If someone had told him that he would be spending tonight defending his own honor and then having amicable drinks with Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier would have--well, quite honestly, gone running from the venue long before Yennefer showed up. So, he supposed, it was rather fortunate that nobody had told him that the midsummer ball in Temeria was going to have the sorceress in attendance. Or that she'd have heard no shortage of the nasty rumors about him that had cropped up in recent years.
Today was strange.
Anyway, back to more pressing matters--the King of Temeria had absolutely shit taste in alcohol. Dreadful. The people, however, were the rough and rowdy sort who worked mines and rocky soil all their lives. They knew alcohol better than anyone outside Skelleg. So, when Yennefer had agreed (nay, even expressed interest in it) to drink with him and wash away the bruises of their mutual romantic sorrows--
Well, he wasn't going to inflict the terrible white wines of King Foltest on her, that was for damned certain. He left the fete, clad head to toe in his nicest gold silks, lute on hand, and sorceress at his arm, and led the most powerful woman in the world (one of, at least, he would put money on it) to a shitty pub next to a decaying mine-entrance that was positively wall to wall with rowdy, drunken peasants.
It stank of beer, of the black cherry white alcohol and anise liquers of Temeria, and everyone cheered when he walked in. He would have to play, eventually, but when they saw the woman at his arm and watched him slide by toward a table, the demands that he take the stage fell off a bit. They could certainly get ripping drunk long before he had to do a rendition of Toss A Coin and, frankly, that was ideal.
"Alright, I've no idea what you usually drink, but I've never had a better Kirschwasser than the one the owners' wife brews. It's sweet, tastes vaguely of cherries, and burns like you've swallowed a flaming sword," he explained as he waved a hand gesture and ordered a bottle of it. "It's delightful, truly."
Edited (I mean Kink Foltest wasn't far off, but this is a better version of this tag.) 2020-03-15 22:43 (UTC)
This was absolutely unexpected. Even with the gift of magic, Yennefer has never had any talent for prediction. Her rapport with Jaskier had been comically antagonistic. With the air now cleared, it was a relief to know that the animosity was not for her character. And let's face it, she is ever the abrasive personality. She wanted to confront him with some of the rumors she collected. Now she was taking to Temerian taverns, arm and arm as good friends would.
Is this all that it took to become friends? Have it out with your insecurities and dress one another's wounds with wonders of understanding?
Today was indeed a strange, strange day.
Jaskier's fine silk doublet paired with her black velvet and mesh dress. They were clearly among the more wealthy patrons. Yennefer felt the appraising eye upon them. First the celebrity, after herself. Fondness and apprehension, braided together. It made her smile. She tilted her head to his shoulder and gave the room a sharp, analytical gaze of her own. Magic did not aid in causing a lull to the din. That was just the Yennefer of Vengerberg effect.
Her ladyship settled into sit first. These such establishments are lowly, the warmth and charm undeniable even for herself. The strong wooden table has been varnished with every drop of spilled spirits. Her seat has been molded by many-a rump.
"You had my attention with cherries," and after drinking her own concoctions in many, many fertility trials her gauge of what is, and isn't digestible has changed. "Just one bottle? Or is that how you plan to start, Jaskier?"
My, but Yennefer moved as though she owned the building--it was not an air that Jaskier cultivated, largely because he couldn't hope to pull it off, but it also didn't seem to put anyone on edge. That was an interesting change--though logically he supposed it made sense. Yennefer was stunning and not scowling through cat eyes and half her weight in ichor--apprehension was probably an unusual first reaction.
How novel.
"Is that a challenge?" Jaskier asked, delighted and faux-scandalized, and unslung his lute from his shoulder as he dropped into the seat across from her. He set the instrument aside on the table with almost loving care and then promptly forgot about it as he waved and ordered a second bottle.
It was, technically, a schnapps. A refined white liquor that was supposed to be more sugar than not. This particular type of schnapps was, unfortunately, very very strong. He had no idea whether mages had better tolerance than mere mortal men, but far be it for him to question a lady's tastes after inviting her for a drink.
"I'll have to keep my feet about me, can't leave an audience wanting, but if we finish the both I would be happy to defer to you for our continued indulgence," Jaskier told her in far more words than were strictly necessary to communicate that thought. He really enjoyed words, the shades of them, the colors and meanings and slight variations--but he was sure she had realized that a decade ago.
"Ah--thank you my dear, wonderful woman," Jaskier praised eagerly as the barmaid brought them two heavy glass bottles sealed with wax and two tin cups as well. He slipped her a few crowns, more than the drinks were worth by a fair margin, and then promptly broke the seal on the first bottle before offering it over to Yennefer.
Changing the energy in a room is a trifle of a skill in an enchantresses repertoire. Yennefer pretended not to notice. A better behaving tavern means that perhaps, just perhaps, people could think. The focus of the evening was to be on her company, on their conversation and the spirits they are going to consume.
Why oh why would one consider a potent alcohol a misfortune? The night was young. Their day was trying. Jaskier earned his liquor as did she. Yennefer could drink and could black out. There's a bit of decorum to it of course. She was not a strapping young man or a seasoned sailor. Her age was closer to seventy while her face remained less than thirty.
"Do what you must, I will be sure not a drop goes to waste. If it is as good as you say it is, I may give and indulge." Yennefer took the bottle in both of her hands, her fingers tapped and a sheen of frost curled and spread from the points of contact. "Much better." The first exhale from her mouth was visible before returning to normal. That was all. She poured a portion in one cup and then the other. The other she placed before Jaskier. Manners for manners.
"Shall we play a game or simply toast until we have run out of things to toast to?" She held the tin cup in both of her hands, not yet drinking.
Jaskier's brows rose in tandem as she chilled the bottle to the point of frosting the glass. Magic had the tendency to make him a bit uneasy but he swallowed down around that reaction--literally, his throat was always his first thought when he watched things like that. It was impressive and, frankly, as he plucked up the very cold glass of cherry liquor, he let out a thankful hum.
"A game, absolutely," Jaskier answered very quickly as he lifted the glass and took a sip. His expression went a touch appreciative as he lowered it and looked over the edge of the cup at her--the cold really cut down on the burn. This was a dangerous drink, now--well, for a mortal man, if not her.
"Much less likely to get saccharine and we've had quite enough of that already."
He let the tin cup dangle from his fingers and drummed the others on the table idly.
"The question of: what to play does arise very quickly and, frankly, I can think of nothing more closely matched than 'Well, I've never.'"
That was a nice way to say that games of drunken skill? Those would go very poorly for Jaskier very fast. Games of memory and lying might be a fair draw, but he had a lot of practice with those. She had been around and clearly had proclivities on the edges of his own--he was a hedonist at heart, as well as a cad--so a game of ridiculous admission and mockery was rather ideal.
