but it nickered and shuffled and stared at him. It was a gorgeous blonde thing--shimmered like gold in the sun--and its mane had the most delightful bit of curl to it, like the lovely locks of some fair noblewoman. It was a bit thin, and a bit smaller than Roach, but very elegant. It looked like it was the very model that posed whilst someone sculpted heraldry.

It was stunning, positively beautiful, and best yet: it liked his playing.

He sung sweetly about how pretty it was, about how it sparkled in the sunshine, and the horse delighted again, huffing at his head and swishing its lovely tail--it liked his singing as well.

"Geralt!" Jaskier called brightly--he played and meandered back toward the Witcher--the golden horse followed him at a sedate and cheerful pace, drawn after him as surely as if he'd had a lead on it. "Oh! I've found it!"

Oh, many of the horses were the same-- it was the lute that had changed things. Despite Geralt's deeply quiet praise for Jaskier's musical talents (the compositions he would never, ever agree with, though the bard would simply just tell him that he had no ear for poetry) there were just very few horse (or men for that matter) that would walk toward a man banging a lute in your general direction with purpose.

"And I haven't even gotten old yet," Geralt said with a sigh for the call and the incoming sounds of song. He levered himself off the boards and turned. "I hope that-- fuck, Jaskier, no." Because his eyes had found the thing that was walking after the bard and there were so many reasons that they were not only not taking this horse on the road with them, but not sinking any money into it. "Just no. Go find something other than that kelpie. It's not coming with us."

If Geralt hadn't known Jaskier for as long as he had he would have asked how the man had managed to attract the one horse that was as high-maintenance as he was, but this far into their relationship the question didn't even come to mind. Of course he had.

Jaskier, who was already deeply invested in plans to braid this horse's mane and systematically identify what treats it liked, came to an awkward, stumbling halt as Geralt denied it. He played a sour note as his fingers stilled on the strings and the horse seemed surprised and annoyed by it.

"What, why, it's perfe--wait," Jaskier objected, whined, and complained all at once. "Kelpie?"

His eyes widened at the idea, not in horror but in open, unashamed wonder. His head whipped back to the beautiful gold horse and then Geralt, then back again.

"I thought they only came as seals," Jaskier breathed.

The golden horse, annoyed by the sudden lack of serenading, stepped closer to the awed bard and nudged him firmly in the shoulder with its nose. It huffed and nipped at his shoulder and then nipped lightly at his hair until Jaskier started stroking it.

"Jask-- no." Geralt hopped over the paddock fence in one single motion, heading toward the idiot bard who he'd let travel with him for so long for unknown reasons. "That's a selkie. This horse is not a magical creature who will shed her skin and love you forever if you hide it from her, mostly--" he leaned down to talk a look, "because this horse is a stallion." He didn't want to examine the ridiculous thing following Jaskier but his hands took him forward anyway, down the slender limbs to the fetlocks, picking up the feet. The horse shifted weight easily (against expectation) and didn't snap. Geralt sighed and rested the hoof on his knee as spoke. "Kelpies lurk in the water and take the form of horses to come on land to hunt people. They like eating skin, pulling it off their victims piece by piece."

He stood up, dropped the hoof. Came around to pull at the high withers. Ran fingers through the mane and then handled ears, looked at eyes, stuck his thumbs in the corner of the horse's mouth so it would open. Unfortunately, the horse seemed in better-than-good condition. It head-butted his chest when he let go and he pushed it back. "Jaskier, this horse has some form of albinism. It is going to cost a fortune because a fool will pay it and then it will catch sunburn on the road. Look at his legs. He was breed for some idiot lord to prance around a garden, not to outrun griffins and climb mountains."

Though to be fair that might be untrue-- a horse as compact and slender as this one might be incredibly fast, even with Jaskier's ego on his back.

Well, Jaskier was a bit disappointed that it wasn't a magical creature that could strip that lovely fur like a coat and turn into a gorgeous woman--or rather a gorgeous man--but the description of a Kelpie had been interesting enough to distract him from his disappointment. Geralt meandered around the horse, poking and prodding, and Jaskier petted the long thin shapes of its face. It seemed content to let him, which was delightful.

