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SETTING
Lake beach at the edge of a forest. Some minutes before midnight. Full moon.
CHARACTERS
Jaskier, the full-of-himself bard.
Geralt of Rivia, a witcher.
JASKIER: Geraaaaaaalt!
GERALT: What.
JASKIER: I’m in pain, Geralt. You must have something to (Jaskier motions to his arm for emphasis) help me ease the pain of this cut.
Geralt signs and begrudgingly gives Jaskier a glance, eyeing the scratches. He rolls his eyes.
GERALT: How did you get that?
JASKIER: Well you see, (Geralt fails to prevent his shoulders from sagging at the curse he just placed upon himself) I was just walking out on my own one night when I met a pair of absolutely lovely ladies. One of them had quite the fantastic beard, I must say, and I’m quite jealous myself since I’ve only just started growing one that’s even more magnificent. Now, I may have had one too many drinks in me because—whoof—I said something and next thing I knew I woke up with one of my old friends tucked in my coat in a back alley! But the night was still young, so I got myself up and dusted off, then headed back down to the local tavern for some serenading. Only when I went to start playing my lute did I notice this awful cut on my arm, thought I had pulled a muscle at first. Not that it stopped me, of course—
GERALT: And you didn’t think to question what happened at all?
JASKIER (just a little hurt): Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. Many noblemen and women want me dead, Geralt! Did you forget?
Geralt’s attention has been redirected to sharpening his blade once again. He occasionally glances out over the lake.
JASKIER: That was about a week ago. But the cut hasn’t healed very well—it’s quite deep, you know—and all of my playing has opened it up more than once. So I. Am still. In pain. Geralt, you must have something in all of those little bottles you carry around! Do you just get beaten after every fight to go crying out to the nearest healer for help? Come on, Geralt, you know better.
GERALT: You didn’t bother to visit one yourself?
JASKIER (grimacing): Might’ve… sung to the local one too early in the morning. Neither of us knew his wife had come home yet!
Geralt, exasperated, turns to Jaskier once again.
GERALT: Let me look at it.
Jaskier shuffles, taking off his coat in an awkward motion. A bit flustered. Geralt notices, but doesn’t react. He carefully tilts Jaskier’s arm to get a better look at it, noticing something along its edge. He gives the sky a brief glance.
GERALT: Do you have any other marks on you?
JASKIER: Well, I have several from the other night when—
GERALT: From the night you got this cut.
JASKIER: Ooooohhh. Well, I did notice I had some scratch marks on my chest when I was showering that morning. Nothing heavy, I’m sure they’re gone by n—
Geralt stares at Jaskier.
JASKIER: No. (waving a finger towards Geralt) Ah-ah-ah, you may not see those too. I am not taking off my shirt for you.
Geralt sighs.
GERALT: It’s because—
Jaskier groans, gripping his arm.
GERALT: —you may be turning into a werewolf.
JASKIER (breathless): Geralt!—nhg. Geralt, what??? Am I going to get stuck like this—Geralt!
Jaskier grips Geralt with his other hand, hunching over. Face obscured. His body is… transforming?
GERALT: It should be reversible if you don’t do anything stupid.
Jaskier continues to groan and huff out Geralt’s name. It’d really be a bit erotic in any other scenario. First appears a pair of fluffy brown ears, then a thick tail.
JASKIER: Owwww, ow, ow, ow! Geralt—ow—Geralt, I demand to know what is happening to me!
GERALT (briefly tilting his head): Well, you have a pair of ears and a tail. Getting a bit more furry, too.
Jaskier groans again, coughing. Fur begins to coat his arms. His nails extend into claws, head becoming wolf-like. He whimpers and lets out a sound that resembles a howl, as if on instinct.
JASKIER (voice suspiciously unchanged): Guh—Geralt! Is it over, Geralt?
Jaskier looks down at his hands, then immediately shoots back, startled at their paw-like appearance with a yelp.
