Perhaps it was spite, perhaps it was unlucky, but by the time the forktail was dispatched, Geralt was covered in quite a bit of blood. Most of it wasn't his own. The dracolizard had proved to be a nesting mother-- a point of fact that made her much more inclined to kill him and he, much less happy to kill her. The fight had not been heroic or clean and the crunch of eggshells underfoot had kept his foul mood close at hand during the trudge back to the inn.

He didn't give any attention to the eyes that turned at the sight of him as he walked through the downstairs, sticking slightly to the floorboards and caked with grime. Geralt was used to that. He took the stairs slowly, the entirety of his thoughts focused on a large, cool bath. Between the gore and the sweat he could smell himself and he wanted nothing more than to wash away both the dirt and the memory of the day. All of it was better off tossed. If only it wasn't still so cursed hot. It was spring, damnit.

Perhaps he opened the door to the room with a little more force than was necessary but there was a small, spiteful thought that came from (he was perversely sure) some erstwhile ease with his present companion that made him less inclined to ignore Jaskier in favor of letting his mood dissipate until it was something more tolerable. If he was cranky, so be it. The bard had never proven less than immune to it.