( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

[indecisivesock]

Nursed Back to Health Comment with your character, preferences, preferred role, and any information you'd like to include. Your character has either been injured/sick and had to be taken in (possibly against their will) or has been the one to help somebody like the former. Through the mending process, the two characters in a thread have fallen in love - or at least grown closer and more affectionate. Reply to others. Thread.

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Jaskier | The Witcher | So very OTA.

[whatupbuttercup]

[OOC: For the sake of this particular meme, Jaskier can either be mildly competent at patching people up or a total panicky disaster bisexual. Very slight preference for his being injured since he will be a drama queen about it, but he will be a drama queen either way. This will end up shippy but no preference for M/M or M/F or otherwise.]

Re: Jaskier | The Witcher | So very OTA.

[havinalark]

[If you don't mind OCs my gal Lark here is a generic-medieval-setting peasant girl with a secret career as a master thief, I would be delighted with panicky disaster bisexual failing to deal with somebody else's injury, but equally fun with her being exasperated with his drama queening while she patches him up?

Got some possible ideas for some assumed CR scenarios if you'd prefer that or we could just throw them into a sitch and see what happens.

If you prefer canon characters I can rifle through my bag of tricks and see what else I can find, ps I love your username]

[whatupbuttercup]

[Oh, I am extremely here for her she sounds delightful! We can do assumed cr but Jaskier getting into a ridiculous situation that involves injuries and patching up with a pretty girl he only just met? That's the sparknotes of his life.

I am here for all variants of this, let's pick one and do the thing. (And thank you! I was so glad this username fit.)]

[havinalark]

_{[Excellent! Okay here are some slightly more specific ideas;}

Lark is robbing a place while there's a party going down that Jaskier is at, she gets injured and he stumbles across her and is probably going to alert the guards of the dangerous thief but oh no she's a pretty girl and wow that's a lot of blood.

Alternatively she's robbing some dude who's either kidnapped Jaskier because of Geralt or caught him in bed with his wife or something, and she stumbles across him and gets him out of there and has to patch him up.

If you want to throw in any assumed CR I'm thinking maybe like childhood friends so it goes from 'mysterious thief person' to 'surprise reunion!' but I'm equally down for 'hello we just met and now we're on the run from the guards together' with either of the above]

[whatupbuttercup]

[Oh the choices! Glorious. How about we do number one with a dash of number two--in that there is a party, she is looting, injured, and Jaskier has just discovered that the lady of the house is an old paramour of his and hoboy her husband remembers him and now we have to get out of here fast. But also she is a pretty girl and he takes her too? And oh dear, now they are in hiding and also that is a lot of blood.

This is very detailed, but, chaotic mix of 1 and 2 sound okay?]

[havinalark]

_{[sounds perfect! Would you like to start us off or shall I?]}

[whatupbuttercup]

[Would you mind? I am about an inch away from passing out tonight, so I won't be able to write anything until tomorrow.]

[havinalark]

_{[no problem! I'm just starting work so I will throw up a starter at lunch time. Sleep well!}

Let me know if anything needs changing!

[havinalark]

Robbing a place in the middle of a party seems like it would be a terrible idea, but Lark has found that, actually, parties are the ideal time to strike. Hosts are rarely in their private quarters, guards struggle to keep up with all the new faces and the guests are generally loud enough that they make the perfect distraction. Which was why more than a few nobles across the land have woken the morning after their revelry to find the infamous thief known as the Wing had made off during the night with any number of precious treasures.

So when she heard through the grapevine that her latest target was planning an evening of festivities, she knew it was time.

Getting into the place was easy, she slipped in unnoticed while the guards were busy watching the guests, and even finding the statue she'd been hired to steal was more straightforward than she expected, so really she should have known something was coming.

It happened as she was crossing the inner courtyard, the guards were suddenly alert for something, on the hunt - surely they hadn't realised the statue was missing so quickly? Whatever the reason, they were eagle-eyed enough that someone spotted the dark figure skirting the walls and gave the order to open fire. A volley of arrows came her way and she darted behind a bush, but not before one of them hit her thigh.

Gritting her teeth against the pain she knew she had to move quickly as they were already rushing towards her location. Thankfully, the bush helpfully obscured an open window, and she dove through it into the darkened room beyond, sliding the window shut behind her just moments before the guards were in sight.

So perfect!

[whatupbuttercup]

Over the years, quite a number of people had "advised" him to be more gradual with his affections. Even he could admit that he, perhaps, overindulged in love--but, in his defense, he really loved being loved. He was also very enamored with loving others. Really, the whole enterprise was positively wonderful--and why abstain from wonderful things?