JASKIER (pawing at his snout): Geralt, how do I look? Oh no, no, no, my poor, lost handsome face! I better not get stuck like this forever.
GERALT: If I was looking away, I don’t think I’d have noticed any difference.
JASKIER (audibly frowning): But Geralt! I look like a mangy dog!
GERALT: You’ll get used to it. And like I said, it’s reversible. You’ll change back in the morning, anyway.
JASKIER (huffing): Am I going to get all rabid and feral, now?
GERALT: If you haven’t already, you won’t.
Jaskier leans back and sighs.
JASKIER (muttering): Can’t even play my lute with these… claws.
Jaskier stares at Geralt. Geralt shares the look before returning his gaze to the lake.
JASKIER: Well! How do I reverse this?
GERALT (sighing): First, we need to track down the person who turned you. Then, we need to get a vial of her blood while she’s still alive. Some herbs, blend them together under this full moon. You drink that before you feed for the first time, and you should be cured. Works most of the time.
JASKIER: M… most? Feed? Feed on what, Geralt? Don’t tell me on the hearts of others.
GERALT: Could be. Any flesh should do. That hunger will be difficult to resist, after some time.
Jaskier tilts his head up, despaired. He frowns, and looks exhausted. Both options are awful.
JASKIER: You said I won’t turn feral?
GERALT: Yes.
JASKIER: But I’ll turn into this every full moon… Bound to only consume flesh from here on out…
GERALT: Depends. Could be more frequent based on what turned you.
Jaskier pauses in thought, then looks himself over.
JASKIER: Am I cute, Geralt?
GERALT: You look like an overgrown children’s toy.
JASKIER: Drinking that… concoction sounds awful.
GERALT: So you’re going to stay like that?
JASKIER (staring at his paws): As long as I can… file my claws. I’d hate to cut my poor lute’s strings.
GERALT: You’re going to play like that in taverns? You’ll get chased out.
JASKIER (offended): I am an artist, Geralt. I fully intend to air my woes under the light of the moon, in or out of a tavern, thank you very much. I needn’t a bar to do that. And, it seems that—(Jaskier lets out a low howl)—I have a new element to add to my tales. Maybe—just maybe, I could make this work!
Jaskier nods to himself, letting out a hum-mixed-howl.
GERALT: You’re saying all this to justify thinking that drinking the antidote sounds unpleasant?
JASKIER: …In… simpler terms, yes.
Geralt’s brow furrows. The bard has found a new way to shock him.
JASKIER (head tilted): You won’t have to hunt me, Geralt, will you?
GERALT: Not unless you endanger people.
JASKIER (gasping): Geralt!! I would never! Look at me, I am but a humble bard-wolf, wishing to sing my tunes under the light of the moon. Hurting people is far out of my range of talents!
GERALT: Keep it that way. Watch that hunger of yours. It can drive innocent men to hostile madness.
JASKIER: I am very well-fed, thank you very much! That will be no problem for me if I don’t need anything more specific than meat of any kind.
GERALT: Tales will tell you otherwise. That’s become what most people fear in werewolves, and what most new werewolves fear about themselves. You don’t.
JASKIER: Then like this, I shall remain. Comfortable in my new (grimacing)… furry… snout-y… claw-y… paw-having dog body.
Jaskier sighs.
JASKIER: After I take a shower and… groom myself. Are there werewolf groomers, Geralt?
GERALT: There may be. Never met any.
JASKIER: Fine, I can do it myself just as well. Find some better fit clothing for myself, too. How many sizes bigger do you think I am, Geralt?
GERALT (brow furrowing): I don’t know… maybe one, two?
Jaskier nods, thinking.
JASKIER: Shouldn’t be an issue, then. Are we going to get going, or are you keen to stay here and get your fill of nightly brooding?
GERALT: I don’t think it’s safe for you to go into town looking like that. We can find a place on the outskirts of town.
Geralt stands, returning his sword to its sheath. He places a hand on Roach’s side and takes her reigns into one hand.
GERALT: Come on, Roach. Let’s get going.