Afraid Not

"There were flowers in her hair, a twinkle in her eyes. But now tonight she is bare, a man keen between her thighs—"

"Must you always sing about sex?"

Jaskier stops from where he had been strumming at his lute, his face drawing up and contorting with exasperation. From where he walks at the back of their sad parade, leading away from Vengerberg, Jaskier feels himself grow hot with irritation.

"It's about love, you dolt! And despite that, you already shot down every other type of ballad," Jaskier huffs defiantly, "I'm only trying to lighten the mood after the warm welcome we just received from Vengerberg."

Before him, the silver-haired Witcher hums. His broad back faces the bard as Roach lumbers along the road, her head hung low in light of their wounded pride.

Jaskier swears, despite the land growing wilder with their increasing distance from the capital, he can still hear the townsfolk swearing at them. Cursing, banning them all the same. Wincing faintly as he takes a breath of air, Jaskier scents the unfortunate aroma from the rotten food the capital's population assaulted them both with, and it seems that their organic weaponry has muddled his once pristine doublet.

Jaskier is admittedly bitter about it.

"Well, what would you like me to sing about then, o'great Witcher? Plague? Bread? Unicorns?"

The Witcher does not turn to face Jaskier as he gravels, "I'd prefer if you wouldn't sing at all."

Rolling his eyes, the troubadour feels his mood sour further. While being used to Geralt's barb, he still somewhat takes the jabs at his music personally. He's a poet after all. It's as much his craft as monster slaying is to the Witcher in front of him.

But still, Jaskier relents, and he slides his lute from his front to his back, pulling its strap over his chest. He isn't sparing the Witcher per se. He's a bit too strung out for music.

The dying light of day has Jaskier on edge as they continue to meander along away from the safety of the capital. After all, Jaskier had expected a nice night spent in the comforts of an inn, with fine food and ale in his belly.

But that was soon shot to hell shortly after they arrived in Vengerberg. Bitter still, he is.

"Fine. No music," as Jaskier supposedly surrenders, Geralt hums, sighing with content right up until Jaskier speaks again a second later, "But if you thought that would earn you silence, you're sorely mistaken."

"It's a miracle no one has killed you yet."

Oh. Seems that Geralt is also in a bit of a mood.

Not too different from his usual self though, honestly. The man himself exists as a mood, and often not a pleasant one. It was known the monster-slayer was definitely not the hospitable type, and Jaskier is sure he has met rabid dogs more welcoming than the Witcher before him.

The monster slayer was as guarded as he was off-putting, generally cold and dismissive to everyone around him. His face is kept impassive or in a constant scowl, and Jaskier can count on a hand the number of times he's seen the Witcher smile, especially not in mocking. The poet knows better than most just how rare it is to see Geralt truly express anything other than his contempt or annoyance for the world and beings around him. It's safer to be rejecting than acceptable, it seems.

But after five years of travel as Geralt's companion, Jaskier has learned to read all of his subtleties, much to Geralt's dismay.

The pinch to his brow. The tight hold on Roach's reins. The way his nostrils flare while his amber eyes do not waiver off the road before him.