Regis, naturally, is the first one down in the kitchen. Naturally because - presumably and true to his principles - he was the only sentient being present at the fall masquerade that did not indulge in alcoholic beverages of any sort, nor in any other ingestible and intoxicating substances. In addition to this undeniable advantage - undeniable at least if viewed from the perspective of the day after - as a higher vampire he does not really need to sleep. Luckily, besides being a higher vampire, he is also a very patient and self-sufficient entity, so he does not mind sitting alone in their kitchen for a couple of hours. Well, not really their kitchen but the castle's. However, to Regis it kind of feels like it belongs to them by now. And to the chickens, of course. But what is the baby goat doing under their table? This is definitely new. Hopefully the cute little thing is not meant to end up as today's dinner. With humans you never know ...
The vampire sits down at the table and helps himself to a soft-boiled egg, curtesy of the chickens. Like every morning, it is already waiting for him under a padded egg cosy. Softly humming Jaskier's song between slow bites, Regis begins his lonely breakfast. Well, not entirely lonely. There are the aforementioned chickens and the baby goat - besides the busily serving servants and the equally busily cooking cooks in the adjacent rooms. However, they know not to disturb their duchess's highly revered guests. Unless those guests wish to be disturbed. Which does not seem to be the case this morning as there is already some disturbance well underway. A quite welcome, teeny-weeny and rather furry disturbance in the shape of the baby goat. When the animal starts nibbling at Regis's shoes, he finds some herbs in his pockets which he feeds to the cute little creature. It does not take long until the goatling hops onto the vampire's lap and falls fast asleep there, obviously not afraid at all of the potentially bloodthirsty, murderous monster.
It takes a lot longer until the vampire's human - and Witcher - friends show up. Far, far longer. Who will be the first to this late breakfast in Toussaint? Definitely not Jaskier, Regis is sure of that. The bard will be the last one to appear, if he gets out of bed at all today. And decides to come down to the castle kitchens. Maybe Cahir will be first? Since both he and Geralt have seen neither hide nor hair of the alleged non-Nilfgaardian at the masquerade, this first of November might be just another regular day in Toussaint for him. All the others, though, are certainly pretty hungover and not exactly keen on a hearty breakfast, or any breakfast whatsoever.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"My, isn't this a cutie-pie. Where did you find the little darling, Mr Terzieff-Godefroy?" A slightly husky alto voice which definitely does not belong to the non-Nilfgaardian.
"Lady Fringilla, what a pleasant surprise. A good morning to you, too, or more precisely a good afternoon. Geralt." Regis nods to the couple that has just entered the kitchen, the very first to join him for this very late breakfast in Toussaint. They both are gazing at Regis's new friend. Gazing from heavy-lidded, dark-ringed and slightly reddened eyes that betray a night of intensive partying. Not even Fringilla's perfect make-up nor her dark complexion manage to hide the fact completely. "I trust you've had a good night?" Neither of the two gives an answer. "As to your question," the vampire continues while his friends are sitting down at the table, "I found the cuddly kid right here in this very kitchen, and, luckily, not in a pie. What or who has brought her here, I have not the slightest idea."
"Hm," Geralt mumbles, not much interested in the origin story of the goat. "You don't happen to have a remedy for a splitting headache on you? Something strong?" He then asks.
"Not exactly on me. However, anticipating the dire need for precisely such a remedy, I have had the cook prepare a concoction of my special and very potent hangover tea. Just for my special and very hungover friends. Please, help yourselves, it's in the teapot." Regis motions at the vessel which is covered by a tea cosy, its golden vine and grape design on a green background colour matching the egg cosies perfectly. "One cup should suffice to alleviate the worst after-effects. And leave enough for our comrades if they happen to need some, too."
They look like they do need of some of this very special tea when they enter the kitchen not long after Fringilla and Geralt. They being Milva, Angoulême and, last but not least, Jaskier.
"Ah, you've already met our little Geraltine! Isn't she a cutie-pie?" Although looking no less hungover than his comrades, the bard seems to be in a quite cheerful mood. Probably still revelling in the memories of his grand musical success of the previous night. If he has any memories of that night. "In stark contrast to her namesake, I must declare," Jaskier continues, frowning slightly as he takes in the Witcher's rather rumpled and grumpy countenance. "Cheer up, Geralt, old chap! It's a beautiful day! By the way, you are glowing." Jaskier grins broadly at his morose friend.
"Look at his hair!" Angoulême breaks into a cackling laugh while pointing her finger at the Witcher, who is indeed glowing greenishly in several spots. Geralt flushes bright red and just so manages to stay his hand that is itching to throw something at the girl. He tightens his grip around his cup of hangover tea instead.