"A game it is," to help the spirits flow faster. Yennefer took her first drink. Her own appraising hum sounded. Tin kept the chill and the burn is nonexistent. Frosted, fermented cherries to loosen the nerves. Yes, this improvement was dangerous. No, she did not harbor any regret. "Well, I never was the first that came to mind. Or two truths and a lie."
The rest of the games involved more cups and more coin. Simplicity and closeness was what she wanted tonight. And Jaskier already provided the coin for their enjoyment. Two players to this game, so they can't have a long, alphabet memory game like I'm a Lad Going to Novigrad and I'm Bringing--. Chances are Jaskier would win that.
Yennefer tapped her glass idly and chances a sip as they decide. "I promise to do my part and make sure you have enough wits about you to perform." The smile that she paired with this statement is sincere though could easily be equally unnerving.
I'm a Lad Going to Novigrad and I'm Bringing-- oh he had forgotten that one. He toys with the idea of suggesting but, in the end, it isn't quite as equal footing. He was a champion of that game--they'd banned him from participating at Oxenfurt.
"I appreciate your care, good lady," Jaskier replied evenly and tilted his head. "Let's have a round of 'Well, I've Never' or twenty in the meanwhile."
Jaskier lifted his cup and hummed as he considered the woman across the table from him. His expression went shrewd but there was none of the biting heat of their old exchanges.
Wordsmith and poet of the people, Jaskier would wipe the floor with Yennefer and many others with his ability to come up with an alphabet of food items--if they decided on food items. Other objects well, he has a track record. Certainly he would come up with the entire lot. Without foreknowledge of his Oxenfurt banning, she knows his skill there.
"Could you last twenty rounds?" One of her elegant eyebrows lifted in questioning. "Let us play until ten. Then see." Ten was a rounded number. High enough for them to be giddy with drink and they would feasibly be themselves. Yennefer lifts her tin cup, the game has begun and she too assumed a poker face.
"Ah, that is how it shall be?" Friendly fire here. Her cup is lifted in a toast as she takes a long sip. Still cooled, it burned a touch. "Well played, well played."
Yennefer leaned in closer to him, violet eyes squinted before returning fire with, "I have never kissed a countess."
An amused and, admittedly, competitive smile curls on his face as he inclined his head. He takes a drink comparable to hers, enough that, were it not chilled, he'd have grimaced at the burn of it.
Ten might've been a wise goal, he realized.
"Unless I must take a drink for each?" He assumed not, else he would be out in a round. He does take another sip for good measure and then lowers the cup.
"Hm..." He eyes her and drums his fingers against the table again. He knew a few things about her in the same way he knew a few scattered facts about most people who'd occupied a court in the last few decades. Geralt had not spoken about her, in the way Geralt refrained from speaking about anything and everything, so anything else? That would have to be an honest guess.
"Well, I've never...oh--slept with a Knight of the Realm," Jaskier announced and then, as merrily as he reached that point, realized that it was slightly unfortunate and clucked his tongue against his teeth.
"I only took one drink for now myself when I could have had more," and this statement allows her to indulge in a wink. Jaskier and Geralt had only witnessed one orgy. "And the game has just begun."
The very aged table has had many a hand tap upon it. Yennefer slid her hand close to his, tapping right along. Ah, another direct hit for the bard. Her cup is lifted once more but she pauses, "Yes. Not the one you were thinking of. Rest him." Sir Eyck of Denesle, felled by a Reaver and poor dining choices. Yen allowed herself another long drink and it ends with something of a laugh. A white napkin appeared out of nowhere for her to dab at the corner of her mouth.
"No knights for you? Shame. A good lot over all once you dictate your needs or else your the field and they plow away." Is this too much information? Enough information? It's all games.
Yennefer cleared her throat. "I have never put bread in my clothes."
"Really?" Jaskier asked and his tone was a blend of surprise regarding Sir Eyck--unfortunate tit of Denesle--and disappointment regarding the state of Knightly affairs. Then--oh, then she throws down the gauntlet and Jaskier sputters, aghast as he recoils dramatically in his seat. His free hand flies to his chest and he it, very briefly, torn between complete denial and shock.
"I cannot believe he told you that," Jaskier announces in a low hiss (without anger so much as laced with heavy shock). "My weakest attempt at seduction and that is what he shares with the world."
Jaskier rolls his eyes and resettles in his chair as he takes a long drink. In the event that it had been an offhand comment, he defends his own ridiculous honor by adding:
"A terrible song is a very easy way to earn traveling supplies, presuming one visits when bread is stale and not when fruit is rotting."
That made it better, yes? Probably not.
"Well, I've never...attended any sort of war council." This was casting a wide net, but most Sorceresses were court appointees. Surely Yennefer had been dragged to some meeting of note between contentious lords?
"Make no mistake that he wanted to fuck me. Badly. It was anticipating a long, drawn out courtship of some manner. He didn't deserve to die. Though I suppose the indignity of having his virtue be-smudged after I got what I wanted would have been dreadful for his small mind. I was pretty sure he had a small cock too." As if to rinse away her callousness, Yennefer takes a sip of sympathy.
Jaskier is the only person to make her smile so much her face ached. Patiently waiting out his outburst and drink--that is a drink--Yennefer reached out to pat his palm. "Now, now. He didn't--tell me directly. He was thinking about that time. I happened to see it." The way Yennefer delicately shrugged makes mind reading seem so simple.
Politics! Oh here they go. This was not one she could deny. That's what happens when you're a hero at a battle or something. Yennefer keeps drinking and lets her lip curl some. "Dull business with even duller people." She reaches for the bottle. Another cast of frost upon it.
At that correction, Jaskier actually manages an honest blush. Rare, yes, but it manages to take him. He goes red to the tips of his ears in a split-second. It was one thing to be told about how absolutely pathetic that first attempt at picking up Geralt had been--that was reasonable--but that she had witnessed it firsthand through the lens of Geralt's eyes?
"Well, that is embarrassing," Jaskier admitted and downed the remainder of his cup before holding it out and tacitly requesting more. "I have gotten better at flirting, I'll have you know--and I wasn't that terrible back then. Oh, why am I defending myself at eight-teen?"
He nods his head in thanks as she pours him more and then lets out a huff of breath. He'd gotten her to drink--lucky guess, that--and he was starting to feel the liquor in his system as they carried on. Another refill or two and they'd finish the bottle.
"Now, I would object to telepathy being used to dredge up information but, frankly, it seems fair enough. Next time we'll just pick a game that favors me a bit more."