Well, situations like this were a fair reason.

The party he'd been hired for was a birthday celebration--it was for a woman he had absolutely adored--had adored for the duration of a winter a year ago--and he'd jumped at the chance to pay her a visit. She was lovely, sweet, kind, and had a figure built for sin.

Unfortunately, it did not occur to him that it was her husband who had explicitly invited him.

Her husband who had watched him dive out a window in the early spring.

Jaskier hadn't realized the danger in time--he'd agreed to a really showy entrance. Something very impressive, very fond--they'd put him in a cake! He was supposed to leap out and play a lovely ballad dedicated to her eyes--he'd written it and played it for the staff as a test. It went over very well!

But he'd jumped out and right there was her husband and about two dozen armed guards.

Really killed the mood, frankly.

To say that he fled was an understatement. Jaskier dove from that cake, into the hall, and ran like his manhood literally depended upon it. It did, but that was beside the point. Fortunately, years of hard travel had made him both nimble and fast--he lost the guards but they scattered to try and track him down. He dove alcove to alcove, closet to storage room, and desperately tried to find his way out of a house he had never actually walked through.

Was that why he'd been encased in a cake!?

"Fuck," he whispered vehemently as he leaned around a corner and spied a pair of guards approaching. He dove into the nearest room, threw the door open, jumped into the dark, and closed it with haste and a special, habitual level of care. It closed silently and he braced it hard as he listened. Footsteps approached, rattled armor and weaponry, and then left.

He didn't even notice that the room was occupied until he turned and sagged back against the door. He was slid halfway down the door when he spotted the woman on the floor. The bleeding woman with an arrow in her thigh.

He stared and gaped for a moment.

"Uh..." he said very quietly. "Fun party?"

Open Prompt/Starter - Injured Jaskier

[whatupbuttercup]

It was a lovely day and Jaskier had been entirely set on enjoying it.

He'd woken on the road (had camped comfortably under the stars) and set out, meandering in the beautiful sunshine. He followed the main road south from Redania, just as he had done the day before, and would probably do tomorrow. Spring was in the air, the birds were singing, the wind sighed through the trees, and the perfume of wildflowers danced all around him. Truly, it was the ideal day to be outdoors, the kind of day that begged for musical accompaniment.

Jaskier decided to greet this fine day with an equally fine song.

Unfortunately, as he traveled, he met a group of fine gentlemen.

These fine gentlemen, large and scary as they were, insisted that he lighten his load and hand over his wallet, supplies, and instrument. He had declined--quite politely--and had invited them to a tune and a drink of some of the brandy he kept in a flask in his boot. They, similarly, declined his offer and then insisted he surrender his things.

It had been a very short but very pointed disagreement. Jaskier had, in the end, failed to convince them of his point of view and was forced to acquiesce to their firm requests.

"Fuck," Jaskier wheezed as he stared up at the branches waving in the mid-morning sunlight. A bird chirped brightly somewhere off to his left. The bard hissed and groaned as he tried to sit up--blinding pain danced up his side and his vision spotted over in a whole array of painful, brilliant color and dark shapes. His ribs screamed and his gasp of pain turned into a dark, bitter chuckle. He didn't press his hand against them, he wasn't an idiot, but he did pause once he'd managed to sit up.

The trampled grass around him was rather depressing.

The kicks to his side had been, of course, fair. He'd been prone, he'd antagonized them--really, it was his own fault that they'd broken--what felt like two of his ribs. The kick to his face, however, had been entirely uncalled for. His vision cleared in time, but the throbbing was insistent. He hoped they hadn't broken his nose--he couldn't breathe through it, but he couldn't really breathe on the whole, so that was a secondary concern. In fact, so were his ribs.

His hand pressed hard against his stomach and, when he finally steeled himself, he let out a stuttering moan of pain as he pushed up on to his knees. He felt a sluggish, insistent liquid warmth creep through his fingers and tried to ignore it. The cut itself hurt rather badly--a cutting (hah) and jagged pain, one that radiated through the whole of his torso. It was extremely unpleasant but, overall, he was much more alarmed by the bits that didn't hurt. He could feel the wound where it cut into him, felt the sting of it, but it was a distant sort of feeling.

Jaskier thought that being stabbed ought to be much more...insistently painful.

Was this shock?

This might be shock.

His heart was beating rather hard, and he was shaky. Those didn't sound much like shock but, frankly, he could worry about the shakes later.