"Would you turn down that volume, Angoulême?" he mutters, feeling like that punch has punched a gaping hole into his skull where his memory used to be with every sound painfully reverberating inside of it.
"The punch has punched - what a perfectly punchy pun! You might still become a poet, Geralt," Jaskier throws his friend another broad grin. Shit, can the bard read his thoughts now? Or did he say it out loud by accident?
"I believe, young lady, I can detect the unique smell and brownish colour of caramel chocolate in your hair, and - is it pink meringue?" Regis, who, for some unknown reason and completely unvampire-like, has also blushed, smiles at Angoulême through pursed lips. "The duchess seems to have entertained you with all kinds of delicacies, I gather?" Now it is Angoulême's turn to blush. And for once, she keeps her quiet while holding her head with both hands. Exploding in a fit of laughter is perhaps not such an excellent idea when your skull feels close to exploding. Immediately feeling sorry for the girl, Regis pours her a cup of his tea.
"Morning, Jaskier. Didn't expect you to be up so early, or to join us in our humble kitchen," Geralt grunts while threading his fingers through his hair. They come out with distinct traces of a greenishly fluorescent - or was it phosphorescent? - substance all over them. Shit. His memories of the previous night are rather sketchy thanks to the hammering pain in the place where his brain ought to be. However, he does remember having spent quite some quality time with a certain greenishly glowing skeleton. In a pond?
"So, this addition to the kitchen with the preposterous name is ours?" the Witcher then asks sceptically, changing the subject to keep the others from popping curious questions.
"Mine and Cahir's to be more precise, but we are willing to share, I guess. At least I am." Now Regis, who is tenderly petting the sleeping pet, is the recipient of the bard's wide grin. Is the constant grinning perhaps some rare and unexpected side-effect of the grape punch? Well, there appear to be far worse adverse effects, the barber-surgeon muses, looking his assembled comrades up and down.
"Geraltine and I are forever grateful and fully willing to share some of my special hangover cure with you in exchange for your generosity, dear poet," he says invitingly, pointing at the tea pot. Even though, in comparison to the others, the bard seems to have gotten off quite lightly, he still might want a sip of the tea. "Although I must warn you," Regis adds, "its taste is far less enticing than the grape punch's must have been."
"It's actually more like Nilfgaardian beer," Fringilla sighs, "and, trust me, bard, I know what I'm talking about." With a grimace of utter disgust and another heartfelt sigh the former Nilfgaardian sorceress takes the last swallow from her cup. "Talking about Nilfgaard, has any of you seen Cahir?" she then asks.
"Yes, where the hell is that non-Nilfgaardian skulker? First he chickens out of attending the masquerade, and now he doesn't even show up for breakfast," Milva, no less morose, ruffled and hungover than the Witcher, complains. She is definitely going to tell Cahir off in no uncertain terms for deserting her. Well, what to expect from somebody who has already managed to desert from both the Nilfgaardian and the Lyrian and Rivian army. Although, come to think of it, she has had a lot of fun without him, a lot more than she could ever have hoped for, at least judging from the rather scrappy memories she has of the previous night. Most of which revolve around a certain werewolf that is now sitting in the White Wolf's lap. Milva blushes at the thought. She darts a secret glance at the sorceress and for a split second their gazes meet. Fringilla's lips curl into a fond, conspiratorial and breathtakingly beautiful smile. A smile that can only mean one thing - what Milva believes has happened between the two was no punch-induced hallucination or dream after all ...
"Hm, I better go check on him. Last time I saw our Vicovarian friend, he was having the mother of all hangovers," Jaskier says, his perpetual grin thinning just a little from genuine concern.
"What are you talking about, bard? How can someone who wasn't even there have a hangover?"
"Ever considered that Cahir was there the whole time and you just didn't recognise him?" Jaskier's broad grin is back, and now it is directed at every single one of his companions who all look at him as if he has suddenly sprouted a second head, or a beak and ear tufts. Everyone with one exception - Fringilla. Who must have been in on the trick from the start. And helped Cahir with his all too perfect masquerade. A masquerade that fooled everybody, including a certain bard ... Jaskier grins more broadly than ever at the thought - to himself. Although his memories are still rather fragmentary, some of these fragments are surprisingly alluring. A pity this will most likely remain a once in a lifetime incident - or rather accident.