The annual Festival of the Liberal Arts is a bit of a showy event in Oxenfurt. The streets are festooned with fabric pennants and streamers, there are bundles of flowers and ribbons tied around every awning and freestanding lamp, and the University is an absolute madhouse. Students run to and fro, old alumni gather and snipe in every conceivable pub, inn, and tavern Oxenfurt has to offer, and the conservatory is all but filled to the brim with musically inclined nobility and dilettantes from across the continent.
There are other competitions going on, Jaskier knows, but he can wander the galleries and statuary at any time, and he's no interest in the theatrical performances this year. No, this year, his whole attention is on the musical patronage. He hasn't competed in many, many years and already he's considered a contender. It's delightful but also excruciatingly stressful and he finds himself periodically gripped with the manic need to laugh.
He arrives two days early, as one does for events like this, and sees his fine clothing pressed, visits a luthier to have Filavandrel's lute tuned and the bridge adjusted, and registers himself with the conservatory and the university just as the rest of his peers start showing up. He barely sleeps the first night, despite having accommodations in a truly fine establishment. When he meets Yennefer the next day, he is almost vibrating in time with the energy around the city.
He had originally planned to compete for show only, his attendance was exclusively for the joy of watching her take Valdo down a few pegs...but the idea of actually winning has crept into the back of his mind. Try as he might, he cannot let the fantasy of University Patronage go. He is popular, certainly, but academic and social validation is a powerful lure and he is weak and wanting.
"My dearest Yennefer, welcome to Oxenfurt!" Jaskier crows brightly as he spies her. The bard is dressed in salmon and gold silk with crimson detailing. The color would have been off-putting had there not been such a riot of streamers and floral decorations already up across the city.
The University was one of the most illustrious jewels of their age. Scholars of all ages came to the sprawling campus to meet with other minds. It was not merely for the creative arts but who would ever attend a scientific art festival? The laboratories and medical seminars were at a standstill and gave over the whole of the University to the art students. The event more or less came to be a holiday and a means for Oxenfurt to showcase the talented students current and past and get coin out of it. She had been aware that Oxenfurt had great pride in its libral arts so much that it did have a kind of fest for it, never before had Yennefer had a desire or reason to attend. Along came a bard and everything changes. Is that how Geralt of Rivia felt?
She had written to Jaskier the month prior to ask about lodging, any details she should know about the competition, and what she should expect. The latter was a valid inquery though she knows that the darling would want to have surprises and the experience to be wholly new and unique. It's the showman in him. And she truly had been counting the days. The sights and revenge had equal standing of interest in her. The festival was going to have countless bards and musicians from across the known world. All of them vying for the coveted patronage. To see and be seen was going to be of great importance which is why this was the ideal place of bringing Valdo to his knees. The more witnesses the better. How many of them were aware of what an emotional whirlwind the affair had been to Jaskier?
Stepping out of her portal and taking a look around, it was more of a whole flower field devoted to looking like a town. Ladies had taken to fastening flowers on their dresses or fitting them in their hair woven with ribbon. The gents had boutonnieres and ribbon sashes. The fashion of Oxenfurt had always been leaning to bright colors and busy patterns. Paired with the floral, everything was so bright, so cheery. A rainbow fell over everything and everyone.
Yennefer would not have seen him in the crowd of color. Looking in the direction of her name the smile is still so much brighter. She rushes to him. Her usual state of dress may need some accessories. Though today she had opted for a more white than black dress. Once close she clasps his hands. They shall embrace she knows it, but holds him at arm's length a moment. "Let me look at you."
Istredd once had shown her thoughts in his mind of things he wanted her to see. Those creatures flowing in the water, so slow, so graceful. They were strange and peaceful. Without awareness of magic she might have been frightened to see an animal with no face. The colors were so strange, so garish to the blue, blue water and still so very beautiful. She buried that memory as she does with things that displease her. Removed from the mage that wronged her so, it now brings her happiness. Her stands another brilliant creature with arms, legs and a face wears them. Her fingers clutch at his tighter stepping in close. She smiles wide. "Your tailor must have been very, very busy."
Jaskier preens as she looks him over, delight and interest on her face. She steps in and he reaches, tucks her arm into his and keeps their fingers wound across the top. He leads her in a gentle walk and smiles in the bright, midday sun. He is all nervous energy but seeing her has abated some of the negative.
"My dear, you have not even seen my stage clothes," Jaskier tells her and sighs happily. Those clothes, he knows, are pressed and waiting, ready and spotless. They are a note of anxiety he needn't focus on.
"But enough of me, how have you been? It feels like an age," Jaskier says and, truthfully, it does. They've exchanged letters and made plans, but he hasn't seen her since that awful incident on the road out of Redania. It had only been a month or so previous and yet that seems so very, very long nowadays.
He'd taken liberties when he secured his space at the inn, when he'd booked accommodations and acquired seats to venues. He'd assumed her preferences and had assumed one of them was him--his room was large enough for them both and each of the seats and shows he had tickets for were near the front, near the center, and carried both their names. It was a very public showing of friendship, dearness, and he hadn't asked if it would make her uncomfortable.
Oh how he hopes it does not.
"Ah! And surprise of surprises, the Masons at the University have been showing off. Half of the city has mechanical plumbing now! It's going to spoil me terribly and you as well, I imagine. It's quite a treat."
Falling into step is easy. Their fingers lace together. The tread of his fine shoes, Gods all around he has new shoes too. This must have been very, very costly. Jaskier was, after all, a popular musician. There were many times now that she had heard his song from another's lips. Toss a Coin is more popular. Her song comes up usually in the lull. None of them can bring any emotion from her so much as the man that penned it. It's...almost distressing how hollow she felt in Kaedwen when a youth belt it out. He was talented, she could say so much. Everyone knew the boy was not the one that wrote it.
"Stage clothes? Jaskier, you are performing! I thought you had said you were going to attend and preen?" He was going to preen anyway so perhaps that was beside the point. "...does this mean you have a new composition?" One that could have been done so much sooner had he not been beaten and attacked.
She still had lingering guilt for not thinking better on their visit to his relatives. Horrible, dreadful people. And it had driven her to be more careful and considerate of her time spent with Jaskier. Five weeks was not terribly long. "I had gone to Vengerberg to settle a few affairs at my homestead. The building still stands. My garden is still in bloom. I've sought to organize my cabinet" She also had been slowly getting rid of the various artifacts and remedies for infertility that would not do her any good. Trying to keep objective was easier sometimes than others. She thought of bright little Isolde, sweet Marta and plucky Tristan. There were items she would hold onto, not for her self anymore but to use for women that came to her. They always do. "Horribly busy work," she injects and idly waves way her own thoughts.
"Oh? How does that even work? Hot water with a touch?" It's meant to be sarcasm but she has no idea.
