Jaskier had made it to the table when Geralt stepped from the crowd, from the shadows and into the space in front of him. His arms were spread wide and there was a terrible gleam to that grin. He had the posture of a man delighted to see him and the expression of someone delighted to skin him. Jaskier scrambled back, goal momentarily forgotten in his haste to avoid Geralt. His hip hit the table, glanced against the wood and reminded him of how hard he'd fallen earlier. Jaskier twisted away as he backed up and was unprepared when his knees hit the arm of a heavy chair.

He fell back into it, hands clutching those pennants too tightly to catch himself.

The pennants--Jaskier watched Geralt approach in the dark, watched those golden viper's eyes as they grew closer, and with haste born of fear he ripped the handful of papers he had. It would have, perhaps, been wiser to spread them out but Jaskier was gripped by panic.