In other circumstances Geralt wouldn't have cared how much chest hair Jaskier chose to show to the world but under the punishing sun and the boiling press of his own cuirass that extra button felt like a personal insult. "It's a forktail," he growled through his teeth. He could feel the slide of sweat between his shoulder blades and the slip of his temper with it. "Just go, for fuck'sake."

Fuck. He was going to have to make up for that later. Geralt rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. He looked at Jaskier and when he spoke up again it was with a curtness that, on Geralt, served as contriteness as well. "Jaskier. It's hot. Neither of us want to be out here. Just-- go. At least you'll be comfortable." He backhanded sweat from his temple. "A forktail isn't a challenge. I'll find it and be back well before nightfall. You can see a bath is waiting if you feel like you're without a job." He raised an eyebrow and waited for agreement.