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Geralt is locked in battle with yet another one of the unique monsters brought to the continent by the large black monoliths. It looked to be a cockatrice, but it’s much bolder as it’s been drawn far from it’s cave dwelling to fight the Witcher. The battle seemed to be nearing a close as the beast grew slower. With a final charge, Geralt swings his silver sword down onto its neck, nearly decapitating it; but not before it lashes out at his leg, ripping fabric and skin. Poison and pain immediately hit as Geralt rips his sword downward and outward from its neck, fully decapitating it.
With a heavy huff, he gives himself a once-over. Other than the mild exhaustion and stinging pain in his leg, he regards himself as ‘good enough’. That is not the case. His mind becomes cloudy, and his enhanced senses are all screaming at him that something is not right about the poison. All he sees is muddied red and his mind goes blank.
Geralt’s pupils are slitted, an almost threatening aura radiates off his body as he lumbers towards his bard’s hiding spot. Jaskier chalks it up to post-battle grumbles, as he so affectionately calls it whenever Geralt remains grumpy, even after the foe is slain.
“Well, that was a new one,” Jaskier comments, getting up from his crouching position behind a rock and some bushes. He, as always, wanted to be close enough to the battle to get the juicy details for his songs, but far enough away that he wouldn’t be in danger… of ruining his gaudy clothing.
“Was that one of the monsters left over by the new Conjunction?” Ciri pipes up, climbing down from a nearby tree – her own eagle’s-eye view and vantage point in case the battle went sideways, as per Geralt’s stern command.
Geralt simply grunts in response to both persons, stopping a short distance away from Jaskier, still focused on the bard walking his way.
“What, confusion and hunger giving you the grumbles?” Jaskier teases, now standing in front of the Witcher. “Ciri, dear, I think we need to find something for our dear warrior to eat,” he says cheerily, patting Geralt’s shoulder covered in leather armor.
“Oh! I can catch some rabbits for us. I’ve gotten much quicker at it,” Ciri beams, proud in her advancements with her training.
Geralt shoots her a look.
“I’ll be fine Geralt,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’ll be off, then!” The young princess quickly turns on her heel, not allowing the Witcher to protest. Unsheathing her long dagger – much better than a sword to use for simple hare-hunting – she’s off into the woods.
Now the bard and the Witcher are alone, and there’s a certain heaviness lingering in the air.
“Alright then, friend,” Jaskier walks curiously towards the mutated beast lying dead mere meters away. “Can’t wait to see how you dissect this one,” he uses the toe of his boot to nudge the head to view it better, letting out a ‘eugh’ at the sight of it. “But first,” Jaskier turns around to face Geralt, “we should take a look at that lesion on your leg. Looked like it stung quite a bit when it—”
The poet is quickly cut off by the lightening-quick movement of Geralt, suddenly appearing in front of him, a fistful of his doublet clutched in Geralt’s iron-grip.
“Hey!” Jaskier exclaims. “You can’t just grab me like this! You know how expensive these doublets are. Honestly, Geralt what—”
Geralt growls in his face, teeth bared and slitted, golden eyes boring into blue ones. Jaskier’s face quickly turns from annoyance into confusion, and maybe a tinge of fear. Suddenly, Geralt’s other hand shoots up to Jaskier’s throat and begins to squeeze.
“Heh, uhm,” Jaskier struggles against the grip, panic sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. “I’ve never really been into the whole ‘choking’ thing,” his last words raising in pitch.
Geralt squeezes harder, a murderous glare burning in his unblinking eyes.
“Ger--alt!” the songbird struggles out, hands desperately trying to pry open the Witcher’s grip. Air no longer able to freely pass through his windpipe, effectively cut off by Geralt’s calloused hand. Jaskier’s panicking more now as the edges of his vision begin to darken. In an act of final desperation, he reaches for his own knife sheathed on the inner lining of his coat, and, in one swift motion, connects the blade with Geralt’s forearm. The sudden pain surprises Geralt, causing him to drop Jaskier and, sadly, flinging the blade out of the bard’s grasp.
Jaskier coughs and struggles to take in air as he lies on the ground, hand going up to his throat in protection, as tears drip lightly from the corners of his eyes.
“What’s going on?” Ciri appears opposite the area the Witcher and bard occupy, holding up a dead rabbit by its ears.
“Ciri--!” Jaskier rasps out. “Run!”
With confusion, she looks from the ground where Jaskier lies, up to Geralt now turned to face her with a scary, pointed look on his face. He begins moving towards the young girl.
