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?"

Comments

[monsterbytrade]

"Jaskier."

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."