"I do have a new composition, yes," he tells her and flushes just a bit as they walk. The pink in his face is not so different than the color of his doublet. He doesn't ask after her home, though he would care to see it, he will not invite himself along somewhere so personal. He nods as she explains and then delights when she asks about the Masons' project.
It is something to speak on that he knows a reasonable deal about, but has no stake in.
"Apparently they've spent the better part of a year digging trenches and laying copper pipes beneath the streets. It's all very impressive. It works best near the University, I imagine that's where all the mechanical bits are built, but everything I've seen so far just requires a twisted knob and cold or hot water pours out, as you like."
Honestly, just the bit with the moving water was enough to impress him. No more hauling buckets and baling bathwater? Gods' above, it was like every prayer of his had finally been answered. The fact that the water came in hot or old, that could make a grown man weep.
"I believe there's a plaque about it in one of the buildings at the school, if you'd like to see. That, or we can try to find the nearest Mason and ply them with alcohol until they explain it all to us. Several of them are rather attractive."
Surprise lightens her features even more. A new work already? He has been busy. For a moment she wants to stop him right now and hear it. Though there are ears around. And she imagines if the festival is for the arts it is best done at the right places and times. "Will you tell me more or must I pry it from you?" Details are harmless right? A bit of this and that. Yennefer and Jaskier do not talk shop a terrible much. They can carry on for hours about how they feel about their peers... well, they have already. The mechanics, ins and outs is a bit less of a conversation. It's fair to say that her knowledge of music works matches his of chaos. But she would be so willing to listen. Funny how the barriers between them are so few now. It has been a whirlwind of a few months. She had hated him. The had been rivals. Everything is changing.
Truly though, she is wondering what it takes to have such a change in the city. "Stop, I was joking. Is this true? Really?" She could do the same with magic. Her rectoress would deem it a waste. "I should like to see such a thing before leaving." Finding a Mason and gleaning secrets of the trade cause her to shake her head with laughter. "Would that be before or after we've had our way with them?"
Yennefer settles and gives his hands a clutch. "My, speaking of which have you had any adventures that cause you to run from a fine establishment before breakfast?" She has not forgotten that. Jaskier missed out on such a spread. His swift exit did make it possible for her to steal his blue silken smalls without incident. What color does he wear if he's sporting salmon and gold?
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.
The broadness of the street did not lend itself to make the color and sound to be anything less. A troop of mummers will look so frightfully dull after this affair is over. Yennefer keeps her attention on Jaskier, of all the eye catching and melodious sounds, she wants to hear what comes from his clever, smiling mouth. The merriment and charm fall away and she is quick to begin to seek out the reason. "Darling--?"
What a voice. And somehow above the wind, drum and brass he projects. That is a gift for bards. Yennefer is still momentarily taken aback. The man has a smile, like a fish with too sharp and large of teeth to do much else. Before he speaks a word, she knows that it is going to be an ill meeting. Jaskier is not running and so he is not the one who had done wrong. Which means--?
"I thought it was going to be difficult to find him," she murmurs mostly to herself. If her friend still holds her hand, there are three long pulsing squeezes before she gently lets go. Her own smile blossoms, inviting and beautiful with it's own thorns.
Green does not innately bring to mind distaste. The outfit would be passable at a standard gala or affair. It's so very, very curious how he allows himself facial hair to such a limited degree. Her violet eyes scrutinize him, the way he speaks, the confidence surging as though he were in a performance of some sort. Puppetry spells work best if there is a conduit to draw from. She will need an object or item of his.
"Yennefer of Vengerberg." Which is more than enough to speak for herself. "I do believe I've heard of you once before, yes." She places her hand in his, wrist limp and fingers gracing his palm. "You penned the crab dance, is that right?"
Chaos surges out of her body in an invisible pulse. Lilac and gooseberry perfume is rare enough as it is. For a moment it intensifies and she tilts her head to one side. "Jaskier mentioned you. I think."
Mentioned. One cannot suffer something so much as a trifle at being mentioned now. He at least has enough social grace to offer a boisterous laugh with that voice of his and wags his finger at Yennefer as though she were a naughty child as he still clutches her fingers. "You precious lamb, you have so very much to learn. Jaskier what ever do you do with such a sheltered lady?" The plan was not to kill him or set him on fire, right now she does her very best to remind herself of this.
"Whatever he wants," is her reply with a purposeful carelessness that makes those green eyes dart to his old lover and back to Yennefer. Her smile stays and she readies herself. As predicted his lips brush the top of her hand. Closely manicured facial hair does not feel pleasant. She can tell he uses a beeswax palm for his lips.
Jaskier watches with something akin to silent horror as Yennefer withdraws her hand from his and then settles it in Valdo's hand. He's not sure what he's expecting, but Valdo reads the sudden wideness of his eyes and slight gape of his mouth as something else entirely. Offense perhaps? Yennefer offers him a smile that is not friendly and Jaskier nearly chokes as she says the words 'crab dance' to the Troubadour's face.
Then he wags that finger and calls her lamb and Jaskier wants nothing more than to punch Valdo in his ridiculous, handsome face.
"Valdo, honestly," Jaskier starts, a note of exasperation in his tone, but the Troubadour interrupts him as he draws his lips back from Yennefer's hand.
"I do hope the second seat is for this gorgeous creature," Valdo says, his green eyes locked up on Yennefer as he rises. It is a look that Jaskier finds repulsive now, but Valdo wields it well. That alone had gotten him into the sixteen year old Jaskier's bed without hardly any help.
"It is, in fact," Jaskier replies peevishly and Valdo clucks his tongue as he releases Yennefer's hand and looks back at him. Jaskier has no claim on Yennefer, not beyond a close friendship, but he would rather face her ire than let Marx stomp around her like a clumsy rutting tomcat. Jaskier isn't quite thinking straight as he extends his arm and wraps it around the sorceress's waist. He draws her to his side rather abruptly and Valdo lets out a rolling, utterly grating laugh.
"Oh, no need to be so sour, poppet," Valdo chides and has the gall to reach out and knock Jaskier's chin up with a finger. Jaskier glowers and swats his hand which earns him another fond, frustratingly smug look. Damn it all, they've made a spectacle and he's already wrong-footed.
"Your lovely lady friend is more than welcome to any seat bearing my name," Valdo drawls and the innuendo is not subtle, nor is his glance back at Yennefer. Valdo's eyes linger and he takes a deep, almost nostalgic breath as he savors her perfume.
Her powers of seduction are potent with and without chaos, with it she has reduced plenty of fools to do her bidding mindlessly. Without chaos the results are out of her hands. She would much rather be in control of the situation. She doesn't need to render the man brainless. Just enthralled enough to allow her to be close to him. Yennefer only reached out with just a touch of chaos and unfortunately Valdo has met her the rest of the way. It's too easy. Too foolish. It's like he wants to be hurt.