His whole outfit was ruined, which was sad. They had taken all his supplies, his food, his money, his songbook, and pack, which was very inconvenient. They had taken his lute--ah, and that, above all things, was fucking tragic.

With a great deal of effort, Jaskier got his feet under him. He swooned a bit--distantly he realized his leg hurt. It was a bright, glittering sort of pain, one that was much more insistent than the hole in his side. He was tempted to bend and examine it--no, he lacked the balance for something that complicated. He would have to tough it out...insofar as he could.

Honestly, the more he thought about everything...the less he felt any of it.

That was bad, wasn't it?

Jaskier managed a few steps, halting and staggered by pain, before he made it out of the grassy...well, for lack of a better word: ditch. They had dumped him in a ditch.

"Rude," he wheezed and turned his attention to the road.

The road back toward Redania was long, straight, and crossed a great deal of plain. It had been nice to walk along all morning, but it would take more than a day to reach anyone or anything if he went that way. He could see nearly to the horizon. He looked the other way, ahead toward the bendy paths in the wood, and tried to mentally retrace the map he no longer had. He failed to recall anything but, frankly, he didn't have much choice.

"Well, I guess I get to follow the fellows who mugged me," he muttered bitterly, if only because the sound of his own voice helped fill the peaceful quiet around him. Suddenly the solitude, the calm, seemed impossibly desolate. His heart was still hammering and the breeze took on a note of unpleasant coolness.

"Fuck," he repeated and started down the road.

It was fortunate he'd become adept at walking over the years--he had endurance. He could make it somewhere...he was sure he could.

concern.jpg

[shadowsran]

It'd been a quiet day. Pleasant. She'd kept roughly the pace she'd optimistically hoped, a large dip in the earth a ways from the road afforded a degree of privacy and an eye on passers by comfortably fit her tent, the weather had been fine. The sole, though not unexpected worry, was food. Simple logistics. At least a day to anywhere it might be purchased; foraging never presented much challenge, but wasn't what she would call robust; hunting was...not a favored activity. Doable, but unpleasant.

A quarter-hour had passed since a change in the air tabled any leisurely internal debate. She scented blood like a hound these days, and knew significant injury when it wafted by. Something larger hunting more seriously, she presumed. Not uncommon for large enough game or a hard enough fight to capture more of her attention than would be ideal. It never passed, which was bizarre.

Merely wounded and still moving, the hungrier part of her opportunistically hoped. Hard work done for her.

Wounded and still hunted, the melancholy in her decided. The poor thing.

And it didn't pass. Steady and consistent, like a draft frustratingly easy to differentiate from the breeze. Moving. Moving closer.

Still convinced it was some atypically strong, pitiable game, she'd been fussing with the beginnings of a fire if only for something to do when she spotted him. Fortunately, as the immediate doubt he could make much noise if he wanted to seemed more substantiated the longer she looked.

Yelling would startle. Sprinting would startle. The easy slope up to the road is thus taken at a somewhat frantic jog, and she does her damndest to keep her voice level when she speaks.

"Hey! Hey, I-- easy--" Immediately ducking under an arm to relieve some of his own weight, she steered him toward her tent. (Wouldn't make it anywhere else, clearly - wonder he'd made it this far.) "I'm helping, I've got you."

Navigating the dip was more patience-testing than difficult, accomplished quickly enough. Easing him onto her bedroll without feeling somehow personally responsible for every wince or twitch was exclusively difficult.

"What happened?"

[whatupbuttercup]

He had been moving on muscle memory alone--a strong breeze could have had him collapsing and, indeed, he'd left quite a trail of blood trickling in his wake. He had no idea how long he was walking before he spotted that woman. He'd been convinced she was a vision, something he imagined on the roadside, until she hurried to him.

He hadn't the energy to startle.

She wound her arm beneath his and held, it wasn't a bad idea--the only complication lie in the fact that one side of him was clutching a deep wound and the other had broken ribs. She opted for the side without the blood, which Jaskier distantly acknowledged made sense, but what meager thoughts remained in his head fled him, then. He gaped as she took some of his weight and pressed into his broken ribs--he was silent and gasping messily until they got him to the bedroll.

The only thing that prevented him from collapsing in a heap, then, was the hold she had on his arm. His head swam as the ground pressed on his back and Jaskier blinked up at her, dazed, for several seconds as he tried to breathe. He did a very poor job of it.

