"Ah, dear company, good morning!" Jaskier exclaims, swinging the door wide open with a flourish. "I knew I'd still find you breakfasting here in this cosy little kitchen of yours! It's only half past eleven, after all, the perfect time for this earliest of daily meals. Even Geralt and the Lady Fringilla are here. I am in luck!" He intones the last four words while waving his hat about, then he bows to Fringilla with a grin.
"Look who the cat dragged in. Jaskier, the Duchess's personal poet in the flesh. What do we owe your unexpected visit to?" Geralt asks ironically. The bard is here with the rest of the Hansa far less often than he and Fringilla, and whenever he does find his way down to the kitchens, it means— "Jaskier, you don't want us to take part in one of your inane festivities again?" Geralt looks sharply at his old friend, furling his eyebrows with suspicion.
"You did have tons of fun at the Fall Masquerade, old grumpy, like everybody else, didn't you? Admit it! And this will be fun, too, you'll see." Grinning broadly, Jaskier flops down on a free chair. "I promise, it'll be just the six of us and Fringilla this time," he adds before Geralt can raise any objections. "A very low key celebration. Some delicious traditional food and drink, a tiny bit of season decorations, the music fitting for the event, of course - and a nice surprise present for everybody."
"A surprise?" Angoulême pricks up her ears. "I love surprises! And presents!" She puts down her mug with hot cocoa and beams at the bard, her upper lip adorned with a moustache of brown chocolate. "What kind of surprise, nuncle? When will I get mine? Is it a new, extra-sharp dagger? Or a bottle of cask strength whiskey? Can I have my present now?" She looks at the bard with big wide eyes.
"Not so fast, little miss nosiness," Jaskier smiles, totally immune to the girl's pleading Puss-in-Boots expression. "And you cannot have it now, sorry. If I told you what it is, it wouldn't be much of a surprise, would it? Anyhow, I have no idea myself what will be your present as it's not I who chooses the gifts, but you!" He waves his finger at his fellow travel companions.
"We? Do you expect us to go shopping for presents?" Cahir asks sceptically. "You are aware that - unlike you - most of us don't have any money, not a single floren."
"Money, who's talking about money, friend? Be a bit more creative!" Jaskier says enthusiastically. "Let your imagination soar! Only the sky's the limit, as you all should know! Money!" he rolls his eyes exaggeratedly.
"Then what, bard, if we don't buy the gifts?" Milva asks irritatedly. "Can you speak plainly so that a simple girl from the forest can understand what this is about?"
"Sorry, dear Milva, I apologise most humbly for my lofty choice of words. But I am a poet, after all, heart and soul. However, it's not difficult at all. Actually, it's easy as pie and a piece of cake. We will make the presents ourselves." He pauses for effect while the others are already brainstorming ideas inwardly. "Well, there is one condition, though," he adds. "You're not allowed to make anything that you have made before."
"What? Do you mean, I'm not allowed to kill a monster and craft a nice necklace from its teeth?" Geralt asks, taken aback. There goes his ingenious idea for a great gift. For he has made several such necklaces for Yennefer already in the past twenty or so years. "Have you come up with that silly rule, bard?"
"Why, dear Geralt, this rule is an intriguingly inspiring one," Regis chimes in. "Look at it that way, we will all indulge in learning something brand new, broaden our horizons, discover and explore new, unknown strengths and talents that have lain dormant in the deepest depths of our selves for many years and will now spring to life. It will be a fun way of growing, of educating and surpassing ourselves, don't you think?"
"Hmm," Geralt says, which could be both a yes and a no. What else could he possibly answer? Of course, Jaskier, being the eternal optimist, takes it for the affirmative.
"Awesome, then it's settled! So, no whittling of arrows for you, Milva, or carving of wooden Nilfgaardian soldiers for you, Cahir. Unfortunately, no distilling of moonshine for our dear Regis, either, although, come to think of it, this would be the perfect present, what a pity. And no—"
"No gift-wrapping of myself for a nice blow-job?" Angoulême asks with an expression of utter consternation. Then, at seeing her friends' reactions which range from flushing bright red to trying to kick her shin under the table, she breaks into raucous laughter.
"Right, thank you, Angoulême for this - ahem - interesting piece of imagery. Where was I anyway?" Jaskier continues when everybody has mostly recovered from the girl's lewd joke. "Well, never mind. In any case, you don't need to worry," he adds, looking at the mostly still unconvinced countenances of his friends, "you'll only have to create one present, not one for each of us, as the event will take place - uhm, have I mentioned it before?"
"No, you haven't. When, Jaskier?" Geralt asks sternly, fearing the worst.