While it is entertaining and she is a willing party to this farce it never fails to anger her how quickly appearances make the difference. Valdo knows her name and knows her to be company of Jaskier. He only makes use of the one that does him the most service which is to get a rise from the other man. Lamb. Creature. Lady. She manages to pluck a pearl from his fine outfit, it drops like an over ripe fruit and it settles into her palm. Her hand was already in a fist. There.
Concentrating more on magic than the exchange, Jaskier's touch brings her back to the moment. Her spine feels like an iron rod. His touch is far more welcomed than Valdo, yes. She is no toy or pawn to any man. He should not be playing into the Troubadour's pissing contest. There was no time at all to tell him of her plan. Didn't he trust her? What was this behavior? Before she can reproach gently, the final end to the moment a literal batting at his touch.
They aren't going to kill him.
"Charming," is what she says both feet firmly planted on the ground. The moment Valdo is turned away her smile is gone and her eyes stay on his back.
Both hands are balled into fist. "Utterly charming." Raised with swine from infancy she knew a pig when she saw one. "Until next time, my good sir," spoken though he cannot hear her anymore. Another colleague of some kind has tugged him back up the boulevard. The rest of the street did not get any more quiet, though it was clear they were being watched. This is, after all, a very public and social event.
Yennefer drags her glare from the disappearing musician in green to Jaskier. It's hardness stays only for a moment before scaling back. "I had the situation under control, that was not necessary. He was baiting you. Surely you knew that."
Valdo flounces off, filled to the very brim with swaggering delight about how foolish he had managed to make Jaskier appear. Jaskier watched him, glowering openly all the while, and then found himself with an angry Yennefer staring him down. It has been some time since he saw any version of this look upon her face and it takes him a moment to catch back up.
"Of course I knew that," Jaskier snaps, waspishly, his tone still lingering from his sparring with Valdo. All of him is drawn tight, ready to fight or flee and he has to shake the sensation aside.
He releases her at once and holds up his hands in surrender. One deep breath becomes a few quick ones and he scrubs his hands through his hair. His outfit is far too cheerful a color, he finds.
"I'm sorry," he says, earnestly and softly and with some urgency. "I'm sorry," he repeats and holds out a hand to see if she will offer hers again. "I...lose a bit of myself when I am around that cad, I cannot help it."
It was the same as any of his loves. Valdo Marx made him furious beyond reason. Geralt of Rivia made him utterly lonely. The Countess de Stael made him soppy and sighing. Yennefer--
"Forgive me, please," he begs into the space between them. Their drama is being watched but this, if anything, is a far less entertaining fare than the previous spat. He considers explaining, there and then, as any of his other loves would have demanded...but he expects Yennefer would not appreciate their being overheard so keenly.
He can hiss and snap all he likes. She doesn't flinch. It's still impressive coming out from him. The bubbling energy from before has been turned on its head. Figures that a man so unsavory would do such a thing. That only strengthens her resolve to make an utter fool of him. Jaskier is jolly by nature. He must have naturally flown to such heights all on his own before his heart was broken. That was all Valdo Marx's fault. She thinks of the words they shared over peach vodka. What he is as a man today is partially attributed to that cad. The lessons learned had taught him to be better. The wounds are still very real.
Without a second thought she takes his hand again, it's a slow, purposeful gesture. Her tone and eyes have softened. The proud, puffed up nature of him as deflated. The energy has been spent on that outburst. They are still on the street, still for so many eyes to see. For now they must look like lovers reconciling. "Remember I am no mere woman. I don't need a protector. He needs protection from me."
The continued apologies cut quickly through any menace or additional scolding. The blue of his eyes searching her own eyes. "I do. I forgive you. Going forward have faith in me." She had come to be here for Jaskier. Avenging his broken heart and years of well documented trauma and enjoying a laugh as they point and snicker. Valdo cannot and will not spoil everything. "Come, let us get back to where we were going. I will tell you more." Which will also be a means to put him at ease. Perhaps that was a bit of a strong transition.
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whatupbuttercup) wrote2020-03-15 03:20 pm
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Today was strange.
Anyway, back to more pressing matters--the King of Temeria had absolutely shit taste in alcohol. Dreadful. The people, however, were the rough and rowdy sort who worked mines and rocky soil all their lives. They knew alcohol better than anyone outside Skelleg. So, when Yennefer had agreed (nay, even expressed interest in it) to drink with him and wash away the bruises of their mutual romantic sorrows--
Well, he wasn't going to inflict the terrible white wines of King Foltest on her, that was for damned certain. He left the fete, clad head to toe in his nicest gold silks, lute on hand, and sorceress at his arm, and led the most powerful woman in the world (one of, at least, he would put money on it) to a shitty pub next to a decaying mine-entrance that was positively wall to wall with rowdy, drunken peasants.
It stank of beer, of the black cherry white alcohol and anise liquers of Temeria, and everyone cheered when he walked in. He would have to play, eventually, but when they saw the woman at his arm and watched him slide by toward a table, the demands that he take the stage fell off a bit. They could certainly get ripping drunk long before he had to do a rendition of Toss A Coin and, frankly, that was ideal.
"Alright, I've no idea what you usually drink, but I've never had a better Kirschwasser than the one the owners' wife brews. It's sweet, tastes vaguely of cherries, and burns like you've swallowed a flaming sword," he explained as he waved a hand gesture and ordered a bottle of it. "It's delightful, truly."
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Is this all that it took to become friends? Have it out with your insecurities and dress one another's wounds with wonders of understanding?
Today was indeed a strange, strange day.
Jaskier's fine silk doublet paired with her black velvet and mesh dress. They were clearly among the more wealthy patrons. Yennefer felt the appraising eye upon them. First the celebrity, after herself. Fondness and apprehension, braided together. It made her smile. She tilted her head to his shoulder and gave the room a sharp, analytical gaze of her own. Magic did not aid in causing a lull to the din. That was just the Yennefer of Vengerberg effect.
Her ladyship settled into sit first. These such establishments are lowly, the warmth and charm undeniable even for herself. The strong wooden table has been varnished with every drop of spilled spirits. Her seat has been molded by many-a rump.
"You had my attention with cherries," and after drinking her own concoctions in many, many fertility trials her gauge of what is, and isn't digestible has changed. "Just one bottle? Or is that how you plan to start, Jaskier?"
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How novel.
"Is that a challenge?" Jaskier asked, delighted and faux-scandalized, and unslung his lute from his shoulder as he dropped into the seat across from her. He set the instrument aside on the table with almost loving care and then promptly forgot about it as he waved and ordered a second bottle.
