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The first one is yellow, petals rounded. A buttercup.
“Ah, fuck.” Geralt’s chest tightens, even though it’s still too early.
Usually, he might consider going to Jaskier, but not even he’s dense enough to misunderstand who this specific flower means. It still doesn’t tell him what it means, though.
Fuck, indeed.
Geralt’s chest gets tighter, and the flowers multiply, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.
That’s the problem with all of this: knowing he is missing something doesn’t help with figuring out what.
“– bring your… pet bard.”
“My friend,” Geralt growls, and takes a deep breath.
Oh.