"Please," said Jaskier, as he finished his tale of woe, "I beseech you. Flee, far away, to the nearest settlement you can find that might serve as some refuge. Find the witcher, Geralt of Rivia, if you can, and tell him his bard waits for him in the forest."
"Um," said the leader darting a glance over at the large box where said witcher was currently (barely) contained, "that wouldn't be the White Wolf, would it? The white haired witcher?"
"Yes," said Jaskier, "the very same. My boon companion lo these past years. I know he travels these lands in springtime, and he is the only hope the countryside has against the bloodthirsty might of a werewolf such as I."
"We...uh...We'll keep an eye out," said the Redhead. He had moved slowly over to the crate while the drama unfolded. Peering through the slight gap, he saw the glow of Geralt's yellow eyes reflected back, clearly awake and aware. He attempted to signal this frantically to the rest of the group, and managed with about half of them. The other half were too busy edging away from Jaskier without ever taking their eyes off of him.
"Thank you," said Jaskier, desperate gratitude coloring the words. "I fear he may have been waylaid by brigands, as that thrice-damned sorcerer sent out sabotaged supplies, that men might kill themselves attempting to apprehend him."
"Oh?" said the leader, voice squeaking. "The supplies were faulty, you say?"
"Naught but plain wood and tin, no more proof against a witcher than your crossbows will be against...but no, you will have gotten safely away, surely," said Jaskier, and now Geralt was sure he was bullshitting them to some degree. Playing it up, at the least. Surely? "Though noble as he is, he might have allowed himself to be captured, rather than spill the blood of those led astray by a true villain, he will surely fight his way free once he hears of the monster that now threatens to horribly murder everyone within a hundred leagues."
Ah, fuck, thought Geralt. He was going to have to explain how he had been caught with his breeches down and actually been captured by these idiots, wasn't he? Maybe he would get lucky and Jaskier would just eat him instead. The joke rang hollow as soon as he thought of it, his usually bolstering dark humor having the opposite effect. Geralt shook his head and attempted to refocus. Jaskier was clearly attempting to run these men off. Question was, was that for his benefit, or theirs?
Geralt tried to center himself by going over the facts. There was definitely a spiteful sorcerer on the loose who was collecting witchers for unknown reasons. Jaskier's insistence on styling himself as 'the witcher's bard' whenever possible would likely have made him a target. The normally fastidious bard was covered in blood, not his own, at least a day old. Geralt was investigating livestock reported missing one village over, recently, and Jaskier had clearly been out in the wilderness for several days at least by the state of his hair. Two of which would have been full moons.
"Should you meet him, good sirs, I beg you ask him make haste to give his friend the only mercy he deserves," said Jaskier, voice trembling, "And should you, oh gods forbid, meet death at my terrible claws, I beg you forgive me my unwilling butchery."
That did it. Any shred of doubt in the men was swept away by the hair-raising and increasingly plausible thought of imminent dismemberment at the hands of a well-dressed troubadour.
"Fuck this!" yelled the Second-in-Command, the first to lose his nerve. "Let's get the hell out of here!"
"We never should have messed with witcher shit!" added the redhead, running for the horses.
"We're not even getting PAID," wailed the leader, and off the lot of them fled.