It was hard to pull his hand away from his side, the blood around his wound had already started to dry where it soaked his doublet. It stuck to his fingers. He had to show her the wound, clearly she couldn't have guessed without the confirmation--but that was just about the only answer he could give. He wheezed and let his eyes close, lest he court vomiting.

"Oh, you know," Jaskier said in a tone he hoped was light and conversational. It was not, but that was beside the point. "Disagree with someone about whose wallet that is, whose belt it's attached to, and sometimes they get a bit argumentative. This fellow, I will admit, had a very good point."

[shadowsran]

Very much not game. But nearly as sad.

That her eyes didn't widen at the reveal of the injury itself was more testament to a modicum of pragmatism under pressure than any mental distance from his suffering. A location is presented to focus on, and that mandated abandonment of the doublet and any undershirt. (Which she would consider a favor - it couldn't be comfortable.) Rasping breath fortunately reminded her the effort of full removal might have been too much.

The jacket was then merely unbuttoned, left as open and out of the way as could be managed without jostling him. Any and all forms of undershirt carefully, gently rolled up. The impressively bruised side opposite was then freed to catch attention, and--

Well, one would permit a small widening of eyes at that point.

"How thorough was that point, exactly? Details. Everywhere it hurts."

Easy prompt. If not everything, it would at least provide highlights, direct a little of her urgency. The cut to mend would do so well enough in the moment. She would leave his side for a moment, to rummage through a bag - a bottle produced, contents unknown tipped onto a clean scrap of cloth.

While listening carefully for an answer, the delicate task of cleaning began.

[whatupbuttercup]

"Oh, he and his fellows were very verbose," Jaskier wheezed as she shoved his shirt up. His voice had a rasping, weak quality, like a thin whistle through a narrow passage of rock. Fuck this hurt.

She'd probably guessed about his face--his nose couldn't have been broken too terribly or she'd have mentioned, right? Mercy maybe it was in tact--he could dream.

She pressed that cloth against the deep cut in his abdomen and he hissed, gritting his teeth hard. The flesh was tender and angry after all his exertion--the way he flexed upward before dropping back did nothing to help. A fresh, sluggish chug of blood rose to the surface of it and slid thickly down his side. Gods' how long had that dagger been? He couldn't remember.

He gaped a bit, let his mouth hang open and it moved as he sought words.

"Kicked in the ribs," he says, much less charm and cleverness in his tone, then. "My right leg--I don't know."

The glittering pain in that leg had remained constant, hadn't faded like the others, lost to the numbness of shock or the distraction of shivering. That was the boot he kept his flask in--had the glass shattered? Probably. It must have been empty, else he had less brandy then he thought.

[shadowsran]

There would be no withholding a wince on his behalf; no pleasure taken in it, but it had to be done. A little more aggravation before she could see about mending. New blood was wiped away along with the old, the latter quite understandably being a repetitive and careful task in lieu of a scrubbing one.

The new round of pained breathing and shaky explanation is enough that she amended the goal; short questions, moving forward. Yes or no or some equivalent whenever she could help it.

"Leg, or foot?" Would be a little rude to jostle someone out of their trousers for what would turn out to be no reason, after all.

A return made to the bag - a proper length of cloth produced, and a small waterskin. It contains a liquid (paste, more like), to be certain, but not water. It was added to the aforementioned cloth and carefully, methodically spread across and around the cut. It carried no burn or unpleasantness inherent to itself, nothing intended in any way to exacerbate discomfort.

He might in fact notice it smells like lavender. It's intended to soothe.

Little things.

"If you can lean up for me a little, I need to get this around you." Fasten cloth to wound, tight enough to stay in place. It could be managed without his assistance, but less pleasantly for all involved.

[whatupbuttercup]

"Calf," he answered distractedly, or thought he had. It was hard to tell, frankly, with his pulse in his ears and his head so faint and foggy. He tried to breathe but it was an effort--something he found he had a great deal of trouble managing.

"Up?" He repeated distantly, unaware that time had passed or that she had spread anything across the cut in his stomach. He cracks an eye at her and the golden curls floating above him, against the radiant light that bounced through the canvas tent, seem almost ethereal. He was going to die...but at least he got to stare at someone lovely while he did.

His smile is soft and fond and desperate, but he tries, oh how he tries, to do as she asks.

[shadowsran]

It was enough to make out, barely. Small mercies.

"Up," came the echo, not quite brusque but clearly focused on the task at hand, the utility of an answer. Until the attempt to fulfill the request, scarcely better than nothing. Working the cloth under him was something of a task, but accomplished quickly enough for her taste. Not the most professional she'd done, but it would hold, and she could confidently call that all but dealt with provided he kept still and didn't fuss.

