PSL Family Obligations with Monsterbytrade

[whatupbuttercup]

"It's fine," Jaskier repeated in slight singsong to Cantata. The horse appreciated the tone but did not, unfortunately, speak any human languages and could not return the sentiment. Jaskier, far from mollified despite his pronouncement, repeated the words again and let out a slow, manic sort of huff as he sat upright in his saddle and stared dead ahead. Were they walking, he'd be gesturing and flitting about--as it was, he had to tolerate simply twitching his feet and shuffling awkwardly in place.

"This is --fine," he announced again, louder, and his voice had a reedy quality. It was up about half a register from his normal speaking tone. He reached and adjusted the collar of his finest doublet. He looked ready for a party--he looked positively regal on his beautiful horse, in fact, and nobody would fault him. (That was a lie, they would all fault him for something--no. Focus. Fuck, there was nothing to focus on.)

He glanced sidelong at Geralt and opened his mouth, ready to give his warning again, but snapped it shut. Geralt had agreed to come (with surprisingly little begging on Jaskier's part) and Jaskier had given him his frantic assurances and instructions on the spot. He wanted, very desperately, to repeat them all but he knew it would do nothing but annoy the man riding alongside him. The warnings ate at his nerves, though, and Jaskier had so very few nerves left--they frayed with truly astounding speed as they rode down the blind lane and closer to his familial home.

"Now--and, once again, I cannot stress this enough--there is absolutely no call to seek out any conversation, whatsoever," Jaskier blurted suddenly, repeating himself for what had to be the fourth time this morning. One would think that Geralt was an eager participant, ready to sample the wines and chat up the wealthy attendees, rather than...well, he was basically a hostage. Or...no. Jaskier was a hostage, Geralt was his...emotional support warrior? This situation really defied colorful metaphor.

Geralt was going to suffer with him, or at least next to him, and that counted for everything.

"You will definitely be sought out, and that will be--" the bard made a noncommittal slightly strangled noise and waved his hand. Whatever he'd omitted, his expression did not imply a pleasant conversation was an option. "Just...act naturally or, if you prefer: evade. Evasion is a perfectly viable plan. I'd do it if I could." Jaskier continued and fidgeted, his hands stroking through Cantata's lovely mane rather than keeping firm hold on the reins. Fortunately, the golden horse was more than used to following Roach by now and didn't wander.

"Honestly, you know, I won't be even the slightest bit upset if you suddenly vanish, or even if you directly offend anyone--in fact, feel encouraged. The more offensive you are, the less offensive I'll seem--oh, or perhaps not, they might blame me for it anyway--" Jaskier babbled. "I'd prefer it if you didn't stab anyone, mostly, but I can't really cast aspersions on that given how likely I am to stab someone--maybe myself. Oh! If I were stabbed I wouldn't have to attend, you wouldn't have to attend!"

"Geralt, would you mind terribly stabbing me really quickly?" Jaskier asked and there was a not insignificant part of his tone that was serious.

It was an absolutely gorgeous day.

The summer sun was up but Lettenhove was an excruciatingly temperate bit of the continent, even high summer wasn't uncomfortable here. The trees were green, lush, and swaying. The grass was inviting, dotted with wildflowers that should have died out come the end of spring, and there were little colorful birds darting above them, flitting this way and that between the dense leaves. Clearly there were no hawks to be found anywhere nearby.

The road they traveled on was paved with an even set of matching stones, interwoven into a pattern, a bit of a rarity for a place this rural, and both the road and foliage alongside it was excruciatingly well kept. The lane wound this way and that through the thick trees, but whatever dampening effect the meandering, tree-laden nature of the road was meant to have, it wasn't up to the task of keeping out the sounds of the party ahead of them.

They were close enough, then, that even Jaskier could hear particularly boisterous bursts of laughter and the sounds of the distant string quartet. Fuck.

"Just a little stabbing," Jaskier plyed, his expression a touch desperate. "Please?"