It was, technically, a schnapps. A refined white liquor that was supposed to be more sugar than not. This particular type of schnapps was, unfortunately, very very strong. He had no idea whether mages had better tolerance than mere mortal men, but far be it for him to question a lady's tastes after inviting her for a drink.
"I'll have to keep my feet about me, can't leave an audience wanting, but if we finish the both I would be happy to defer to you for our continued indulgence," Jaskier told her in far more words than were strictly necessary to communicate that thought. He really enjoyed words, the shades of them, the colors and meanings and slight variations--but he was sure she had realized that a decade ago.
"Ah--thank you my dear, wonderful woman," Jaskier praised eagerly as the barmaid brought them two heavy glass bottles sealed with wax and two tin cups as well. He slipped her a few crowns, more than the drinks were worth by a fair margin, and then promptly broke the seal on the first bottle before offering it over to Yennefer.
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Why oh why would one consider a potent alcohol a misfortune? The night was young. Their day was trying. Jaskier earned his liquor as did she. Yennefer could drink and could black out. There's a bit of decorum to it of course. She was not a strapping young man or a seasoned sailor. Her age was closer to seventy while her face remained less than thirty.
"Do what you must, I will be sure not a drop goes to waste. If it is as good as you say it is, I may give and indulge." Yennefer took the bottle in both of her hands, her fingers tapped and a sheen of frost curled and spread from the points of contact. "Much better." The first exhale from her mouth was visible before returning to normal. That was all. She poured a portion in one cup and then the other. The other she placed before Jaskier. Manners for manners.
"Shall we play a game or simply toast until we have run out of things to toast to?" She held the tin cup in both of her hands, not yet drinking.
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"A game, absolutely," Jaskier answered very quickly as he lifted the glass and took a sip. His expression went a touch appreciative as he lowered it and looked over the edge of the cup at her--the cold really cut down on the burn. This was a dangerous drink, now--well, for a mortal man, if not her.
"Much less likely to get saccharine and we've had quite enough of that already."
He let the tin cup dangle from his fingers and drummed the others on the table idly.
"The question of: what to play does arise very quickly and, frankly, I can think of nothing more closely matched than 'Well, I've never.'"
That was a nice way to say that games of drunken skill? Those would go very poorly for Jaskier very fast. Games of memory and lying might be a fair draw, but he had a lot of practice with those. She had been around and clearly had proclivities on the edges of his own--he was a hedonist at heart, as well as a cad--so a game of ridiculous admission and mockery was rather ideal.
"If you have your own suggestions, by all means?"
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The rest of the games involved more cups and more coin. Simplicity and closeness was what she wanted tonight. And Jaskier already provided the coin for their enjoyment. Two players to this game, so they can't have a long, alphabet memory game like I'm a Lad Going to Novigrad and I'm Bringing--. Chances are Jaskier would win that.
Yennefer tapped her glass idly and chances a sip as they decide. "I promise to do my part and make sure you have enough wits about you to perform." The smile that she paired with this statement is sincere though could easily be equally unnerving.
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"I appreciate your care, good lady," Jaskier replied evenly and tilted his head. "Let's have a round of 'Well, I've Never' or twenty in the meanwhile."
Jaskier lifted his cup and hummed as he considered the woman across the table from him. His expression went shrewd but there was none of the biting heat of their old exchanges.
"I have never orchestrated an orgy."
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"Could you last twenty rounds?" One of her elegant eyebrows lifted in questioning. "Let us play until ten. Then see." Ten was a rounded number. High enough for them to be giddy with drink and they would feasibly be themselves. Yennefer lifts her tin cup, the game has begun and she too assumed a poker face.
"Ah, that is how it shall be?" Friendly fire here. Her cup is lifted in a toast as she takes a long sip. Still cooled, it burned a touch. "Well played, well played."
Yennefer leaned in closer to him, violet eyes squinted before returning fire with, "I have never kissed a countess."
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Ten might've been a wise goal, he realized.
"Unless I must take a drink for each?" He assumed not, else he would be out in a round. He does take another sip for good measure and then lowers the cup.
"Hm..." He eyes her and drums his fingers against the table again. He knew a few things about her in the same way he knew a few scattered facts about most people who'd occupied a court in the last few decades. Geralt had not spoken about her, in the way Geralt refrained from speaking about anything and everything, so anything else? That would have to be an honest guess.
"Well, I've never...oh--slept with a Knight of the Realm," Jaskier announced and then, as merrily as he reached that point, realized that it was slightly unfortunate and clucked his tongue against his teeth.
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The very aged table has had many a hand tap upon it. Yennefer slid her hand close to his, tapping right along. Ah, another direct hit for the bard. Her cup is lifted once more but she pauses, "Yes. Not the one you were thinking of. Rest him." Sir Eyck of Denesle, felled by a Reaver and poor dining choices. Yen allowed herself another long drink and it ends with something of a laugh. A white napkin appeared out of nowhere for her to dab at the corner of her mouth.
"No knights for you? Shame. A good lot over all once you dictate your needs or else your the field and they plow away." Is this too much information? Enough information? It's all games.
Yennefer cleared her throat. "I have never put bread in my clothes."
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"I cannot believe he told you that," Jaskier announces in a low hiss (without anger so much as laced with heavy shock). "My weakest attempt at seduction and that is what he shares with the world."
Jaskier rolls his eyes and resettles in his chair as he takes a long drink. In the event that it had been an offhand comment, he defends his own ridiculous honor by adding:
"A terrible song is a very easy way to earn traveling supplies, presuming one visits when bread is stale and not when fruit is rotting."
That made it better, yes? Probably not.
"Well, I've never...attended any sort of war council." This was casting a wide net, but most Sorceresses were court appointees. Surely Yennefer had been dragged to some meeting of note between contentious lords?
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Jaskier is the only person to make her smile so much her face ached. Patiently waiting out his outburst and drink--that is a drink--Yennefer reached out to pat his palm. "Now, now. He didn't--tell me directly. He was thinking about that time. I happened to see it." The way Yennefer delicately shrugged makes mind reading seem so simple.
Politics! Oh here they go. This was not one she could deny. That's what happens when you're a hero at a battle or something. Yennefer keeps drinking and lets her lip curl some. "Dull business with even duller people." She reaches for the bottle. Another cast of frost upon it.
"More for you before we carry on, my lord?"
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"Well, that is embarrassing," Jaskier admitted and downed the remainder of his cup before holding it out and tacitly requesting more. "I have gotten better at flirting, I'll have you know--and I wasn't that terrible back then. Oh, why am I defending myself at eight-teen?"
He nods his head in thanks as she pours him more and then lets out a huff of breath. He'd gotten her to drink--lucky guess, that--and he was starting to feel the liquor in his system as they carried on. Another refill or two and they'd finish the bottle.
