Start note: Tagged just for the usual 'oh no a werewolf' reasons
There was real panic in the clearing now. The six mercenaries closed ranks, weapons pointed carefully away from the bloodied and sobbing bard, who had artfully collapsed against the tree trunk. Geralt could, by quiet manipulation of the gaps between boards, get a fairly clear view of what was going on. Their fear was understandable. Werewolves were one of the few monsters of the continent that was well-known to the layman, both in danger and in weaknesses. Or, rather, lack thereof. Silver and fire, one uncommon and the other difficult to harness safely, were their only banes. When transformed, they were many times faster and stronger than any human, healing instantly from what would otherwise be mortal wounds. Practically a guaranteed death sentence to any normal human meeting them by the light of the full moon. Lycanthropy was a foul curse indeed on the poor souls afflicted by it, and Geralt felt an odd pang in his chest at the thought of Jaskier being one of them.
It was also widely speculated (although not proven, as far as Geralt was aware) that attacking a werewolf in their human form was the best way to be on the top of the beast's shit-list once they changed, and humans were not actually easy to totally incinerate on short notice. Given that, plus the fact that they were, at most, two hours from moonrise, the unlucky band of mercenaries had every reason to keep their distance. A few darted glances at the gear atop Roach, but she had proven to be extremely defensive of any attempts to remove Geralt's belongings.
Six hardened fighters all but cowering away from a well dressed performer might, under other circumstances, have been a highly amusing sight. Geralt was not laughing. It was possible, he thought, that this was a ploy. He had overheard, once or twice, Jaskier fending off various ruffians by playing on the vicious witcher who would return shortly, and probably kill them all quite messily, no, really, go, save yourselves. This could be a similar ruse, complete with feigned histrionics, but Jaskier was also just sort of...like that. It was honestly hard, with all the bard's habitual dramatics, to tell at times whether he was severely injured or just inconvenienced, heartbroken or just mildly put out. The tears were real, though. They weren't, always. As was the blood; human, but not Jaskier's.
Geralt started instinctively contemplating his options for a potential fight. His sword was with Roach, would need to be retrieved. He had no bombs ready that would put a quick end to it, and there would likely be no time to apply oils. The weather had been unseasonably warm the last few days, so it was probably too dry to use fire except as a last resort. His mind stuttered suddenly to a halt. This was Jaskier. He was planning how to kill Jaskier. That was- No.
Fine, he thought to himself, the bard is faking until proven otherwise. Hopefully the other humans will buy the act.