"If you want a tavern, go find a tavern," Geralt grunted as he kept walking. He was beyond uncomfortable himself, even with his biology working for him, and the last thing he needed at this moment was Jaskier whining. The man could be downright insufferable when he dug his heels in and all their years together didn't always soften the edge of his cajoling-- especially when Geralt was already pissed at having to trudge over hill and dale for one fucking forktail in the summer swelter and the handful of coin that would come from it. "Unless you think that you can sing the beast to death, I don't need your assistance."
It was unkind. He knew it. The acknowledgement of his actions was one thing the years had given him, but he'd pushed Jaskier further and to little better result so behavior didn't always improve. The man was an idiot but by this point he was Geralt's idiot and the witcher was resigned to the fact. Here and now the best he could do would be to actually convince Jaskier that the tavern was the better place for him and that way they could both spend the rest of the afternoon in a little more peace.
He paused to examine some scrapes in the mostly dead grass and sighed. Dried soil slipped from between his fingers. Certainly furrows, roughly the right size. At least they were on the right track-- the only thing worse than being out in his heat searching for a monster would be to come back without its head. Roach had been left behind as a liability.
He would have left Jaskier as well, had the man allowed it.
"You've seen me take down forktails before. This can't possibly be more interesting for you than the bosom on that barmaid in town. Go write a ballad about her. Pillowy-ness." Geralt waved the word away and slapped his hand against his thigh to rid it of clinging earth.
no subject
It was unkind. He knew it. The acknowledgement of his actions was one thing the years had given him, but he'd pushed Jaskier further and to little better result so behavior didn't always improve. The man was an idiot but by this point he was Geralt's idiot and the witcher was resigned to the fact. Here and now the best he could do would be to actually convince Jaskier that the tavern was the better place for him and that way they could both spend the rest of the afternoon in a little more peace.
He paused to examine some scrapes in the mostly dead grass and sighed. Dried soil slipped from between his fingers. Certainly furrows, roughly the right size. At least they were on the right track-- the only thing worse than being out in his heat searching for a monster would be to come back without its head. Roach had been left behind as a liability.
He would have left Jaskier as well, had the man allowed it.
"You've seen me take down forktails before. This can't possibly be more interesting for you than the bosom on that barmaid in town. Go write a ballad about her. Pillowy-ness." Geralt waved the word away and slapped his hand against his thigh to rid it of clinging earth.