He presses a hand to his chest and looks aghast, but there is a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face, coy and delighted, as he considers her. He cannot decide, in the moment, whether to joke back at her about his abrupt exit, else tell her about the adventures he has had in the last few weeks. He would gladly recite the efforts that went into his new song, for he is so delighted to speak on such things regardless of their surroundings, but all of Jaskier's wits and witticism leave him in a rush as they turn the corner toward the theaters and the establishment he has booked a room in.
The whole boulevard is a riot of color and people in clothing not entirely unlike his own. There are two dozen or more bards playing any number of instruments--hurdy gurdy, violin, mandolin, brass and string, woodwind and percussives--and the energy is bright and merry and just this side of manic. It matches his mood quite exactly, or it had, until he spied Valdo walking toward them.
He freezes mid-step, mouth agape to answer Yennefer, and curses as he ducks his head. His hand darts up from his chest to hide his face but, alas, he is both very loud and colorful, and very, very unlucky. The Troubadour of Cidaris spots him at a distance, the very moment the crowd parts, and his greeting is announced from afar. The man has a disgustingly impressive baritone and the lungs of a lesser wyvern.
"By all the gold in Cintra, is that you Jaskier!?" Valdo calls and Jaskier tries to pass off his duck and hide as straightening his hair. His smile is more an open grimace as Valdo sashays up--and he does sashay.
Valdo is a man of a height with Jaskier, though his heels give him a good inch or two additional. He has short, attractively curled hair, excruciatingly manicured facial hair, and dresses like a pompous jackass with extremely expensive taste. He has a love of both green velvet and pearls. Half of him is gilded in some fashion or another. He's wearing a half cape with gold spangles and has a satchel with an instrument case slung over his other shoulder.
His green eyes are just as piercing as the last time Jaskier saw him, something like half a decade ago.
"Ah, Valdo Marx, were you attending this? I had no idea," Jaskier greets and, where he'd taken pains with his family to seem neutral and polite, he does not extend the same courtesy to Valdo. His expression is tired even if his voice is lilting and light.
"Hah! Is that why you've claimed the seats I saved for you, then? Hopes I wouldn't show?" Valdo is amused but in a way that is both distant and a bit vicious, like he's torn between loathing Jaskier and wanting him to beg his way back into Valdo's good graces. It's a strange line and Jaskier has never appreciated it. "And you've brought accompaniment! How delightful."
He bows, a dramatic full body affair, and holds out a hand to accept Yennefer's.
"The Valdo Marx, Troubadour of Cidaris and Academy Composer for the last ten years running," he introduces himself with as much subtlety as his outfit hints at.
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The whole boulevard is a riot of color and people in clothing not entirely unlike his own. There are two dozen or more bards playing any number of instruments--hurdy gurdy, violin, mandolin, brass and string, woodwind and percussives--and the energy is bright and merry and just this side of manic. It matches his mood quite exactly, or it had, until he spied Valdo walking toward them.
He freezes mid-step, mouth agape to answer Yennefer, and curses as he ducks his head. His hand darts up from his chest to hide his face but, alas, he is both very loud and colorful, and very, very unlucky. The Troubadour of Cidaris spots him at a distance, the very moment the crowd parts, and his greeting is announced from afar. The man has a disgustingly impressive baritone and the lungs of a lesser wyvern.
"By all the gold in Cintra, is that you Jaskier!?" Valdo calls and Jaskier tries to pass off his duck and hide as straightening his hair. His smile is more an open grimace as Valdo sashays up--and he does sashay.
Valdo is a man of a height with Jaskier, though his heels give him a good inch or two additional. He has short, attractively curled hair, excruciatingly manicured facial hair, and dresses like a pompous jackass with extremely expensive taste. He has a love of both green velvet and pearls. Half of him is gilded in some fashion or another. He's wearing a half cape with gold spangles and has a satchel with an instrument case slung over his other shoulder.
His green eyes are just as piercing as the last time Jaskier saw him, something like half a decade ago.
"Ah, Valdo Marx, were you attending this? I had no idea," Jaskier greets and, where he'd taken pains with his family to seem neutral and polite, he does not extend the same courtesy to Valdo. His expression is tired even if his voice is lilting and light.
"Hah! Is that why you've claimed the seats I saved for you, then? Hopes I wouldn't show?" Valdo is amused but in a way that is both distant and a bit vicious, like he's torn between loathing Jaskier and wanting him to beg his way back into Valdo's good graces. It's a strange line and Jaskier has never appreciated it. "And you've brought accompaniment! How delightful."
He bows, a dramatic full body affair, and holds out a hand to accept Yennefer's.
"The Valdo Marx, Troubadour of Cidaris and Academy Composer for the last ten years running," he introduces himself with as much subtlety as his outfit hints at.