"Don't you pull my leg, bard, or I'll punch you in your punch-addled pate," grumbles the Witcher while taking another sip from his tea. It does taste awful. Nevertheless, it already seems to be helping with his boring headache that is not quite as boring now as it was just a few sips ago. "And don't make a poem out of this, or I'll sue you for copyright infringillament." Was that the term Regis used a couple of days ago when, for the umpteenth time, Jaskier was ranting about Valdo Marx stealing his tunes? Sounded a bit off, however, his pate being too punch-addled to pinpoint the mistake, Geralt gives up the futile attempt with a pained sigh.
"I wouldn't dare," the bard says with his annoyingly cheerful, broad grin. He fills two mugs with Regis's tea and swiftly leaves the kitchen before his comrades can bombard him with curious questions. On exiting he throws everybody another broad grin over his shoulder. "You'll look after our baby, won't you? And don't you dare eat her or suck her dry or I'll have my Little Weasel arrest and execute you. Just saying ..."
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
When he knocks on Cahir's door, there is no answer. Maybe his 'wife' is still asleep? As the door is not locked, Jaskier enters as quietly as he can. The heavy curtains are still drawn although it is long past noon. In the dim light Jaskier can make out the lean form of his companion under the blankets and pillows. Still in bed then, as he suspected.
"Cahir?" The man groans and pulls the blanket over his head. Alive and awake, at least a little. Good.
"I've got some tea for you," the bard offers. Cahir grunts something that sounds ominously like 'fuck off', however, Jaskier being Jaskier and used to such utterances, ignores it thoroughly. Instead of fucking off, he sits down on the edge of the big four-poster bed. "A cup of Regis's special and very potent hangover tea. You should try it. I promise you'll feel better in a jiffy," he continues unperturbed. "Come on, wife, it tastes terribly, worse than smelly dog's feet, but it does help. See, I'm drinking it." Jaskier grimaces as he has not exaggerated, the tea does taste worse than smelly dog's feet. But he swallows bravely. "Don't be a sissy. If I can do it, you can do it, too. Wife, do you hear me?"
"Swear you won't call me that ever again," mutters a husky, muffled voice from under the blankets.
"Not a Nilfgaardian, not a wife, this is getting complicated, you should come with a handbook on what not to call you," Jaskier complains, rolling his eyes at the bump under the blanket that must be his friend's head. From where he can hear another groan, a much louder one this time. Maybe not the best time to tease the man. In spite of several hours of sleep, his hangover seems not to have gotten much better since they last talked.
"Alright, alright, if you insist," Jaskier quickly concedes. "I swear on the heron, the crane, the stork and any other feathered creature. Although it is a pity." He sighs dramatically. "Now, come on, Cahir. Man up, you've faced worse than a cup of tea."
Right, he has, a plethora of worse. Like a crazy sorceress who tried to pierce his mind, or a no less crazy Lion Cup of Cintra who wanted to pierce his throat. Not to forget an irate Geralt who itched to pierce his everything on several occasions ... No, a cup of tea, no matter how vile the taste, is nothing to be afraid of. However, Cahir's head hurts so badly, worse than when he was hit in the skull by that hatchet, he just wants to lie in the dark and not move and be left alone in his misery for the next couple of days, or weeks. He moans softly, but does not move. Maybe Jaskier will just leave if he does not stir and pretends the bard is not even there?
"Okay, I'll remove the blanket now. You'll be alright, I'll help you, even though you have just divorced me," Jaskier says and resolutely pulls the blanket to the side. Heaving another moan, Cahir squinches his eyes tightly shut against the light, although the bright November afternoon sun has no chance against the curtains anyway. Figures that the bard would not give up so easily. Screw the pain in the neck poetaster. Shit, no, not screw. Damn, why must languages always be so annoyingly ambiguous? Cahir gives another groan at the unfairness of languages and the world in general. And at himself. For drinking too much of that pernicious punch.
"Now sit up a little," he hears Jaskier order through the fog in his brain. To the bard's surprise, Cahir does as told, slowly and moaning pitifully but without protest. Looks like this is how to speak to an ex-soldier. Supporting his still groaning and moaning friend with one arm, Jaskier holds the mug with the tea to the man's lips with his free hand. "Drink!" Obediently, Cahir takes a sip. Then his eyes fly wide open and he starts to cough. Whatever this is, the taste is utterly disgusting. Jaskier pats his friend on the back as he gasps for air until, eventually, he can breathe again.
