The fire crackled mercilessly and tentatively licked the soot-caked brickwork of the ancient fire-place, its tongues reaching into the most minute cracks but finding nothing, no escape from the metal grilling that cradled the scorched logs, the fuel, the sustenance for the fire. No matter how much it tugged upwards, pulling itself from the ground and seeking the sky, the inferno would never be free from the earthly tether binding it upon this mortal plane.

"Gods, you look like someone desperately in need of a whore but who's locked in a monastery. With monks. Are you not enjoying yourself?"

Geralt pulled his gaze away from the inn fireplace, the slits of his pupils widening again as he turned away from the light. "You said this would be a quick stop."

Jaskier landed heavily in the seat beside him, the mead sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his tankard. Though he was drunkenly clumsy with his drink, Geralt couldn't help noticing how carefully he put down his lute. "Well, you know," he said, gesturing around to the joyous and loud frivolity of the packed inn, "When someone asks you for a song, it's incredibly rude to refuse. In my craft that is."

Though the bard who would be Dandelion had paused his performance, a few other minstrels had taken up in his absence to attempt to show off their own musical accomplishments and woo the few remaining maids not already smitten with Geralt's enthusiastic friend. Though the dancing and merriment was aplenty, there remained a cautious space left around the fireplace. Geralt didn't mind their reluctance to approach him, in fact it rather amused him how it clashed with their desire to get closer to Jaskier.

"Doesn't matter. If we don't reach Beauclair before the Nekker's face rots, we don't get paid and lose that bounty forever."

"Oh, pish," Jaskier said. "If we leave now, we lose this party forever. And all the delights that come with it." He turned to look over his shoulder, almost falling over in the process, and cheekily waved his fingers at one of the gigglier group of girls. Geralt didn't need to hear their rapid heartbeats, nor did he want to, but it happened anyway.

"You might lose them. All I've had is narrowed glances and watered-down ale."

"Nonsense, these people love you! Well," Jaskier drunkenly backtracked, "Not love, perchance, but like? Accept? Tolerate?" He paused for a second. "Adore? No, that one's not right."

"How you turn in to a mess after two drinks but perform better than sober men after three, I don't know."

Geralt wasn't overly concerned about the Nekker's face rotting. True, it would be a waste to lose that contract, the lord's nephew slain by a monster struck with peculiar and unique acne, but it made for a better excuse to leave the stares, either fearful or hateful, coming from all directions.

"And, my friend, you never will. Now, Ladies!"

Jaskier staggered to his feet and went to bow in the direction of the blushing women.

Geralt quickly stood up. "Careful now," he said, his hand grabbing Jaskier's drink as it went to tip forward. "Tell you what. We'll each have another drink and then I'll leave. I'll even pay."

"You're buying my drinks?" Jaskier looked at him incredulously. "I don't owe you money, do I?"

Geralt shook his head.

"Well then, I'm damned if I'm missing this!" Jaskier threw his head back and downed the mead. Most of the tankard vanished swiftly down his gullet and he shoved the vessel into Geralt's chest. "I'll have another of those, if you don't mind!"

Geralt watched as his friend sauntered off towards the gaggle of women, arms open, and he put the tankard down on the table next to him. Jaskier soon had his arms around the two most attractive women of the group and they were all laughing at whatever nonsense he was saying. A minute later and the bard was slowly kissing the woman in his left arm behind the ear, kissing downwards until he reached her neck and shoulder and then he was laying his head on her breast. The women seemed delighted and Dandelion's chosen was looking particularly smug until it became clear that the bard wasn't coming back up. She jostled him but then his legs crumpled, and the two women were suddenly supporting the full, albeit not immense, weight of Jaskier as he snored, ignorant of their protests.

"There we go," Geralt said quietly. "Ladies!" he announced, walking over. "It seems the bard doesn't quite know how to handle his drink tonight. I'll take him to his room, you'll see him tomorrow, don't you worry." He reached around and seized Jaskier's collar in a gloved hand, pulling him up and dropping the hand over his shoulder. Geralt nodded to the innkeeper as he hauled his friend, like a sack of potatoes, away from the disappointed women watching them go.

Jaskier's delightful dream, in which he was being fed peeled grapes that were somehow also an A major chord, was knocked to and fro into the abyss and he was pulled back into the world of the living. His chest hurt, something both soft and pointed was shoving down onto him and it felt like the air was being beaten out of him. His vision came swimming back to him and suddenly it seemed he was actually face down and the ground was rushing away from him, or past him rather. At an alarming speed.

"Erm, Geralt?"

"You're awake."

Geralt's harsh tones came from somewhere behind Jaskier, or perhaps above, but there were other things on the bard's mind. He'd just become aware of the horseshoes pounding away at the ground not that far from his face. The smell that wasn't far away confirmed that they weren't attached to the horse's front legs.

"Am I slung over Roach's ass right now?"

"You are."

"Excellent, just grand," Jaskier sighed. "Pull me up, would you? My head is killing me."

It was true. Horseshoes weren't the only thing pounding away and the noise of those certainly wasn't helping. It felt like something, just at the top of his skull was attempting to make a door in it from the inside. Suddenly Jaskier's collar was taught and he was hoisted upwards until he was upright and then let go. He had to squeeze his legs together to grip onto the horse and then he was looking at the broad back of one less-than-friendly witcher.

The road they were travelling down was little more than a dirt track and overgrown trees threatened to rake their scalps with thin leafless branches. Barren fields could be seen through the trees on both sides, though beyond that was a mystery due to the mist. A mistery if you will.

Jaskier blinked as he tried to recall how he'd come to be slung over the backside of a horse.

"I'll be honest, last night's a little hazy," he said. "I remember there being at least three women, naturally, but then…" He suddenly became aware of a burning in the back of his throat. "Urgh, what is that taste, I swear- Nerriseed." Suddenly it became clear. "You drugged me again, didn't you?!"

"No."

Jaskier didn't need witcher senses to hear the smirk in his voice. The bard punched the witcher lightly on the shoulder with a fist. "You're a dick, Geralt, sometimes, an absolute dick."

Roach adjusted course slightly and something pointy jabbed Jaskier in the groin. He looked down and was alarmed to see a sword, sheathed thank gods, scarily close to something rather precious to him.

"I'm not even in a saddle, you threw me on the saddlebags! Like I was luggage!" He threw his arms in the air. "I give up with you sometimes."

"Well you wouldn't stay on your horse."

Jaskier had forgotten he'd had a horse. "What did you do with my horse, Geralt?"

The witcher didn't answer.

"What," Jaskier spoke more slowly, "Did you-"

His indignant complaints were cut off as a scream pierced the air. It had come from somewhere to their right, through the trees.

"Geralt, did you hear that?" Jaskier asked, but Geralt had already pulled on Roach's reins and the horse was crashing through the bracken at the base of the trees.