"Oh, come now Geralt, it wouldn't skin people and eat them, it's a music lover," Jaskier defended in a tone that was only conversational if one were talking with a toddler. "Isn't that right? No, you're far too pretty to lurk in water all day. It would ruin your lovely mane."

Geralt petted it, checked its teeth and generally fussed about until the horse butted him in the chest. Then, to the surprise of no one but the consternation of Jaskier, he objected. The bard gave him a flat look and settled his hands on his hips.

They had been searching for a day and a half and, thus far, this was the clear front-runner.

"Geralt, if I can climb the mountain on foot, in my very nice shoes, this creature can surely bound up it like a mountain goat," Jaskier says, "and besides, this one likes my music! Would you rather I pick one that gets upset and runs off when I start playing? How well will that horse handle shrieking--oh--I don't know--harpies if we come across them?"

"How does that matter if it's standing still simply because it's too dumb to consider another option?" Geralt growled the question, looking at the horse in question again. He wished there were some obvious deformity to the thing-- a missing leg or a harelip. A shockingly golden coat was never going to ring as a problem to Jaskier. The horse shook his head, flopping his mane around his high, arched neck and for the love of Kaer Morhen, what had the rancher bred to get such a beast? Geralt fleeting considered that maybe it was a dark creature and then sighed. Unfortunately not.

"No," he said again, and walked away. They could find something else. Something less... loud.

Jaskier gaped but, as the bard went to argue, the horse at his side did the most remarkable thing. It let out a low huffing exhalation, flattened its ears, tossed its head--mockingly? Jaskier stared in open shock.

Had it--was it--did it just do a reasonable impression of Geralt? No, that couldn't be right. Horses were smart but not that smart--it had just disliked Geralt's tone, surely.

"You're not dumb, are you, my pretty?" Jaskier asked and a touch of suspicion crept into his cooing. The gold horse stared at him, ears swiveled to his voice, and its eyes sparkled in the sunshine...and it looked perfectly, absolutely innocent.

No, he had imagined it the similarities.

It was a horse for fuck's sake, not a selkie or a kelpie, or what have you.

Jaskier pouted at the lovely creature and heaved a huge sigh as he reached out and stroked its mane. His frown was dramatic and apologetic but, honestly, what could he do? He had to borrow money from the Witcher to acquire the horse, he was at least a bit beholden to Geralt's opinions on which horse he chose.

"Sorry, sweetling," Jaskier told it and scratched it fondly behind the ear. It stared and kept staring as he walked off, headed after the Witcher and toward the next paddock.

"You know, that was a perfectly lovely horse," Jaskier complained as he caught up to Geralt, his lute out and ready as they walked. "Who knows how long it will take to find another one that likes my strumming?"

Jaskier complained quietly as he strummed and absolutely didn't notice the way that gold horse watched them, nor as it plucked its way out of one paddock (with a surprisingly nimble and impressive vertical leap) and into the next. It moved slyly as it followed after them, but it was a shiny thing and didn't hide well among the horses in the next paddock either. Still, even a golden horse can meander through a herd without immediately drawing notice and Jaskier had turned his attention to the next batch.

Geralt led the way through the new herd; something about the way he moved seemed to be accepted by the horses and most didn't even bother to raise their heads as he came on. Jaskier, however, had ears stamping and tails flicking. Geralt did notice, in a herd with Jaskier rather than up and down makeshift stalls, the effect that the bard had on the horses. His eyes narrowed, considering.

"Why've you never had a horse?" He think he knew the answer, now, but he wanted to hear it from Jaskier because no matter how the average horse reacted to the man's natural energy, that didn't mean it was the human side of the answer. He'd never thought to ask before, it had simply always been the status quo, Jaskier on foot. A compact and solid mare raised her head and eyed the two men-- an appropriate yellow for a horse (dun), she had an attractive starburst that covered one eye completely in white. But a strum of the lute sent her ears back and when she moved away she took half the herd.

It left a gap in horseflesh that revealed a sandy gold coat and Geralt stopped in his tracks. He looked at the horse and the paddock they'd come from, and then the horse again. The horse looked away. "Jaskier..."

