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“Yes, right, well next time, Geralt, you should maybe think about that before agreeing to wade into the swamp!” Jaskier poked the muddy witcher in the chest before grimacing and shaking the mud splatter from his hand.
It didn’t help much.
They were both covered, top to toe, in swamp muck. Jaskier’s gorgeous, skyblue silks were ruined, his lute would certainly need some maintenance to ensure the wood didn’t rot, and he absolutely stank. It was disgusting. The contract had been a bust, and Geralt hadn’t even been paid. Apparently the alderman had a known grudge against witchers and the whole thing had been a set up to make Geralt look foolish.
Geralt, the bastard, had suspected he was being played but still took the contract and didn’t think to inform Jaskier as they both went galavanting into the swamp. Naturally, Jaskier had slipped and pulled Geralt down with him, and now they were both a complete mess.
“Hmm,” Geralt replied, not even a little bit bothered by the stench.
Bloody witcher.
“Do you know how much these clothes cost me?” Jaskier whined as he tripped over another branch and almost went crashing back into the mud. “I went to the best tailor in Novigrad, custom made from the finest silks!”
“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt growled, his eyes dark and nostrils flared.
Not a good sign.
Jaskier bit his tongue, but continued to glare and pout at the witcher, lest he forget that Jaskier was grumpy.
“Shit!”
Geralt ran into the trees nearing the edge of the swamp, leaving Jaskier to trail after him. “Oi! Geralt!” he called but stumbled to a halt when he realised what, or more accurately, who Geralt had seen. “Oh fuck.”
“Yen?” Geralt’s hands were cupping the sorceress’s face as she lay motionless on the ground, covered in leaves, twigs and blood.
So much blood.
“What do we do?” Jaskier asked, his heart racing in his chest at the thought of Yennefer actually dying. The witch had saved them so many times, and whilst he wasn’t her greatest fan, he did respect her, and he was self-aware enough to know that jealousy played a large part in their rivalry.
“We help her.”
“Right, yes, obviously. How?”
“I don’t know!” Geralt snapped, baring his teeth at Jaskier. “You can start by shutting up. I need to think.”
“How far are we from the Temple of Melitele?” Jaskier suggested, pouting a little at Geralt’s harsh words.
“Too far.”
“Can we call Triss?”
“No.”
“Any potions?”
“Shut up!” Geralt growled.
And Jaskier sighed, trying to wipe the mud from his eyes. “I was only trying to help,” he mumbled but turned away from the witcher and his mage. He wouldn’t suffer through Geralt’s mood, not today, not like this.