“Don’t you fucking dare!” Jaskier grunts out. He scrambles to his feet and shoves his arms under and around Geralt’s shoulders, pressing the Witcher’s back against his chest, tugging him backwards in an attempt to hold him from advancing further. “Geralt! You’re not yourself. Listen to me, dammit!” Jaskier shouts, struggling against the opposing force. The restriction angers the poisoned warrior, and, with another growl, he forcibly slams his head back into Jaskier’s face, causing the bard to yelp in pain and lose his grip. The raged Witcher’s freedom becoming clearer as he violently backs both of them into a tree, knocking the wind out of the bard and effectively dislodging him off Geralt.
Witcher now trained on the musician, and more furious than before. Thankfully, it seems the poison’s also hindered his reflexes, and he’s not as coordinated as he usually is. Geralt lunges at Jaskier, who dodges narrowly, albeit clumsily because of his panic and new injuries.
“Stop it, Geralt!” Ciri shouts in panic, standing her ground but not knowing how to help.
With the distraction of Ciri’s call, Jaskier manages to grab a large branch and whacks Geralt with it, staggering him. Seeing his opportunity, the bard jumps on Geralt with his arm tugged tight around his neck, gripping him in a chokehold. Thinking quickly, he kicks the back of his friend’s knees one by one, resulting in the Witcher falling to his knees. Geralt attacks Jaskier’s arms by clawing and tugging, but the bard’s hold is firm, even with blood streaming down his face and pain in his ribs.
“Ciri!” he calls, “Get Geralt’s bag, the Golden Oriole!” Springing into action, Ciri runs to where his bag is stashed behind some bushes while Jaskier continues to struggle with Geralt, letting out various curses as the other simply grunts and growls in response. Luckily, it seems the strength of Jaskier’s pressure against his neck causes the Witcher’s movements become less erratic with lack of control and deteriorating oxygen.
“Found it!” Ciri shouts, running over to the fight holding a small glass bottle, but not getting too close out of caution.
“Shove it down his stupid gullet,” Jaskier struggles out. Using his other hand, he grabs Geralt’s jaw, holding it firm and causing his teeth to part slightly so Ciri won’t have to struggle to force the liquid down. She uncorks the bottle and dumps its contents in his mouth. The Witcher gnashes and coughs in response, but it seems enough of the clarifying elixir made it down as his movements began to calm and his pupils relax from their slitted appearance.
The energy exerted from the monster-hunt and the current battle has spent the Witcher, so in turn, Geralt passes out mere moments of having the potion in his system. Jaskier relaxes his grip and the two collapse on their sides in a huff.
“Jaskier, are you alright?” Ciri asks full of worry, rounding the two to Jaskier’s side.
“Gods,” he sighs. He fully disconnects from Geralt and pushes himself up on his hip, “That was annoying. Don’t worry, dear, I’m quite alright. Albeit a bit sore,” he says, though still sounding hoarse.
“Your face is a mess,” the princess comments fondly, crouching down to his level.
“Oh dear, my secondary coin-maker!” Jaskier feigns hurt, tossing an arm up to cover his eyes dramatically. Ciri laughs brightly and offers a hand to help the poet stand. Jaskier takes it gently and – mostly using his own strength – is helped to his feet by the young princess. “We should make camp here, I’m afraid our dear Witcher might not be up and about for a while,” he tries clearing his throat.
“Think he’ll be fine just laying here for a while?” Ciri considers. “I can’t imagine he’ll be too comfortable.”
Jaskier considers for a moment. “Put his bag under his head. I’m sure it’ll be good enough for the time being while we set up,” Jaskier shrugs.
Ciri does, wanting to prove she can hold and maneuver Geralt’s bag on her own, Jaskier just watches as he nurses his aching ribs.
After a while, their camp is now set, Geralt having been rolled onto his own bedroll, still asleep and body working off the poison. The bard and the princess are now sitting next to each other on their respective bedrolls: Ciri skinning the rabbit she had caught earlier, and a fire crackling to life by Jaskier’s doing, who’s face is now cleaned of blood, and only an inflamed bruise formed on his nose. Sitting back, he gingerly feels his bruised neck. Jaskier tests his vocal cords by humming a sustained note – it cracks a little.
“Ah, well,” he sighs, “Nothing a nice cup of tea with honey can’t fix.”
“That was terrible,” Ciri comments, slicing into the animal. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
Jaskier gives her a reaffirming smile. “Oh, this is nothing. One time, years ago, my lovely throat was attacked by a djinn. Wretched thing, that was.”
“A djinn?” she stops her work to look at him. “What, like a genie from the fairytales?” she scoffs in disbelief.
Jaskier chuckles in response, agitating his ribs and causing him to wince in pain, earning a worried look from Ciri. “I’m fine, sweetie. And yes, I laughed at the idea as well until I felt the thing restrict my breathing and made me cough up blood. Funnily enough, that one was accidently caused by Geralt as well,” he said casually.