"Sorry, but I did warn you about the flavour, didn't I? Now hold your nose and drink up." As Cahir seems aware enough to manage on his own by now, Jaskier presses the mug into his hand. "Doesn't taste so very different from your Nilfgaardian beer anyway, I've heard. From a very reliable source who has lived amongst you savages for decades." Cahir stares at him blankly. "Her name starts with an F," the bard gives another hint. "Well, forget it," he says when, after a considerable pause, there is no evidence yet that Cahir is catching on. Maybe not the best time to play guessing games with the man, either. His headache must be extraordinarily terrible to forget his friend's name. Poor wife. Oops, he has not said that out loud, has he? As there is no reaction, he probably has not. Good. He would not want to break his oath mere minutes after taking it. Well, he could always blame it on the punch, of course, and his own lingering headache and muddled memory, but as he is not cruel by nature, quite the contrary, he does not wish to torment Cahir more than necessary. The tea is bad enough.
When his mug is empty, Cahir lies back into the pillows with another groan. He feels like he wants to throw up, but somehow the tea seems to have other ideas and stays down despite the stomach-turning taste. Which is a good thing as it soon starts to take effect and the painful pounding in his head lessens a little. The fog in his brain begins to lift, too, and he does not quite feel like wanting to die anymore, despite Jaskier's constant prattling. The bard should come with a handbook on how to shut him up without having to gag or otherwise hurt him. Which Cahir does not intend to do. Jaskier is a good friend after all, one of the best he has ever had. With his eyes closed and tuning out the words, just half-listening to Jaskier's rich, melodious voice, this is not too terrible, anyway, Cahir realises. Like falling asleep with the rhythmical sound of waves rolling onto the beach or the patter of a nearby waterfall. Surprisingly relaxing and pleasant. Or is it the effect of the tea? No matter what the cause, when Jaskier finally stands up to leave, Cahir is fast asleep. Excellent. He will probably be out for another couple of hours. And, hopefully, feeling a lot better when he wakes up. He might even want to join them for dinner. Thinking of dinner, Jaskier suddenly feels pretty hungry himself, the queasiness in his gut miraculously gone. As is most of his headache. Praise be the vampire's potent hangover tea. With a fresh swing in his purposeful stride, Jaskier sets off toward the kitchen. If he is lucky, there is still some breakfast left, maybe some scrambled eggs with bacon, a slice of freshly baked bread with a nice piece of goat's cheese, perhaps a glass of Est-Est ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"How is Cahir?" Fringilla is coming toward him in the corridor leading down to the kitchens with no less purposeful strides, albeit not grinning like Jaskier but looking a bit worried.
"He'll live, I guess. Or should I say she?" Jaskier winks at Fringilla conspiratorially.
"Say what you want to me, as long as you don't tell anybody else, bard. You haven't told anybody, have you?"
"Fear not, my lips are sealed. Cahir's secret is safe with me. I can be as silent as a grave, you know, even if it's hard to believe. You can ask Yennefer and the fucking firefucker, if you ever cross his path, which you should avoid at any cost. He is a totally insane fucked up fuck-up, I can tell you. He actually tried to-
"Bard, are you still drunk?" Fringilla asks with a frown.
"What? Drunk? I? I'm never- Okay, I was a little drunk, I admit it. That grape punch, irresistibly delectable, worthy of a poem. I'm definitely going to write one. After I've had something to eat. A little snack. Maybe a drink, too. There isn't any punch left by any chance, is there?" Fringilla rolls her eyes. How can Geralt stand to travel the continent together with the chattering twit? And Cahir, it must be quite hard for him to bear the bard's company without giving in to the urge to grab and gag him. What a strange company, no, hansa. Well, whatever, it is none of her concern as long as Geralt stays here in Toussaint with her, at least until spring, preferably longer. Most preferably for years. They could grow old together in this fairytale duchy far away from politics and wars and the quarrels of the rest of the continent. Perhaps they could run a vineyard here, make their own wine in the clement Toussaint climate with the rich soils. She could collect plants from the mountain meadows, too, she has always been fond of botany and good at it, and brew and sell potions. A propos potions, there is one thing that has been bothering her all morning and afternoon ...
"Bard, I've been wondering, when you oversaw the making of the punch, did you truly stick to the recipe like you promised to do?"
"I followed your instructions to the letter, cross my heart, I swear. Five tablespoons of potion per ten gallons of punch, like the recipe said. Made fifty tablespoons for the one hundred gallon cauldron. There was just enough."
"Gods, Jaskier, you added it all to the one cauldron? The whole jug?" Fringilla looks at the bard wide-eyed, almost like in shock. Did he make a mistake after all? "No wonder we can hardly remember a thing! It was three teaspoons per ten gallons, you buffoon, not five tablespoons, with one hundred litres of punch per cauldron, not gallons! There was enough potion for at least ten cauldrons! You could have poisoned us all!"
"Oops."
Well, they did have fun, though, didn't they?