Edited 2020-04-01 16:00 (UTC)

"Oh, you know how it is--hounds dislike some people, cats others, horses just tend to dislike me for some reason," Jaskier told him, absently, and pouted as he approached the be-speckled mare. She looked like a sweet thing but, just as the rest of the horses in this paddock had, the moment he plucked out a few chords, her ears went back and she nickered and stomped off. Jaskier let his hand fall to the belly of his lute with an audible, percussive thump. Another horse moved off in the opposite direction as he did.

"Is it tempo? Timbre?" Jaskier asked, largely to himself, as his gaze tracked the herd toward the other end of the fences. He was still ruminating when Geralt called his name and drew him out of his thoughts.

"Hmm?" Jaskier started and then, as he spied that glimmering gold, let out a small delighted gasp. "Oh! Another?"

Was this a popular breed? When had this happened?

Jaskier started toward the gold horse with eager speed and, halfway to it, realized that it was shockingly similar to the last one. So shockingly similar that there was, in fact, no way that it was not the very same horse. His awe shifted to playful scolding then, but the skip in his step didn't abate.

The gold horse peered at him, unashamed, and shuffled closer as he came alongside it--it was a terrible, childish habit, reaching out whilst approaching a horse, but he'd grown accustomed to doing it to Roach as he walked next to her for miles on end. Usually Geralt would stop him with a gruff reprimand--Don't Touch Roach--but there were times he didn't and Roach would simply huff at his touch. The fact that this horse didn't snap or startle as he combed absently through its mane made him smile.

"Clever little fellow," Jaskier reprimanded in delighted singsong. "How did you get out, hm?"

True enough-- Geralt had yet to find a cat that had less than a passing dislike for Witchers, though they seemed to feel particularly strongly about him. Still, it was a byproduct of his mutations, he was sure; Jaskier was simply Jaskier. Well. Perhaps that was enough... for all but one horse, apparently.

"It jumped." There was no hole in the paddocks, no gate even that could have been used. He and Jaskier had boosted over themselves. "That fence is five foot." A decent leap for any horse at a run, but with no space and no momentum? Roach couldn't have done it, nor many other horses Geralt had known in his life time.

From the front of the paddock came the hawking sound of spittle. "Akhal-Teke's the breed of that demon," the wiry man hanging on the boards said, jabbing a finger in the direction of the golden horse. "Comes from the southern continent, does. Fast, too smart by half, pain in my ass ever since it was foaled. Eight-hundred crowns."

Geralt's jaw only stayed hinged through superb force of will. "It's a horse," he managed, "not a dragon."

The rancher laughed in an unpleasantly phlegmy way and shrugged his shoulders before pushing the brim of his straw hat up higher on his brow. The fog had just burned off but the man was already sweating. "Comes from the southern continent," he repeated. "And he ain't been castrated so the price includes his sac, donn'it?" Geralt looked at Jaskier and shook his head. There was absolutely zero reasons to purchase this horse; even had it been on sale as a door stop he would have said no, and now?

"Find another," he said to the bard. There had to be a horse here that could tolerate Jaskier's abundant energy other than this one.

Jaskier was fawning when the rancher came over, his fingers combing through the horse's mane and his voice gone low and playful as he crooned at it. He heard the breed name, distantly, and wondered how everyone could possibly be so sour about a horse so lovely--but, oh, damn it all.

Eight hundred crowns?

Jaskier had less than a quarter of that and even with good haggling and a strong dose of terror no one was likely to back down that far. He sighed and scratched at the space behind the golden horse's ear. The gold horse, to its credit, did not mind in the slightest that he leaned and pressed and seemed fond of petting its whole face at once--indeed, it was somewhat annoyed that he hadn't figured out how to do that and also play the lute.

"In another life, lovely," Jaskier told the horse fondly and, as if it could comprehend, pointed back toward its original paddock. "You go back."

The horse didn't move but Jaskier, after a goodly amount of sighing returned to Geralt and gestured on to the next paddock. With the introduction of the gold horse, none of the others in this one seemed keen on coming near, and Jaskier had no desire to try coaxing them just yet. He plucked at his lute distractedly and, once again, failed to notice as the gold horse followed them.

"Alright, new plan, Geralt," Jaskier told him and gestured down the street. "You pick and we'll see if your choices like me any better, hm? Roach adores me, so clearly you have acceptable taste."

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.

Edited 2020-04-02 16:45 (UTC)

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