Which it seemed, as she glanced up, a heartbreakingly easy assumption to make. His gaze (incomplete and hazy as it must be) is met and held. The smile all but breaks her, and her own expression softens considerably to accommodate it. A tremendous amount of pain for a person, it must be frightening - the smile ought to confuse her, and yet.

Well. She'd been through her own share scrapes alone. A soul to smile at would have been cause to smile. Perhaps it was why treatment came to a short pause, long enough to gingerly take the nearest hand in both of hers. Minimal pressure, if only to ground him.

"You're going to be alright, I swear that, if you're listening. Nobody's getting to you here. Rest, for me? Eyes shut, relax. You're safe."

She'll take care of it. The ribs will be a headache, but she can work with it. He needn't be aware through it all.

[conjurechaos]

Their interlude of trading rumors and burying the hatchet was some months ago. Yennefer still feels very uplifted, recollecting what transpired at the tavern even with the fuzzier details after. Jaskier all this time was a dear friend. And what do dear friends do to one another? Keep track of their presence. That is not without a bit of mischief.

The broach was small, fairly masculine in the fashion of it's design. What truly was attractive about it was the way the stone shone blue in one light and yellow and green in another. She claimed it was a gift and clearly it was not to her taste. Jaskier looked strapping in blue. So that is how he came to wear what was for all points and purposes a tracking device. All Yennefer had to do was focus her energies on where he was and a reunion was only a portal away.

Bremevoord was not too far. The ocean air was abrasive. The people not as hardened as the Skelligans. There was some opportunity for magic. A man had been looking for means to speak to the sea maidens. Why oh why would he wish for something like that when so many-a maiden clearly fawned for him? The minds and hearts of man are stupid and impossible things. Still, Yennefer did what she was able. Now he was at least speaking to a sea maiden. The true work would be what on earth would happen if they wanted to do more than speak. Already they didn't even speak the same language! The nonsense. There was one person that would love to hear this tale. So packing her things in a modest bag, she reached for the energies of the broach.

Not too, too far from where she had left him. The element of surprise was on her side. Maybe she would haul him through a portal some day soon. No delicate senses or mutagens to blame for an unpleasant trip, maybe he'd like it.

Air swirled and the trees rustled. There was salt air and sand that fluttered through with Yennefer. "My services are no longer required so--" The portal closed behind her. The wind is still rushing, Yennefer adjusted her hair as best she could. "Jaskier?" The faces that looked at her with surprise where dirty, grimey it was not a stretch to jump to mean. "What have you lot done with Jaskier?"

[whatupbuttercup]

Big Earl was one of the best highwaymen in all of the world, of that he was convinced and he'd managed to talk the others into it as well. They looted enough to keep themselves fed and wealthy, had never been caught, and had precious few bounties to their names. The idiot bard from earlier had been a great find--wandering alone, in the middle of nowhere, with a lute that cost more than most manor houses and--

"Prick was carrying two hundred crown," Little Ed, announced with a thick whistle and jangled the satin pouch they'd lifted. "Twixt this lot and the jewelry an' whatsit--we've got a fine holiday comin' up."

"Might keep this," Ed said, and Medium Ed gave him a scowl. "Wot? I like it, it's glittery n' green. I like green."

"It's blue, you cunt," Little Earl bitched and tossed one of the rolls of bread they'd pilfered off the bard at the pair.

"Whatever, can't sell most of it til' we hit a real town. Don't bang it up--"

And that was when the day went very strange indeed.

They'd been sitting round at the crossroads, ready to head down a path toward Cintra or a path farther south, through Sodden. The little waystation there was barely a tavern, barely a farm, but they had food and water and chairs. They'd been occupying five of those, bickering and rifling through their haul, when all at once there was the taste of lightning and wind and then sea-air and sand--and the most gorgeous woman any of them had ever seen was strolling out of thin air to stand next to their table.

They all went still, staring at her with wide, confused eyes and dumb expressions. She stared at them. Said somethin' must have been a magic word and then got a mean look. The Eds looked at the Earls and nobody had the faintest idea what she was asking.

"Like, the flower?" Medium Ed asked and that snapped the others out of their shock.

"Fuck, a witch?" They scrambled but getting their weapons in hand was a challenge, they'd been prepared to waste the rest of the afternoon drinking and carousing, not fighting.