Ciri doesn’t like this story, as she looks between the chipper bard and the sleeping Witcher, a worried look on her face. “Geralt’s hurt you before?” she asks carefully.
Sensing he might have said something wrong, Jaskier is quick to comfort. “Oh dear, no no, it’s nothing like that. He didn’t know he had the djinn wishes and simply asked for peace and quiet, and I just happened to be the closest thing being loud, as I usually am,” he tries to joke, wanting to lighten the mood. Ciri looks pensively at her hands. “He was very quick to right that wrong, though!” Jaskier continues. “He took me to an elven healer immediately, and when he couldn’t help, he took me to a mage. Yennefer, actually!”
Ciri perks up, “Yennefer saved you?”
Jaskier nods, “That’s how all three of us met for the first time. Quite the meeting if you ask me.” He carefully turns to fully face the princess, continuing, “Point is he’s never meant to hurt me. And when he did, hurt me that is, he always fixed it, even if it took a while.” He places his knuckle under Ciri’s chin, tilting her head up to look at him, “Geralt’s a big softy with a heart of gold.” He places a hand on her small shoulder, “He would never willfully threaten the life of anyone he cares about and would go to the ends of the continent and beyond to save them from danger.”
Ciri thinks for a bit, then smiles, “You really do like to sing his praises, don’t you, Jaskier?”
He smiles back, “I am a master wordsmith, written, spoken, and sung of course.” Now that the mood is lighter, the girl goes to work on cooking the rabbit meat. Suddenly, the large form lying next to them stirs. “Ah, good, the beast awakens,” Jaskier jokes, earning him a giggle and a light slap on the leg from Ciri.
“Oughh,” Geralt groans, sitting up. “How long was I out?”
“About an hour and a half,” Ciri answers. Allowing Jaskier to rest his voice, she explains, “You got poisoned by the mutated cockatrice and attacked Jaskier. We saved you, though.”
His eyes widen in alarm, and he quickly turns towards the bard. “Are you alright?” he asks, concern laced in his voice. Geralt reaches out to analyze the damage dealt, but Jaskier waves him off.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Jaskier sighs, giving Ciri an ‘I told you so’ side-eye and smile. She giggles. “I’m fine, Geralt.”
“Hmm,” Geralt examines his face. “Your nose is bruised, and your voice doesn’t sound right,” he goes serious. “What did I do?”
Jaskier blows air through his lips, imitating a horse’s sound. “I’d love to explain it all in great detail with as many grandiose words as I can muster, but basically,” he tugs down the collar of his coat, revealing the bruised hand mark on his neck. “Ow, ow, and ow,” he punctuates each ‘ow’ by pointing at his neck, is face, and his back ribs.
“Shit,” Geralt takes in the information. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I shouldn’t have let this happen.”
Jaskier huffs a laugh, and winces once more at the pain it causes, “It’s not your fault, so stop that already. Just remember to add this new information to your little beasty-book for the future.”
Geralt nods, then looking to Ciri, “Are you alright?”
Ciri smiles and hands both men a piece of freshly cooked meat, “I was scared at first, but I held my ground and did what I needed to do to help.”
“That’s my girl,” Geralt says smiling. Placing the meat in his mouth, he turns his attention back to the bard, “Take your coat off, I need to look at your ribs. Make sure they’re not broken or cracked.”
“So romantic,” Jaskier jokes, carefully shedding his coat. After undoing his doublet and letting it hang open, Geralt feels around his ribs and back, taking care not to press too firmly.
“Just bruised,” Geralt concludes, pulling away. “You’ll heal just fine.”
Jaskier redoes his clothing, and with a smirk says, “Don’t I always.”
“Hmm,” Geralt gives as confirmation.
“Well, it’s nothing a new lute strap can’t fix—”
“And a sweet bun!” Ciri chimes in, seizing her chance to get a consolation prize as well.
“And a sweet bun for the lovely young woman that saved my skin, and provided us with a nice snack,” Jaskier dangles the piece of meat in front of Geralt’s face. “She was very brave, you know. We both deserve a bit of compensation,” Jaskier says devilishly,
“Hm,” Geralt looks between the two hopeful sunshines. “I’ll think about it. I need to take care of that first,” he declares, gesturing towards the dead beast across the way. Standing up, he unsheathes his knife and goes to work studying and salvaging parts from the monster.
Jaskier and Ciri smile at and give each other a fist bump, knowing they’ll get something special once they hit town. The princess continues her work on the last of the meat, portioning it out for the three of them. Jaskier simply takes out his lute, relaxes back on his bedroll, and begins strumming a random tune. The trio falling into comfortable routine.