The name had been patiently repeated every time the bard managed to take a breath while their horses walked the well-manicured but winding path. The place was lovely in a... planned, sort of way. Of course, as they went on and Jaskier rolled right over every mention of his own name and into a high sort of babble, the scenery took second-place to simply staring at his friend and wondering if he'd manage to take a breath before he fell straight off the kelpie. Geralt had smelling salts but he'd rather not waste them on stopping Jaskier trying to talk himself into his own grave.
Geralt had agreed to come today (with only a small amount of begging) because of the particular register that Jaskier's voice seemed to keep climbing into every time he mentioned how very fine his family was, and how lovely the wedding of his cousin was sure to be, and how all involved would be pleased to see a Witcher, of course, because Lettenhove strove to uphold the old ways--
Honestly, Geralt had agreed to come because Jaskier was usually not so terrible a liar and that, coupled with the off-tune pitch, set the witcher's nerves strangely on edge.
When Jaskier finally acknowledged his companion-- only because he was searching for the nearest pointy object which might cause a fatal wound, apparently, since he was eyeing the sheathed swords hanging from Roach's saddle and not Geralt himself-- Geralt kneed Roach closer to the bard. Unfortunately for Jaskier it was not to put the swords within his reach. Their knees brushed, banged lightly, and then Geralt reached out and soundly flicked the man in the temple.
"Drink, keep quiet, and we'll be gone in the morning."
There was no doublet or silks for the witcher, but he had allowed himself to be talked into a pair of dark trousers that had actually been tailored for him (which, if he ever had the occasion to need to do again, Jaskier would not be allowed in the building whilst it happened), a thin, fine linen shirt, and a leather jerkin that had not a stud, nail, or mended hole from a monster to be found upon it. To the already stuffy look Geralt had even allowed Jaskier to wrap a completely ornamental belt around his waist. His hair was near shimmering when the sun dashed through the canopy to catch it and rightfully so for the amount of soap that Jaskier had severely and at length lathered into his scalp while mumbling about how no one really cared about appearances anyway.
No. No, Geralt did not like the tone that Jaskier's family put into the man's voice.
The path turned and the trees opened quite suddenly on a sprawling and beautiful villa, set clearly with purpose to catch a small hill and the views around it. Flowers hung everywhere, either growing or strung to the point where the entire front of the place glowed as the interwoven white and burgundy petals caught the sunlight and set a gorgeously-planned fire. Only a blind man would have not known something special was going on here today-- actually, perhaps a blind man would know as well; Geralt's nose wrinkled at the smell. Despite all things, it seemed that there were some preferences that were hereditary.
Roach had stopped walking without the pressure of the witcher's legs and the kelpie pulled up beside her; the golden horse reached out and bit discreetly at the mare's mane. Roach only tossed her head but the jangling of her tack pulled Geralt's attention back from the overwrought house to the man at his side. "Drink," he growled, because after seeing the house and the state of Jaskier's face it seemed to bare repeating, "and keep quiet. We'll be gone in the morning."
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The name had been patiently repeated every time the bard managed to take a breath while their horses walked the well-manicured but winding path. The place was lovely in a... planned, sort of way. Of course, as they went on and Jaskier rolled right over every mention of his own name and into a high sort of babble, the scenery took second-place to simply staring at his friend and wondering if he'd manage to take a breath before he fell straight off the kelpie. Geralt had smelling salts but he'd rather not waste them on stopping Jaskier trying to talk himself into his own grave.
Geralt had agreed to come today (with only a small amount of begging) because of the particular register that Jaskier's voice seemed to keep climbing into every time he mentioned how very fine his family was, and how lovely the wedding of his cousin was sure to be, and how all involved would be pleased to see a Witcher, of course, because Lettenhove strove to uphold the old ways--
Honestly, Geralt had agreed to come because Jaskier was usually not so terrible a liar and that, coupled with the off-tune pitch, set the witcher's nerves strangely on edge.
When Jaskier finally acknowledged his companion-- only because he was searching for the nearest pointy object which might cause a fatal wound, apparently, since he was eyeing the sheathed swords hanging from Roach's saddle and not Geralt himself-- Geralt kneed Roach closer to the bard. Unfortunately for Jaskier it was not to put the swords within his reach. Their knees brushed, banged lightly, and then Geralt reached out and soundly flicked the man in the temple.
"Drink, keep quiet, and we'll be gone in the morning."
There was no doublet or silks for the witcher, but he had allowed himself to be talked into a pair of dark trousers that had actually been tailored for him (which, if he ever had the occasion to need to do again, Jaskier would not be allowed in the building whilst it happened), a thin, fine linen shirt, and a leather jerkin that had not a stud, nail, or mended hole from a monster to be found upon it. To the already stuffy look Geralt had even allowed Jaskier to wrap a completely ornamental belt around his waist. His hair was near shimmering when the sun dashed through the canopy to catch it and rightfully so for the amount of soap that Jaskier had severely and at length lathered into his scalp while mumbling about how no one really cared about appearances anyway.
No. No, Geralt did not like the tone that Jaskier's family put into the man's voice.
The path turned and the trees opened quite suddenly on a sprawling and beautiful villa, set clearly with purpose to catch a small hill and the views around it. Flowers hung everywhere, either growing or strung to the point where the entire front of the place glowed as the interwoven white and burgundy petals caught the sunlight and set a gorgeously-planned fire. Only a blind man would have not known something special was going on here today-- actually, perhaps a blind man would know as well; Geralt's nose wrinkled at the smell. Despite all things, it seemed that there were some preferences that were hereditary.
Roach had stopped walking without the pressure of the witcher's legs and the kelpie pulled up beside her; the golden horse reached out and bit discreetly at the mare's mane. Roach only tossed her head but the jangling of her tack pulled Geralt's attention back from the overwrought house to the man at his side. "Drink," he growled, because after seeing the house and the state of Jaskier's face it seemed to bare repeating, "and keep quiet. We'll be gone in the morning."