Toss a Coin to Your Witcher (Completed)

Devils and Elves

"You must have some review for me. Come on, three words or less." He said, sitting down opposite the stranger. Geralt had heard his song, and while it hardly impressed him, he was privately amused by the man's underserved confidence. He hid this well however, staring down the bard with a disinterested glare.
"They don't exist." He grumbled, his voice like rolling thunder. Jaskier tried his best to ignore the hot golden eyes boring into him.
"Whaat don't exsist?" The bard asked, leaning his face in his hands and watching the man.
"The creatures in your song."
"And how would you know?" There was a long pause. Jaskier took the time to look the stranger up and down, from the top of his snowy white crown to where his black-clad chest disappeared below the table. "Oh fun. White hair, big ol' loner, two very, very scary looking swords. I know who you are."
"Your the witcher, Geralt of Rivia. Called it!" He called after the broad shoulders of the Witcher as he strode away, not noticing how the pub went silent the second he said it. 

That was how it began. 
The next thing Geralt knew he was being followed by the Bard like a desperate, lost puppy. They took the mountain path, Roach clopping along next to Geralt happily unaware of the man's growing frustration. After trying to dissuade Jaskier with a punch to the gut that sent him tumbling into the dirt, and having that fail, Geralt simply accepted that the bard was not so easily put off and begrudgingly accepted his companionship. 
The iron bolt that shot from the corn surprised the Witcher as much as the bard, though he quickly recovered and ducked behind the cover of rockface just in time to miss the second; Jaskier went toppling to the ground silently and Geralt tried not to laugh. 
Out of the crop came hurtling a goat-like humanoid, he spoke, was almost humorous even, but Geralt knew, even as they were rolling across the sand together locked in a fight, that he would have to be stopped. Killed or sent away, but he could not be allowed to continue stealing from the locals. Just as Geralt began to explain this situation to the creature, a boot came down hard on his face and darkness surrounded him.

They woke up drowsily, tied back to back and unarmed. 
"This is the part where we escape." Jaskier said, wriggling against Geralt, the severity of the situation kicking in. He did think there was perhaps one small upside, being pressed so close to the Witcher's lithe muscle. 
"This is the part where they kill us." 
"Who's they?" The bard asked, turning to try and catch a look at the Witcher or past his shoulder to their surroundings. A boot landed across his face just then, and a harsh voice rang out, speaking the ancient tongue.
"Elves!" Geralt exclaimed as the same boot came across his face and he spat up blood. Despite the situation, the Bard was more concerned for his lute than his life, and Geralt almost laughed with the dark humour of it. He was mildly impressed when the Bard spoke up in the Eleven tongue, but it was cut off with another kick.
"Leave off! He's just a bard." He snapped, and Jaskier thought to himself; he does care, in some small way. In return for his kindness, the Witcher was paid with a beating, and Jaskier felt a wave of protectiveness for the strange man.
"You hide in your golden palaces, you beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye!" He spat, feeling the tense lines of his pain rippling through him. Jaskier remained silent while Geralt and the Elf king spoke, listening intently to the pain in his voice as he spoke of the great cleansing, it was enough to make him stop his panic and fear and remember that Elves had been wronged. The two were spared, the word of the goat-man saved them in the end, a recommendation for their release on the grounds that the Witcher had spared his life.

The road was ever longer, and ever hotter, and though Jaskier tried his best to make conversation, Geralt was having none of it. He tried instead to play, it had always been his way to speak when he had no words. Lyrics were always easier he found. He strode on ahead, a new tune on his tongue, and though it was not the whole truth, Geralt smiled softly at the song and rode on. He might be able to warm up to the annoying prat after all.