[conjurechaos]

Hardly a tavern meant that there was hardly much to the structure of the place. Five men, and the items strewn over the splintering wood table. It did not paint a beautiful picture in Yennefer's mind. Her jaw set and her fists clenched. Her eyes did not glow but violet certainly looks hard and frightening in a glare or so she has been told.

"What have you done with the man that owned these possessions?" is that a more direct question? She was speaking the common tongue. Though they all looked as though they had some troll lineage. Disgust has it's way of coloring Yennefer's gaze she snatches up the blue jewel. Perhaps she can retrace steps after dealing with garbage.

Yennefer breathes in, the air feels thinner because of it. The Eds and Earls would find their movements are like they're treading through mud. They can't move for their weapons and protect the goods at once. She collected the coin purse. The lute will be next. The money Jaskier would part with, the trinket too. The lute? It makes dread heavy in her stomach. This was his pride, joy and true love. Holding it for a moment is an embrace to his whole self right now. Despair and worry must take a step away while logic and her temper settle the score.

"Are you going to behave or am I to pull answers from you?"

[whatupbuttercup]

The men slowed and their panic mounted, even though their expressions couldn't quite shift in time with it. They looked at her in horror as they ground to a halt. She collected their winnings and, eventually, it was Medium Ed who spoke up. Medium Ed had always been a fucking idiot.

"We didn't know he knew no witches--" he cried. "We didn't kill him, sware on my mum!"

"Shut it--" Big Earl snapped and Medium Ed babbled nonsense about kicking but he insulted his cock and he deserved it and it was a fair trade that. If he could have hit him, Big Earl would have. His dagger still had the bard's blood on it.

"We don't know nothin--" Big Earl ground out, steely as anything.

[conjurechaos]

"Oh and that's reassuring?" Yennefer is not tall. Fury has given her three more feet to her height. Medium Ed's cock was not meant to have a good day. She knees him and gives him a shove backward. The dagger's blade is only begun to dry. Hope fluttered in her heart. She would not take the word of a brigand for truth. In a panic any would tell her exactly what she wanted to hear.

She calmly pried the offending dagger from Medium Ed and turned it on Big Earl. Aptly named fellow. Half way to standing she still had to prop upon a stool to face him. "Know this then, only I shall leave this place in one piece." The owner of the tiny tavern scuttled close to the ground, shielding his head as he made for the lopsided door muttering pardons and pleas all the while. Oh. She hadn't seen him. She quickly amends with: "And him." The Eds and Earls and Yennefer now stood in the shabby place.

The blade was sharp and with her spell red is even slower to well in the slash across Big Earl's thick neck. "Anyone else not know anything?" Her violet eyes squinted looking over the four other faces.

[whatupbuttercup]

Big Earl's gasp was gruesome in how slow it was. That cut ran deep and the eyes of the other highwaymen went so wide, so terribly afraid, that if they could have pissed themselves, they would have. Big Earl couldn't whine, not with his throat cut, but the panic and desperation on his face was transcendental.

It was Medium Ed, whose cock was still in the process of having a very shit day, who let out a shaky whine. He gasped and fumbled with words, tried to tell her directions, but his whimpering reduced him to gibberish. Very gradual gibberish. Little Ed, beside him, looked livid, like he wanted to spit, like he might've tried.

Ed, the regular one, swallowed and tried to twist. The broach was in his hand and he looked deeply apologetic.

"Didn't break his nose--didn't mean to--" The man was in pure panic, but he seemed remorseful...for a highwayman faced with a slow, terrible death, at least. "Back on the road, by the edge of the wood--left him in the shade we did--"

"Shut up!"

"Fuck, I don't want to die!"

[conjurechaos]

Yennefer had the time now to clean the blade on Big Earl's shirt. The men were welcomed to piss themselves, not that it would do them a lick of good. "Are you truly of no help?" The broach was now the only other clue she had to where the poor bard was.

"And was he alive? Was he?" She moves to be able to give Little Ed a twist of his nose and a kick to the balls for good measure. The whole lot of them nasty, sniveling children. "Alive or dead, you left him all alone and in tatters to the elements. That sounds like a fair way to leave you too."

This was entertaining though not at all settling the panic. She could toy with these men for hours. Did Jaskier have any time like that? One more cold look at all of them she draws fire from the cast iron stove. What a sight. In one hand a dagger that tore open their largest comrade, the other a ball of fire.

"...there was a book. Where is it?" If--no, don't think like that Yennefer--when you find him, he will want his lute, his gold and his songbook.