"Well, it's Yule today, right, so, tonight?"
"Gods, I knew it! That's where the catch is. Tonight, of course! So, we're supposed to come up with an ingeniously creative idea for a gift we have no clue how to make, and actually craft it within just a few hours? Fantastic fun indeed!"
"I knew you'd like it!" Jaskier says with a bright smile, ignoring the Witcher's obvious sarcasm. "But before you all scamper off and busy yourselves with the preparations, you still need to know who your present will be for, don't you? So, the recipient of your gift will be assigned by lot. If you all would draw a name please, and don't tell anybody. This is top secret, classified information that you are not allowed to spill, not even under the threat of torture. And just the one per person. And don't look inside the bag. And don't switch names afterward and—"
"We get it, we aren't a bunch of morons," Geralt grumbles as he reaches with his hand inside the red bag with the holly leaves embroidered all around the rim that Jaskier is holding out toward him. When he unfolds the small piece of parchment and reads the name, he sighs. Of course, his usual shitty luck ...
"Any more rules we'd need to know about, bard, or is that it?" Milva asks. "Because, you know, we don't have much time ..."
"Just be here again at nightfall. And drop the presents off at my door with the lots so I'll know who they are for. I'll take care of the decorations, the menu, the music, and, oh, I almost forgot," he adds just before Milva is leaving, "dress up a bit for the occasion, dear comrades, will you? Thank you very much. And don't forget to smile. This is supposed to be FUN!"
Milva rolls her eyes and Angoulême, who is pushing out of the room right behind the archer, sticks out her tongue at the bard. He waves at her, making a face while Geralt groans and covers his own face with both hands so he will not have to witness it.
"Cheer up, dear Witcher," Regis says sagely and puts his arm on his friend's shoulder. "It's just this one evening. You'll survive. You've survived a lot worse, Geralt, like becoming friends with a higher vampire and a Nilfgaardian who keeps on insisting he isn't one. It'll make Jaskier happy, and it might actually be fun. And the bard is right, we did have a good time at the Fall Masquerade, even though you might not remember everything." He winks at Geralt conspiratorially. Geralt flushes bright red, something that has not happened in many, many years, if ever. He grumbles something that not even Regis with his highly sensitive vampire ears and sublime intellect can understand. However, it is not of importance, nor significant in any way.
Regis's hand still on his shoulder, the two friends leave the castle kitchens. Then, they go separate ways to find inspiration for the present they will have to craft. Regis, of course, already has plenty of ideas, the problem is, which of them he should pursue. Geralt, on the other hand, comes up blank. Damn, not the tiniest trace of an idea, not even a stupid one, and there is not much time. Perhaps he will find inspiration in a tavern? He has found plenty of things there so far, more or less lucrative jobs, a princess he had sex with and then was forced to kill, an annoying bard who has been following him for decades and is overly fond of silly festivals. Why the fuck not an idea for a Yule present? Maybe it is not the best of plans to hit a bar before the actual party starts, but it is a plan. Far better than no plan at all, and the ale is good at the Pheasantry.
"So, who've you got, Cahir?" Fringilla asks her former superior with a dimpled smile when all the others have left and only the two White Flame deserters remain in the kitchens.
"Sorry, Fringilla, I'd be a traitor if I told you."
"Oh, and you aren't one already?"
"You know that I'd never betray a friend. The White Flame wasn't one."
"Took you long enough to figure that out. But I'm glad you did in the end." Fringilla flashes Cahir another smile. "And I'm very glad that Geralt didn't kill you, not even once. Would have been a real shame."
"And I better go before you manage to lure me into spilling my secret. That's what you're trying to do, right?"
"I'd never, how can you even think me capable of doing something like this, whippersnapper?" Fringilla says with a wink, as, of course, that was exactly her intention. Too bad that Cahir knows her too well to fall for it.
"You might have better luck with your boyfriend," Cahir says with a smirk, getting to his feet cautiously. One of the hens that populate the kitchens, the speckled one, is pecking at his boots, as so often. "I'm pretty certain you could coax or torture Geralt into telling you."
"Mmh, I might just do that." Fringilla smiles mischievously at the thought. A tickle torture always does the trick with Geralt - and what usually comes after it. "However, I fear I'll have to start working on my own project first. There's not a second to be lost." Her long, silver dress billowing behind her, she sails toward the door. Before leaving Cahir alone in the kitchens with the hens, Fringilla turns around again for a moment.
"See you later, my favourite traitor!" she teases, then she disappears quickly down the corridor.
Cahir gazes after his friend with a smile that is no less mischievous than hers was just a moment before. If Fringilla knew who his present is for, she might not have said that ...