"Now, I would object to telepathy being used to dredge up information but, frankly, it seems fair enough. Next time we'll just pick a game that favors me a bit more."
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SO DRAMATIC YENNEFER. That's what you and Geralt have in common. You're both emo drama queens.
emo childrens y-yes
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happily trips and falls into intimate bathing prompt
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Bardchella
There are other competitions going on, Jaskier knows, but he can wander the galleries and statuary at any time, and he's no interest in the theatrical performances this year. No, this year, his whole attention is on the musical patronage. He hasn't competed in many, many years and already he's considered a contender. It's delightful but also excruciatingly stressful and he finds himself periodically gripped with the manic need to laugh.
He arrives two days early, as one does for events like this, and sees his fine clothing pressed, visits a luthier to have Filavandrel's lute tuned and the bridge adjusted, and registers himself with the conservatory and the university just as the rest of his peers start showing up. He barely sleeps the first night, despite having accommodations in a truly fine establishment. When he meets Yennefer the next day, he is almost vibrating in time with the energy around the city.
He had originally planned to compete for show only, his attendance was exclusively for the joy of watching her take Valdo down a few pegs...but the idea of actually winning has crept into the back of his mind. Try as he might, he cannot let the fantasy of University Patronage go. He is popular, certainly, but academic and social validation is a powerful lure and he is weak and wanting.
"My dearest Yennefer, welcome to Oxenfurt!" Jaskier crows brightly as he spies her. The bard is dressed in salmon and gold silk with crimson detailing. The color would have been off-putting had there not been such a riot of streamers and floral decorations already up across the city.
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She had written to Jaskier the month prior to ask about lodging, any details she should know about the competition, and what she should expect. The latter was a valid inquery though she knows that the darling would want to have surprises and the experience to be wholly new and unique. It's the showman in him. And she truly had been counting the days. The sights and revenge had equal standing of interest in her. The festival was going to have countless bards and musicians from across the known world. All of them vying for the coveted patronage. To see and be seen was going to be of great importance which is why this was the ideal place of bringing Valdo to his knees. The more witnesses the better. How many of them were aware of what an emotional whirlwind the affair had been to Jaskier?
Stepping out of her portal and taking a look around, it was more of a whole flower field devoted to looking like a town. Ladies had taken to fastening flowers on their dresses or fitting them in their hair woven with ribbon. The gents had boutonnieres and ribbon sashes. The fashion of Oxenfurt had always been leaning to bright colors and busy patterns. Paired with the floral, everything was so bright, so cheery. A rainbow fell over everything and everyone.
Yennefer would not have seen him in the crowd of color. Looking in the direction of her name the smile is still so much brighter. She rushes to him. Her usual state of dress may need some accessories. Though today she had opted for a more white than black dress. Once close she clasps his hands. They shall embrace she knows it, but holds him at arm's length a moment. "Let me look at you."
Istredd once had shown her thoughts in his mind of things he wanted her to see. Those creatures flowing in the water, so slow, so graceful. They were strange and peaceful. Without awareness of magic she might have been frightened to see an animal with no face. The colors were so strange, so garish to the blue, blue water and still so very beautiful. She buried that memory as she does with things that displease her. Removed from the mage that wronged her so, it now brings her happiness. Her stands another brilliant creature with arms, legs and a face wears them. Her fingers clutch at his tighter stepping in close. She smiles wide. "Your tailor must have been very, very busy."
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"My dear, you have not even seen my stage clothes," Jaskier tells her and sighs happily. Those clothes, he knows, are pressed and waiting, ready and spotless. They are a note of anxiety he needn't focus on.
"But enough of me, how have you been? It feels like an age," Jaskier says and, truthfully, it does. They've exchanged letters and made plans, but he hasn't seen her since that awful incident on the road out of Redania. It had only been a month or so previous and yet that seems so very, very long nowadays.
He'd taken liberties when he secured his space at the inn, when he'd booked accommodations and acquired seats to venues. He'd assumed her preferences and had assumed one of them was him--his room was large enough for them both and each of the seats and shows he had tickets for were near the front, near the center, and carried both their names. It was a very public showing of friendship, dearness, and he hadn't asked if it would make her uncomfortable.
Oh how he hopes it does not.
"Ah! And surprise of surprises, the Masons at the University have been showing off. Half of the city has mechanical plumbing now! It's going to spoil me terribly and you as well, I imagine. It's quite a treat."
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"Stage clothes? Jaskier, you are performing! I thought you had said you were going to attend and preen?" He was going to preen anyway so perhaps that was beside the point. "...does this mean you have a new composition?" One that could have been done so much sooner had he not been beaten and attacked.
She still had lingering guilt for not thinking better on their visit to his relatives. Horrible, dreadful people. And it had driven her to be more careful and considerate of her time spent with Jaskier. Five weeks was not terribly long. "I had gone to Vengerberg to settle a few affairs at my homestead. The building still stands. My garden is still in bloom. I've sought to organize my cabinet" She also had been slowly getting rid of the various artifacts and remedies for infertility that would not do her any good. Trying to keep objective was easier sometimes than others. She thought of bright little Isolde, sweet Marta and plucky Tristan. There were items she would hold onto, not for her self anymore but to use for women that came to her. They always do. "Horribly busy work," she injects and idly waves way her own thoughts.
"Oh? How does that even work? Hot water with a touch?" It's meant to be sarcasm but she has no idea.
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It is something to speak on that he knows a reasonable deal about, but has no stake in.
"Apparently they've spent the better part of a year digging trenches and laying copper pipes beneath the streets. It's all very impressive. It works best near the University, I imagine that's where all the mechanical bits are built, but everything I've seen so far just requires a twisted knob and cold or hot water pours out, as you like."
Honestly, just the bit with the moving water was enough to impress him. No more hauling buckets and baling bathwater? Gods' above, it was like every prayer of his had finally been answered. The fact that the water came in hot or old, that could make a grown man weep.
"I believe there's a plaque about it in one of the buildings at the school, if you'd like to see. That, or we can try to find the nearest Mason and ply them with alcohol until they explain it all to us. Several of them are rather attractive."
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Truly though, she is wondering what it takes to have such a change in the city. "Stop, I was joking. Is this true? Really?" She could do the same with magic. Her rectoress would deem it a waste. "I should like to see such a thing before leaving." Finding a Mason and gleaning secrets of the trade cause her to shake her head with laughter. "Would that be before or after we've had our way with them?"
Yennefer settles and gives his hands a clutch. "My, speaking of which have you had any adventures that cause you to run from a fine establishment before breakfast?" She has not forgotten that. Jaskier missed out on such a spread. His swift exit did make it possible for her to steal his blue silken smalls without incident. What color does he wear if he's sporting salmon and gold?
