The mercenaries were just as confused as Geralt regarding Jaskier's professed concern for their safety. It put them off for a moment, but then the tallest one, the second in command, raised his crossbow again. Geralt tensed, ready to jump from hiding to Jaskier's defense, but the bard was already speaking. "Don't be a fool! You mustn't throw your life away pointing that at me!" said Jaskier, with such complete sincerity that Geralt was honestly tempted to check for unseen dangers.
"What?" said Second. "What do you mean? I've got you dead to rights! This bolt'll go right through those pretty silks, so just-"
He was cut off as Jaskier fairly wailed, "oh, if only! If only you could save yourselves so easily, truly it would be a balm to my tortured conscience." He continued, gesturing at his ripped clothes, "My silks, as you see, may indeed be torn, but alas my blood cannot be spilled by your weapons. You'll only seal your own dreadful fate in the attempt."
"Bollocks!" said the more stout leader of the band, as his second lowered his crossbow nervously. "You're all over blood, you'll bleed just fine if we stick ya." At his words the rest of the band, that had grown uneasy at Jaskier's strange words, began to rally. Before they could do more than steel their resolve, Jaskier was once more making a stage of the small forest clearing.
"I wish it were so, for I would rest easy knowing you had escaped unscathed from this horrible evil," said Jaskier. "Observe though, that despite my ripped garments, there are no wounds upon me." Geralt looked closer and realized that it was true; unblemished flesh could be seen from beneath the gorey clothes, even though the seams were split and the sides were slashed. The mercenaries also clearly realized that he was telling the truth, and only became more unnerved as Jaskier continued ominously, "for this blood, I confess, is not my own."
The six mercenaries were beginning to become truly alarmed. Geralt was used to Jaskier popping up in unexpected places; somehow he was always running into him. For any normal person, though, finding such a popinjay in the middle of a forest was strange indeed (let alone one totally unharmed but covered in gore), and humans did tend to fear that which was strange.
"Why shouldn't we shoot you, then, if you're so dangerous?" said Second, his brave words belied by the fact his crossbow now pointed distinctly downwards.
"Because if you must die, for Melitele's sake die cleanly! Without dooming your fellows, as well," said Jaskier. "You don't want to know the horrors that could be visited upon you...I...Oh, by the gods, the sheer carnage." Jaskier stumbled forward into the clearing, and began to swoon onto a tree-stump. To Geralt's consternation he had actually begun to tear up; the witcher could smell the salt. The mercenaries backed away hurriedly, as Roach began pulling at her halter. From their point of view it must have seemed as though the battle-hardened horse was shying away from Jaskier, although likely she wanted whatever apples he intended to sneak her.
"Wh-what sort of devilry are you on about?" asked the Leader.
"Devilry?" said Jaskier despairingly, "it is worse than devilry, for a devil does not exist, and this is all too real. You must have noticed the moon the last two nights? Round and full, and a boon to travelers?" Geralt was beginning to see where Jaskier was going with this, and rather wished that he didn't. There were hesitant nods from the six mercenaries. "A boon to travelers, but a curse to me, the curse of… the werewolf!"
Fuck, thought Geralt.
Note: Fun fact, the cosmology of The Witcher books is such that the moon is full three nights in a row, which is very convenient for (and entirely due to) werewolf stories