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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.
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What a voice. And somehow above the wind, drum and brass he projects. That is a gift for bards. Yennefer is still momentarily taken aback. The man has a smile, like a fish with too sharp and large of teeth to do much else. Before he speaks a word, she knows that it is going to be an ill meeting. Jaskier is not running and so he is not the one who had done wrong. Which means--?
"I thought it was going to be difficult to find him," she murmurs mostly to herself. If her friend still holds her hand, there are three long pulsing squeezes before she gently lets go. Her own smile blossoms, inviting and beautiful with it's own thorns.
Green does not innately bring to mind distaste. The outfit would be passable at a standard gala or affair. It's so very, very curious how he allows himself facial hair to such a limited degree. Her violet eyes scrutinize him, the way he speaks, the confidence surging as though he were in a performance of some sort. Puppetry spells work best if there is a conduit to draw from. She will need an object or item of his.
"Yennefer of Vengerberg." Which is more than enough to speak for herself. "I do believe I've heard of you once before, yes." She places her hand in his, wrist limp and fingers gracing his palm. "You penned the crab dance, is that right?"
Chaos surges out of her body in an invisible pulse. Lilac and gooseberry perfume is rare enough as it is. For a moment it intensifies and she tilts her head to one side. "Jaskier mentioned you. I think."
Mentioned. One cannot suffer something so much as a trifle at being mentioned now. He at least has enough social grace to offer a boisterous laugh with that voice of his and wags his finger at Yennefer as though she were a naughty child as he still clutches her fingers. "You precious lamb, you have so very much to learn. Jaskier what ever do you do with such a sheltered lady?" The plan was not to kill him or set him on fire, right now she does her very best to remind herself of this.
"Whatever he wants," is her reply with a purposeful carelessness that makes those green eyes dart to his old lover and back to Yennefer. Her smile stays and she readies herself. As predicted his lips brush the top of her hand. Closely manicured facial hair does not feel pleasant. She can tell he uses a beeswax palm for his lips.
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Then he wags that finger and calls her lamb and Jaskier wants nothing more than to punch Valdo in his ridiculous, handsome face.
"Valdo, honestly," Jaskier starts, a note of exasperation in his tone, but the Troubadour interrupts him as he draws his lips back from Yennefer's hand.
"I do hope the second seat is for this gorgeous creature," Valdo says, his green eyes locked up on Yennefer as he rises. It is a look that Jaskier finds repulsive now, but Valdo wields it well. That alone had gotten him into the sixteen year old Jaskier's bed without hardly any help.
"It is, in fact," Jaskier replies peevishly and Valdo clucks his tongue as he releases Yennefer's hand and looks back at him. Jaskier has no claim on Yennefer, not beyond a close friendship, but he would rather face her ire than let Marx stomp around her like a clumsy rutting tomcat. Jaskier isn't quite thinking straight as he extends his arm and wraps it around the sorceress's waist. He draws her to his side rather abruptly and Valdo lets out a rolling, utterly grating laugh.
"Oh, no need to be so sour, poppet," Valdo chides and has the gall to reach out and knock Jaskier's chin up with a finger. Jaskier glowers and swats his hand which earns him another fond, frustratingly smug look. Damn it all, they've made a spectacle and he's already wrong-footed.
"Your lovely lady friend is more than welcome to any seat bearing my name," Valdo drawls and the innuendo is not subtle, nor is his glance back at Yennefer. Valdo's eyes linger and he takes a deep, almost nostalgic breath as he savors her perfume.
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While it is entertaining and she is a willing party to this farce it never fails to anger her how quickly appearances make the difference. Valdo knows her name and knows her to be company of Jaskier. He only makes use of the one that does him the most service which is to get a rise from the other man. Lamb. Creature. Lady. She manages to pluck a pearl from his fine outfit, it drops like an over ripe fruit and it settles into her palm. Her hand was already in a fist. There.
Concentrating more on magic than the exchange, Jaskier's touch brings her back to the moment. Her spine feels like an iron rod. His touch is far more welcomed than Valdo, yes. She is no toy or pawn to any man. He should not be playing into the Troubadour's pissing contest. There was no time at all to tell him of her plan. Didn't he trust her? What was this behavior? Before she can reproach gently, the final end to the moment a literal batting at his touch.
They aren't going to kill him.
"Charming," is what she says both feet firmly planted on the ground. The moment Valdo is turned away her smile is gone and her eyes stay on his back.
Both hands are balled into fist. "Utterly charming." Raised with swine from infancy she knew a pig when she saw one. "Until next time, my good sir," spoken though he cannot hear her anymore. Another colleague of some kind has tugged him back up the boulevard. The rest of the street did not get any more quiet, though it was clear they were being watched. This is, after all, a very public and social event.
Yennefer drags her glare from the disappearing musician in green to Jaskier. It's hardness stays only for a moment before scaling back. "I had the situation under control, that was not necessary. He was baiting you. Surely you knew that."
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"Of course I knew that," Jaskier snaps, waspishly, his tone still lingering from his sparring with Valdo. All of him is drawn tight, ready to fight or flee and he has to shake the sensation aside.
He releases her at once and holds up his hands in surrender. One deep breath becomes a few quick ones and he scrubs his hands through his hair. His outfit is far too cheerful a color, he finds.
"I'm sorry," he says, earnestly and softly and with some urgency. "I'm sorry," he repeats and holds out a hand to see if she will offer hers again. "I...lose a bit of myself when I am around that cad, I cannot help it."
It was the same as any of his loves. Valdo Marx made him furious beyond reason. Geralt of Rivia made him utterly lonely. The Countess de Stael made him soppy and sighing. Yennefer--
"Forgive me, please," he begs into the space between them. Their drama is being watched but this, if anything, is a far less entertaining fare than the previous spat. He considers explaining, there and then, as any of his other loves would have demanded...but he expects Yennefer would not appreciate their being overheard so keenly.
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Without a second thought she takes his hand again, it's a slow, purposeful gesture. Her tone and eyes have softened. The proud, puffed up nature of him as deflated. The energy has been spent on that outburst. They are still on the street, still for so many eyes to see. For now they must look like lovers reconciling. "Remember I am no mere woman. I don't need a protector. He needs protection from me."
The continued apologies cut quickly through any menace or additional scolding. The blue of his eyes searching her own eyes. "I do. I forgive you. Going forward have faith in me." She had come to be here for Jaskier. Avenging his broken heart and years of well documented trauma and enjoying a laugh as they point and snicker. Valdo cannot and will not spoil everything. "Come, let us get back to where we were going. I will tell you more." Which will also be a means to put him at ease. Perhaps that was a bit of a strong transition.
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